Bwahahahhahahahhahahahahha!
Hate National Review Online’s Jonah Goldberg? Think he shames the rest of the tribe? Read this great skit over at alicublog.
By the way, we’re talking about the uvula today over at Wax, Boogers, and Phlegm. Get to know your other “man in the boat.”
D.
Textbook question
File under: shamelessly soliciting (advice)
I’d like to buy a good college biology textbook for my son. My textbook was wonderful, but it also has a 1980 pub date. That might work for math or physics, but biology changes faster than that (especially phylogenetics . . . 1980 is pre-Archaebacteria, if I’m not mistaken).
I’d also like to buy him an American History textbook, high school or college level.
As long as I’m on this topic, we’re going to get to European History after American History — any suggestions for that?
Thanks, folks.
D.
PBW’s new feature
Paperback Writer starts a brand spankin’ new gig:
For this new feature, I’d like to do a weekly variation on the open thread: 20 Questions Friday. You post a writing- or industry-related question in comments, and I’d try to answer it, up to twenty questions max per Friday (any more than 20 and I’ll never get any work done.)
Damn me, all I can think of is something dumb like, “Do you have a pill that will get me to edit ten times faster?”
Hopefully, some of you night owls will step in where I have failed. Pony up those questions, folks! This should be a great feature.
D.
An introduction to tragedy
Yesterday, I caught the end of The Moody Blues’ Nights in White Satin, and it made me think — as it always does — of a summer in the early 1970s, the livingroom of my first house, a slow morning, our old console hi-fi, Derek & the Dominoes’ Layla (the original version, of course, not that acoustic horror Clapton later perpetrated), Nights in White Satin, and the end of John Christopher’s The City of Gold and Lead.
The City of Gold and Lead is the second of Christopher’s Tripods trilogy, which was H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds written down for kids. (A reviewer over at Amazon made that observation, not me. But it irks me to have this pointed out to me thirty-some years later. Damn it, I should have noticed.) The story itself is unimportant. Earth has been subjugated by aliens who roam the planet in giant mechanical tripods. They live in domed cities and enslave human children. A group of friends, all young boys, enter one of the cities as part of a plot to defeat the Tripods . . .
Spoiler alert. (But Christopher wrote the trilogy in the late 60s/early 70s. If you haven’t read it yet, I doubt you will now.)
. . . and some of the kids don’t make it out.
I’m finding it difficult to put into words the magic of that ending. You know how middle books in a trilogy are supposed to be the weakest of the three? Not this one, not for me. The first and third books combined didn’t have one-tenth the impact of this book, all because I had never before read a book with such a sad ending.
I’d read disturbing books before. Julia Cunningham’s Dorp Dead creeped me out, but had (as best I can recall) an uplifting ending. I’d read Golding’s Lord of the Flies, but I don’t think I understood the ending until I reread it as an older teenager. The only comparable experience I’d had was not with a book, but with Nicolas Roeg’s film Walkabout, which I saw at its Los Angeles premiere in 1971 (hey, I got around. And, might I add, Jenny Agutter’s naked body made quite the impression on 9-year-old me). If you’ve never seen Walkabout, I won’t spoil it for you. Find it, rent it. It disturbed me for days. It still disturbs me.
The ending of The City of Gold and Lead didn’t pack the same emotional punch as Walkabout, but I have never forgotten my reaction:
Sadness, of course.
Surprise, that a book could end this way.
More surprise, that a book could make me feel this way.
It changed the way I looked at books. I began to realize how much I enjoyed the emotional reaction evoked in me by a good book, and how pleasurable it could be to feel such powerfully unpleasant emotions.
I’d like to say this was the first of many such experiences, but sadly, for me such books have been few and far between. Yet the ones which have stuck with me are all tragedies.
Your turn.
D.
The new crop
For those of you who like fantasy, SF, and other spec fiction, Tangent has several new reviews:
E. Sedia reviews “The Dope Fiend” by Lavie Tidhar (SCI FICTION),
Aimee Poynter reviews “The Girl with the Heart of Stone” by Leah Bobet (Strange Horizons),
Paul Abbamondi reviews Amazing Journeys Volume 2, Issue 10,
and I review Challenging Destiny #21.
That ought to keep you busy.
D.
It’s bloody sacrilege!
“Defamer” at Yahoo! News reports, “Bloody Mary” Episode Ensures South Park Guys a Bungalow in Hell:
Perhaps the most outrageous and offensive South Park episode of all time (and that’s really saying something), “Bloody Mary,” which first aired Dec. 7 as this season’s finale, was pulled from the network schedule last night.
Its plot involves a statue of the Virgin Mary, which appears to be miraculously bleeding from its rectum.
Pope Benedict XVI is called in to investigate, and upon discovering the statue is instead hemorrhaging from its vagina, says, ahem, “A chick bleeding out her vagina is no miracle. Chicks bleed out their vaginas all the time.”
Quoting from the E Online article,
Somewhat predictably, the Catholic League was incensed by the satirical portrayal of the Virgin Mary and the pope and by the fact that the episode aired on the day before the Catholic Church celebrated its Feast of the Immaculate Conception.
The conservative group demanded an apology from Viacom, Comedy Central’s parent company, to Roman Catholics everywhere and “a pledge that this episode be permanently retired and not be made available on DVD.”
The Catholic League succeeded, apparently. We may never see this episode again.
Was it tasteless? Yeah. South Park often is. Can I see how this would offend devout Catholics? Sure, but . . . why the hell are they watching South Park in the first place? And is Defamer right that this is “Perhaps the most outrageous and offensive South Park episode of all time”?
Max from PGNX.net says it well:
South Park lambasts homosexuals, transsexuals, Scientologists, vegans, Jews, Mormons, atheists and everyone else under the sun. But suddenly the Catholics are off limits?
They’ve nailed the Catholics before; in “Red Hot Catholic Love,” Trey and Matt skewered the Church on their hypocrisy vis a vis pedophilia. But they don’t pick on the Catholics — that’s Max’s point. They pick on everyone.
My Japanese-American wife isn’t offended by the Chinpokomon episode. I’m not offended by the fact Cartman slams Kyle for being Jewish in every single episode. In “Ike’s Wee Wee”, the writers dealt with circumcision, while in “Jewbilee”, they misrepresented the whole religion. (Jews worship Moses, who appears in the sky as a spinning draedel and demands sacrifices of macaroni art.)
God Himself shows up from time to time on South Park. In case you haven’t seen Him, He looks like this:
Devout Jews (like Moslems, too, if I’m not mistaken) don’t want to see images of God (or Moses, for that matter), so any image is sacrilegious. Depicting God as a freak of genetic engineering? Well, that’s just icing on the cake.
Jesus is a regular character on the show, and (in “Red Sleigh Down”) once used automatic weapons to gun down a bunch of Iraqis who had kidnapped Santa Claus.
AND don’t forget Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo.
There’s something in South Park to offend everyone. Is there anyone in the English-speaking universe who doesn’t already know this? I’ve been offended by them, too — not for any of their Jewish jokes, but for their occasional support of questionable political positions. (For example, if I remember correctly, their “Rainforest Schmainforest” episode got my goat.)
Usually, but not always, South Park is funny as hell. That buys them a lot of mileage in my opinion. Tasteless and humorless media deserves the fate it gets — a rapid fall into a cultural black hole. (Does anyone but me remember Joan Rivers’ movie Rabbit Test?) But if you’re funny, hey, I’ll cut you some slack.
It’s not the first thing that comes to mind when I watch South Park, but the show is also a wonderful demonstration of the First Amendment in action. Enjoy it while it lasts.
Do we really need another voice to say, “If you don’t like it, don’t watch it”?
D.
*Maureen, to answer your question: since now.
Virgins, and panties, and mucus, oh my!
The antidote to low hit rate suckage: equal parts virgins, panties, and mucus.
From Fukuyama Hiroaki, author of How to Talk Dirty in Japanese and English, we have this statement:
With regard to recent postings about the sexual promiscuity of young Japanese ladies, I find it quite shocking. It seems to be the second part of an orchestrated racist campaign of Japan-bashing to tarnish the reputation of Japanese girls.
This internet article, entitled “All Unmarried Japanese Girls are Virgins,” purports to be an antidote to said “racist campaign.” I’m not sure what good it will do to combat one sweeping generalization with another, but I do know that you forfeit the moral high ground with statements like this:
Regarding the rape of the 12-year-old Okinawan child, I have been called upon to voice my opinion about the 12-year-old girl who was raped by three Afro-American savages. This was truly a great tragedy for the poor girl. Now she will never be able to get married and live a happy life. She is forever tainted in the eyes of Japanese society and no respectable Japanese man will have anything to do with her. Those three savages got off easy.
Afro-American savages? Forever tainted? The rape did indeed happen, but why respond with racist slurs? And why hold it against the victim?
On a lighter note, Backless Lingerie offers specially designed panties which will allow you to show as many inches of butt crack as you’d like without showing any trace of underwear!
Quote:
Let’s be frank: What if you could wear truly invisible panties with complete confidence – no peek-a-boo thongs, no panty lines, ever? Fashionistas from Vogue to Cosmo agree – visible thongs, once popular thanks to Christina Aguilera and Pink, are a thing of the past. Though the jeans keep getting lower, it’s no longer cool to flaunt those g-strings. What’s next?
Man oh man. Butt crack, g-strings, peek-a-boo thongs, Christina Aguilera . . . soon, my hit counter will be burning a hole at the bottom of the page!
Yesterday, Michelle mentioned how a discussion of mucus boosted her hits. And I thought, why didn’t I think of that? I’m the archbishop of mucus. But enough self-linkage. Surely there are other interesting mucus sites on the Web.
This website explains how your cervical mucus changes during your fertility cycle.
Wordspy has this definition for “mucus trooper”:
mucus trooper (MYOO.kus troo.pur) n. An employee with a cold or the flu who insists on showing up for work. —mucus troop v.
That reminds me . . . no doubt you’ve all heard this, but a panel of linguists chose Stephen Colbert’s neologism ‘truthiness’ as the 2005 Word of the Year, and they’re not giving Colbert credit. He’s been bitching about it this week on his show, and with good cause. How dare they not give a writer credit for his words!
Back to mucus. For you paranormal romance writers, make sure you thoroughly understand ectoplasm — ghostly mucus — because without it, those cosmic copulations are hella painful.
Although . . . I’ve heard you can use specially designed personal lubricants, such as Astral Glide.
My first case got bumped by an emergency. Can you tell?
D.
It’s a little early for Halloween . . .
. . . but what the hell!
CNN.com: Mummified Body Found in Front of TV
Quote:
Johannas Pope had told her live-in caregiver that she didn’t want to be buried and planned on returning after she died, Hamilton County Coroner O’Dell Owens said Monday.
Pope died in August 2003 at age 61. Her body was found last week in the upstairs of her home on a quiet street.
Her daughter and granddaughter lived downstairs. They and Ms. Pope’s caregiver all believed she would come back to life.
I think I can forgive the three-year-old granddaughter for thinking that, but the other two?
Here’s how to make a mummy, circa 2006. Prop dead body in front of TV. Leave the air conditioner running — forever. Enter room occasionally to spray body with Lysol.
Don’t let the air conditioner breakdown, ‘cuz guess what, folks — that’s how the neighbors figured it out.
D.
My life in baseball
Before I get rolling, will some legal-type person tell me if I can get in trouble for writing a fake Alan Rickman blog?
I know, I know — I’m ruining the magic. But this way, I do get credit for convincing Maureen to take her clothes off.
My hatred for team sports is deep and abiding.
Wait, let me qualify that. I used to enjoy watching team sports. As a ten-year-old, I liked going to high school football or basketball games, for I had discovered that I was the perfect height to collide with shorter high school girls’ breasts. Crowds, man. They’re a bitch.
Participation, that’s what got me down. I grew up at a time when sports defined the boy, and I had a narrow definition indeed. To appreciate my problem, one needs a sense of proportion.
Yes, I had a bat, and yes, my teensy mitt swam over my teensier fingers. Maybe my dad or my brother taught me how to hit and catch, but if they did, I don’t remember it. I do remember being the last kid picked for a team, always, regardless of the sport — even kickball. And I wasn’t even half bad at kickball.
Elementary school softball: nearly every time at bat, I would strike out. I’d pray the ball would hit me, because then I’d get the walk. Invariably, the team captains made me an outfielder. The other outfielder knew that if the ball popped my way, he would have to catch it or there would be a home run for sure.
That went on all through elementary school and junior high school. In high school, we had several options for physical education. I took weight training every time, which allowed me to hang out with the stoners and the cholos and the ninja-wannabes — other guys who hated team sports as much as I did. My people.
I thought I had escaped the horrors of baseball, but in 10th grade I became involved in the B’nai B’rith Youth Organization. Our parents thought BBYO was a youth group designed to help nice young Jewish boys meet nice young Jewish girls. In reality, BBYO helped me meet other nice young Jewish boys who shared my burgeoning interest in pot and alcohol. But, wouldn’t you know it, the bastards liked to play baseball on the weekends.
Week after week, I dodged the invitation, and they would manage to round out their numbers by asking cousins, little brothers, or that kid across town who did pretty good in the Special Olympics. But one weekend, I couldn’t escape; they made it a point of honor. I’d be letting my brothers down.
And I thought: You’re going to guilt trip me? You sons of bitches. I’ll teach you what it means to let you down.
They figured it out by the end of the first inning. By the third inning, their oft-repeated refrain had become music to my ears. I’ve repeated it to my son and my OR nurses — it never fails to get a laugh. Thanks guys. I can still hear your warm words of encouragement.
D.