Behold...The Barf Thing!

It was February, 1992, and fifteen members of the University of Alberta Star Trek and Scuba clubs packed into a van and drove from Edmonton to Los Angeles in seventy-two sleepless, sweaty hours. We left behind the snows of Alberta and beheld the beaches of California; Disneyland and Universal Studios beckoned! The men were eager to ogle California Girls; the women were eager to ogle California Boys.

But all that is incidental to the tale of the Barf Thing. Februrary 25, 1992, was my twenty-third birthday, and Ron Briscoe, that loveable rogue, found the Barf Thing in a souvenier shop. I was agog with delight when Ron presented me with the gift, for not only did it sport a ghastly colour scheme, with the word "BARF" emblazoned across its ichor-pink surface - in uppercase, emetic green letters, no less, complete with quotation marks - when you pushed the big button (as you must) the delightful device spoke!

Or, one should say, ejaculated: "UH-uh-HUH-ah-HOOO-AHH!" A wretched song of retching! My glee was unparalled, and I pressed the infernal button over and over, until all and sundry regretted Ron's ill-fated choice.

In an effort to appease my fellow travellers, I secured the Barf Thing in my bag for the return trip. But alas, the road was rocky, and with each and every bump, the Barf Thing would offer its sole comment on the nature of existence.

The Barf Thing is with me still, a dozen years on, and still it croaks out its unholy song (thanks to a much-appreciated repair job, about five years ago, by my friends Allan and Chris).

The Barf Thing! IT BARFS!

Elvis Haiku and Leaping Over the Garden

My brother Sean and I were goofing around last month at my parents' place; here's my favourite action shot. (Click for a larger version!)

Elvis Haiku

I can't remember if I've posted this before, and I'm too lazy to check. So...enjoy some Earlian Elvis Haiku.

My twin brother croaked
Now we've both left the building
Thank you very much

I made one good movie
They called it King Creole
Too bad the rest sucked

Baby girl married a froot loop
Spinning in my grave
Or I would, if I were in it

Young Elvis or Fat?
That's me on the stamp
The glue's good eatin'

Earl is an artist, too!

Racing Up the Charts

What Grows Here? is now at #5 on the Edmonton non-fiction charts!

#7, No Bullet

I found out today that our latest book, Jim Hole's What Grows Here? Volume One: Locations, has just hit #7 on the Edmonton Journal's non-fiction bestseller list. Woo woo!
Jim's first solo title.

Invincible Earl Has Nothing to Fear

Invincible Earl has nothing to fear.

Superb, Man

Have you ever fantasized about having some kind of superhuman ability? I have. Usually I like to imagine having the power to fly. But sometimes, it's fun to think about what I'd do if I had Superman-level invulnerability.
If I were indestructible, I'd go up to the top of skyscrapers and jump off, leaving a huge crater in the sidewalk. WHAM! I'd have people fire cannonballs at me. I'd launch myself from a catapult and crash through the front window of a grocery store. I'd put a lit stick of dynamite in my mouth. I'd have a friend hit me in the teeth with an axe or a sledgehammer. I'd be the world's highest-paid stuntman! I'd dare the US government to drop an atom bomb on me. I'd become an astronaut and do EVAs without needing a spacesuit. I'd become a stormchaser and hope to get flung into the air by a tornado. I'd be the most extreme rollerblader ever, pulling totally wack moves that will make my skater buddies swoon with envy.

Well, not really. If I were indestructible, I'd try to find some way to use my new power for the common good; more than likely, I'd become a lab rat of some kind. It wouldn't be right for one person to have such a gift...think of what people could do if we were all indestructible and immortal.

Of course, such a world would have its own set of serious social problems...perhaps we're better off fragile, after all.

Pande-minium

W00T! Bought a condo! W00T!!!!11111!!!! :-O
 
Earl am teh roxxorzz!!!!!1111!!!!
 
It's in Terra Losa, a couple of blocks north of West Edmonton Mall. Two bedroom/two full baths plus den, insuite laundry, big balcony with a beautiful view of a manmade lake...it's pretty much ideal, and we got it for a great price. So come September, Sylvia and I will be moving in together.
 

Credit Where It's Due

WOO HOO! I paid off my line of credit today. No more debt for me! Yee hah!
 
Of course, I'm going to make an offer on a condo in a couple of hours...plunging me deeper into debt than I've ever been before...but at least the money is working for me now...right?
 
Right?
 
Hello?

Canada Votes

Looks like we're headed for a Liberal minority government with the NDP holding the balance of power. Sweet.

My MP, Anne McLellan, is in yet another tight race - last I checked she was 34 votes ahead. Hope she makes it. Really, really hope she makes it - don't Albertans find it embarrassing to vote faux-Tory en masse? Yeesh. Come on, people.

For all the complaining about vote-splitting on the right, I note with some consternation that in the riding of Edmonton Strathcona, where Conservative Rahim Jaffer has won re-election, the combined Liberal-NDP vote was some 2,0000 votes greater than his winning total. Bah.

Forgot to link to The Earliad last time. The Earliad

Stupid Carelessness

Sylvia is away at a wedding in Ontario, and she left her rabbit with me...so yesterday I picked up the bunny to put her back in her cage so I could vacuum, and she struggled and I lost my grip and dropped her, right on the corner of her cage.

:-(

She started hopping around on three legs, so I rushed her to the vet emergency centre downtown, and the x-rays revealed that I'd fractured her hip. Fortunately, six to eight weeks of "cage rest" (i.e., the bunny has to stay in the cage so she doesn't hop around) and she'll be healed.

You don't really know what "low" feels like until you've broken the hip of a helpless bunny, let me tell you. I really, really feel bad.

I suck. Poor bunny.

Introducing...The Earliad: The Bleak House of Blahgs Photo Annex

Hi, everyone - I'm experimenting a little with another webpage, using the long-neglected webspace that comes with my Shaw account. If all goes according to plan, right now there should be a couple of photos of me cavorting around Commonwealth Stadium; Jim and I were down there this morning for an Epcor/Hole's Wise Watering media event. See the photos here.

Peanut Pranks

I like mischief. I can't remember when I first came up with the notion of inserting peanuts into the unsuspecting ears of my friends, but the idea soon took irresistable hold of me. I believe the first to fall victim was my brother; I snuck up behind him and with one fluid motion, stuck the unshelled peanut into his ear. His reaction was quite satisfying, and later on I tried it out on my friend Ron Briscoe. It was my first visit to California, that long road trip down to LA, fifteen members of the U of A Star Trek and Scuba clubs crammed into one van. We stayed at a hostel near the famous Korean Bell, and when Ron went to bed, I waited patienty for him to fall asleep and crept out of my bunk with a peanut in each hand. I leaned over Ron, and just as I was about to drive the peanuts home, his eyes snapped open.

"Earl," he said dangerously, "Do not...stick...those PEANUTS...in my EARS!"

Foiled, I retreated. But my greatest peanut victory was yet to come.

A couple of years later, several Star Trek Club alumni attended the Namao International Air Show. Ron was there, and so was Steven Neumann, his sister Susan, and her boyfriend Jeff Shyluk. Naturally peanuts were served, and as we reclined on picnic blankets and watched the ballet of the jets overhead, I couldn't resist casually tossing a peanut in Jeff's direction.

Much to my surprise, the peanut sailed in a graceful arc, closed the two-metre gap between Jeff and I, and landed directly in Jeff's ear. Jeff immediately clapped a hand over his ear and his eyes goggled in disbelief.

"MY EAR!" he wailed, "A PEANUT!"

It was glorious.

More recently, I managed to sneak a peanut into Sylvia's ear, catching her completely by surprise on the couch. Her reaction was almost as satisfying as Jeff's. However, the aftermath has convinced me that perhaps now would be a good time to put away childish things...i.e., silly pranks.

Viva Blahg Vegas, Part II

The next day, Tuesday, Sylvia and I left the Imperial Palace, striking out for the MGM Grand. Once again, she used the scooter and I walked alongside, snapping pictures all the way, looking exactly like the tourist I was. (But then, I have a feeling that most of Las Vegas' two million inhabitants do their best to avoid the Strip.) The heat was unbearable (for me; Sylvia thrived on it), and by the time we made it back to the hotel, I was exhausted. I didn't know it at the time, but a nice case of heat stroke was waiting in the wings.

Still, air conditioning works wonders, and soon enough we were on the move again, this time sans scooter. We headed down to Treasure Island and watched Sirens, an outdoor musical held on full-scale pirate ships in a manmade lagoon. There was singing, dancing, and scantily-clad bootiliciousness (aha, I've coined a new word). Plus cannon fire and explosions. One thing about Las Vegas entertainment: it's not subtle.

After Sirens, we considered heading back to the hotel and calling it a night. But we saw that Treasure Island played host to Cirque de Soleil, and after a bit of debate, we decided to see the show. Great tickets, too - third row centre.

Sylvia and I nestled into our seats and waited for the fun to begin - little knowing that we'd soon be a part of it. To start the act, the lead clown/ringmaster made a game of escorting latecomers to their seats. The clown made a big show of leading the patrons up and down the aisles, booting other patrons from their seats, leading them back, losing the tickets, stealing popcorn, and so on, spotlights capturing the antics all the while.

And then he stopped right in front of Sylvia and I. He looked right at me: "Ah, you're the fellow."

He reached into his bucket of popcorn and flung a kernel at me. And like a well-trained seal, I tried to catch it in my open mouth. I missed. Much laughter from the crowd. Another try; I missed again. "Come on!" I barked. "I'm doing my best!" he replied.

One more try. I missed again, and, disgusted, he threw the entire bucket at me. A huge roar from the audience; I have no idea what my expression must have been. Probably some form of shock.

Sylvia loved it, and I have to admit, it was a huge thrill. Any chance to be a ham, I'll take it - first time I've performed (in the most minor sense, of course) for an audience for a long, long while. It's fun, and I miss it. Times like that, I wonder about the road not taken. The rest of the show was utterly amazing - I could scarce believe the wonders those performers could do with their bodies. It was graceful, erotic, magnificent, and worth every penny. I'm glad we took a chance and decided to see the show. I'm not big on spontaneity, but sometimes it works.

Anyway....that was the end of the second day. Day three wouldn't be quite so much fun...

Viva Blahg Vegas

And we're back! What a long, strange couple of weeks it's been. The last of my hacking and coughing seems to be winding down, thank goodness.

So how about that excursion to Las Vegas?

Well, let me tell you. For me, the highlight had to have been taking Sylvia through the Star Trek Experience.

We rented a scooter for Sylvia - she was afraid of slowing me down, since I'm normally a pretty fast walker.

I walked alongside her as we journeyed from the Imperial Palace, our hotel, to the Las Vegas Hilton, home of the Experience.

Once there, we went through the Klingon Encounter, which I've seen before, and the new Borg Invasion 4-D, which really was incredible. Live characters all around you, Borg popping out of the walls, people screaming, consoles exploding...it was wild. Sylvia got quite a kick out of both rides.

But the best part was down at Quark's restaurant, where Sylvia got to give a Ferengi waiter some pretty intense oo-mox. The Ferengi seemed a little surprised by Sylvia's ardour, but he certainly seemed to enjoy it - and I have a picture to prove it.

 Earl versus the Gorn.

Sylvia's scooter got ticketed by the Ferengi, complete with the Ferengi Boot (a styrofoam plate with Ferengi swizzle sticks) and tickets demanding several strips of gold-pressed latinum. Fortunately, a friendly Federation officer got rid of the boot for us.

However, the trip back wasn't quite so much fun. My walking pace had rapidly slowed after about an hour's journey down the Strip - the temperature hovered around 40 degrees C, and there was little shade to be found. By the time we reached the Hilton, I was really dragging my feet, and while our stop at the Experience revived me a little, the journey back was...daunting.

Since the outbound leg of the walk had proven so lengthy (maps in Las Vegas are not to scale), we decided to take another route back to our hotel. We were trundling along pretty well for a while - Sylvia and I doubled up on the scooter to save my feet. At first things went fine - we used a very well-maintained new sidewalk next to one of Las Vegas' busiest avenues.

But then , a couple of kilometers away from the Hilton, the smooth sailing ended and the sidewalk abruptly vanished, replaced by a very narrow strip of bare earth. The cars of Las Vegas continued to rush by, their drivers no doubt amused by our plight.

Here began the real adventure. I had to abandon the scooter so that Sylvia could gingerly navigate the machine along a rubble-strewn dirt pathway, periodically blocked by supports for overpasses and the monorail. Whenever we came across one of these obstacles, Sylvia would dismount and I'd have to lift the scooter into the freeway and haul it around the post - without getting hit by the insane Las Vegas traffic. Keep in mind that I was already exhausted, the scooter was insanely heavy, I was trying not to damage it, and had to duck in and out of traffic like Frogger.

Sylvia, naturally, was getting quite a kick out of all this.

The terrain got rougher as we went along, and more desolate. I knew we were pointed in the right direction, but pedestrian traffic along our route was limited to less than a half-dozen other souls, compared to the thousands we encountered along our original course. Sylvia had to dodge rocks, open pits, broken bottles, fallen road signs, endless flyers for escort services, and some debris I was afraid to identify. This, I thought, was the real Las Vegas.

Finally I saw sidewalks in the near distance, and even more encouraging, the lights of the Strip. Sweat poured down my body in sticky rivers as I staggered alongside Sylvia's happily whirring scooter.

"Almost there," I rasped. "Just...a little...further..."

We reached one more obstacle, another open pit that I'd obviously have to lift the scooter past. Poor Sylvia had to wait while I dodged traffic with the scooter yet again, and when I lifted the mechanical monstrosity to safety once more, I looked back to see that Sylvia had fallen into the pebble-strewn orange dust. I dashed to her side, only to discover that she'd fallen simply because she'd been laughing so hard at my antics.

After dusting off her dress, we returned to the scooter and prepared to make one final break for the sidewalk, just a few lanes of traffic away. There was no designated pedestrian crossing, but we figured that the red lights would serve just as well.

The lights changed, and we made a break for it, neither of us actually using the scooter - we'd been too caught up in watching the traffic to actually hop aboard. There was just barely time to scramble across, but we made it to safety just as the traffic resumed its deadly, inexorable flow.

We returned to the hotel within another half hour or so, with no further incident.

That was the first day.

Gak! Choke

I haven't Blahged in a while, because I'm still sick. Bilateral ear infection, sinus infection, gland infection...I'm on my second set of antibiotics now. And only days remain until Sylvia and I are supposed to head to Las Vegas.

I watched Soylent Green and The Omega Man recently, back to back. Why can't SF films be more like they were in the 70s? Sure, the budgets were low, but they had something to say, unlike most current films in the genre. The Stepford Wives, Colossus: The Forbin Project, Logan's Run...they were all cheesy and clunky as hell at times, but they draw me in every time.

When I'm feeling better, I'll try to explain what I mean.

The Theft of the Ideal

Being sick doesn't just make me cranky; it fills me with anger. I'm not proud of this anger, and I work very hard to suppress it; it's selfish in the extreme to react that way over such a trifling thing as a cold. But the emotion is there, and so I do my best to control it.

Bad weather also drives me to rage, so yesterday, with the onset of both a cold and a blizzard, I was angry indeed.

So I spent the day in bed, grinding my teeth, coughing up phlegm and going through an entire box of tissue.

Some people like snow, and most people, I think, see the common cold for what it is: a minor inconvenience. So why do I feel so aggrieved by simple whims of nature?

I thought about that question today, and I came to this conclusion: I see life as all too brief. So every moment ruined by inclement weather or illness is, if you think about it, a huge intrusion into our limited time. Not a conscious or malicious intrusion, but an intrusion nonetheless, a theft of the ideal moments that make live worth living.

I recognize that this viewpoint is selfish in the extreme, that the perfect summer days I live for during each miserable winter are not some kind of birthright. Every summer day I waste with a book or other diversion is one that could be spent helping someone less fortunate, and yet I still spend those days recklessly, indulgently, on myself.

In other words, a little sniffling and snow is a small price to pay for a first-world lifestyle.

And yet I know I'll still be gritting my teeth and feeling robbed the next time.

The Accidental Lexicon: A Brief Response to Orwell's Politics and the English Language

I have a cold. :-( Ergo, I don't really feel like blogging. But just to keep the content flowing, here's an assignment I wrote for a U of A extension course I took a couple of years back. Without the original context, it should be just baffling enough to keep you amused.

The Accidental Lexicon
A Brief Response to George Orwell's Politics and the English Language
By Earl J. Woods

In Politics and the English Language, George Orwell bemoans "…the half-conscious belief that language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes."

While Orwell states this almost offhandedly, he really assumes much. Is language, in fact, deliberately shaped by an elite cadre of academics? Or does the careless invention and creativity of the public have a larger effect upon the English lexicon?

Orwell would probably be horrified by the following modern street phrase: "The teacher was so excited, he spooged his gonch." But modern writers would struggle to find a more visceral means of expression, especially if they are writing to an audience accustomed to graphic language.

"Spooge his gonch" is a perfect phrase, given the proper context, and yet it was certainly not conceived by Oxford professors. This is a phrase that evolved in the shady back alleys of English literature. It is impossible to pin down the exact origins of this colourful metaphor, but we might guess that the combination of "gonch," the crudest term available for male undergarments, with "spooge," a still cruder term for a particularly disgusting mess, proved irresistible to authors raised on toilet humour.

Naturally, Orwell is correct when he states that language is an instrument, and it is certainly true that the opprobrium of the learned classes can prevent some authors from using all their creative muscle. But the common people, too, can shape language, if not always deliberately. Given Orwell's socialist leanings, it is interesting that he dismisses, by implication, their creative power.

The Tale of the Penetrated Fowl/Dreams of Rustam

Sylvia has an Easter tradition: she invites her parents over to her apartment and cooks dinner for them. So on Sunday, she and I cooked a ham, a chicken, some corn, cheesy mashed potatoes, and buns for her parents, my parents, and my brother and sister-in-law. About ninety minutes after putting the chicken in the oven, Sylvia gave me a temperature guage and asked me to check if the chicken and ham were cooked. The guague (am I even spelling that correctly?) gague...gague...ga...never mind. I stuck the fork-shaped temperature thingy into the chicken, and when I removed it, the two rubber caps at the end of the tines were gone, nestled deep within the chicken. I immediately realized that I should have removed the caps prior to insertion.

So there I was, staring dumbfounded at the naked tongs.

"Oh no!" I screamed in dismay. Then I had to explain to Sylvia what had happened. Like a trooper, she took my latest foible in stride, and so we proceeded to rip the chicken apart, fearing that the rubber caps would melt inside the hot fowl and contaminate the meat.

Our guests arrived in pairs, first Sylvia's parents, then mine, then my brother and sister-in-law. Fortunately, Sean and Julia (said brother and sister-in-law) took pity on me and carved the chicken, finding the rubber bits in the process, not a bit melted.

On Friday, the 9th, my friend Colin Dunn held a party to celebrate the completion of his mammoth Traveller d20 game rulebook, and there was much merriment had by all. Good job, Colin - I look forward to seeing the printed book in a few months.

At the party I took the Briggs-Meier (sp again) thing once again - I'm either an INFJ or an INTJ this time around, using the questions in Please Understand Me. (I split 50/50 on the feeling/thinking scale.) Both personality summaries, as described in the book, seem fairly accurate, but I'd love to know how scientifically accurate this whole phenomenon is. Can human beings really be broken down into just sixteen personality types? The individualist in me rebels!

Well, an interesting exercise, anyway.

Had an interesting dream last night. It opened in a luxurious home, somewhere in the southern United States. I was an American-raised Middle Eastern student, a scientist with a doctorate in physics, and yet I was still me - different name, but I kept my own personality. I was being held prisoner by a man named Rustam, a very wealthy but sinister man with a beautiful wife and several beautiful daughters.

"Tell me," he said, as I admired his very flashy stereo system (it had some kind of slot that seemed to read flash memory cards of varying types), "If I wanted to put pressure on a steel surface of one meter's thickness, sufficient to crack the steel, could I use an intervening cascade system of pulleys?"

"I won't tell you anything you could use to hurt people," I said.

He leaned in close, pulled me down to sit next to him on a very soft brown couch.

"Listen to me," he said, "I'm quite willing to hurt you to get what I want. In fact, I think the time for physical persuasion has come."

I held up my hands in protest. "No, no," I said, "Listen, I'm a total physical coward. The threat alone is sufficient to force me to do whatever you ask."

"Nonetheless," he said, and made a fist. Then one of his lieutenants, a bald man with sunglasses and a cigar, walked into the room.

We were suddenly sitting around the wet bar in the rec room.

"You're very generous, Rustam," the lieutenant said. Everyone nodded.

I leapt to my feet and slammed my fists on the bar, outraged.

"He is not a generous man! He's had me kidnapped and threatened physical violence, HE IS NOT A GENEROUS MAN!"

Everyone looked at me. I looked over at one of Rustam's beautiful daughters. She liked me, and smiled, and perhaps may have carried a message to the outside world, but her father warned her off with a glance.

"Look here," Rustam said, and used a remote control to turn on a wall-mounted flatscreen television. A map of Canada appeared.

"You've given me what I needed to make a change," he said, "A change for the better."

As I watched, news reports, superimposed over the map, began to roll in. Disembodied voices told different aspects of the same story: Canada's north was warming up, the islands of Nunavut and the Northwest Territories transforming into lush jungle paradises overnight. Pollution was disappearing all over the country, fish stocks returning, the air turning sweet and clear.

"You should have trusted me," Rustam said, and I was ashamed.

Analyzing Godzilla

Well, Happy April Fool's; I just finished watching Godzilla, Mothra and King Ghidorah: Giant Monsters All-Out Attack. And I don't even feel like a fool for having done that.

Others have already written about what the Godzilla films mean to the Japanese; the line you hear trotted out most often is that the atomic-powered Godzilla represents the deep-seated terror of the atomic attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This observation no doubt has merit, but while watching GMKG:GMAOA (even the acronym is awkward!), I considered a new wrinkle: perhaps Godzilla represents guilt as much as fear.

Consider this: whenever Godzilla appears, he rises out of the ocean, a horror of the deeps. Slowly, inexorably, he makes his way to Tokyo, the very heart of Japan, where he destroys everything in his paths, killing scores of innocent people.

Ah...but are they indeed innocent? The first Godzilla film came out in 1954, less than a decade after the end of World War II and the atomic holocaust. Bombed into submission, the Japanese were forced to take responsibility for the war in the pacific. They were then occupied and forced to institute a democracy closely patterened after the American model. And since then, the Japanese have struggled to come to grips with the deaths caused by Imperial ambitions.

Godzilla's wrath, significantly, is atomic: his radioactive breath sears deep gashes into the Japanese cityscape, and the various films of the canon are littered with atomic imagery, specifically the white flash of immolation as victims are vaporized by Godzilla's atomic beams.

In All-Out Attack, this idea is made explicit when one of the characters reveals that "the souls of all the victims of the Pacific War" are somehow trapped within Godzilla. It's a throwaway line, and at first I thought it went nowhere.

But at the end of the film, when a heroic submarine commander puts an end to the threat and Godzilla sinks, defeated, to the bottom of the sea, we're treated to one final shot...a slow pan across the ocean floor that reveals a grotestque, pulsing, beating heart. The heart is Godzilla's, of course.

Many B-films feature one last "shock" shot, meant to show that The Menace Is Not Really Gone (TM). But in this case, whether or not the filmmakers intended it, I think this throwaway shot has a second meaning: guilt is not easily dispensed with. It can't be blown away with a rocket or a hail of bullets. Such brute force can suppress it, or drive it away, but the only way to really free yourself of guilt is to deal with what you've done and resolve to do better next time.

The question of Japanese guilt is a controversial one, with some Westerners still claiming that the Japanese have never reallly taken their full share of the responsibility for World War II atrocities. I'm not one of those Westerners, but I do find it interesting that some Japanese, if we are to take their films as evidence, do harbour some guilt to this day. Maybe one day, they'll make a Godzilla film in which the beast is accepted as an intrinsic facet of Japan, and the islanders and the monsters can coexist in some kind of harmony.

Wait, I guess they already did that with those goofy Godzilla films of the 70s, in which Godzilla is a defender instead of a destroyer.

Well, there's another brilliant theory shot to hell.

On a lighter note, I found it very amusing when a group of Japanese tourists spot Baragon, one of the giant monsters featured in the film (though not in the title), and after screaming a bit, stop to pose for photographs with the approaching horror in the background.

That is all.

Black, White, & Shades of Grey

Time for more useless superhero trivia, I think. Let's look at characters of colour - that is, comic book heroes with "Black" or "White" in their names. How many are truly black, and how many white? And what does it mean? Let's explore...

First, an experiment: think of a black superhero. First one that comes to mind. I'll wait.
















...okay. Who did you think of? I'll bet the character was male, and had "Black" in his superhero name. Furthermore, I'll bet you chose the Black Panther or Black Lightning. Maybe the Black Vulcan, if you watched Saturday morning cartoons.

But how many black characters use "Black" in their sobriquet? Let's find out...


"Black" Characters

Black Canary: Heroine. Wears a black (well, maybe dark blue, depending on the colourist) costume; white as Karen Carpenter.

Black Cat: Heroine. Wears a black costume; white skin, red hair.

Black Cat (II): Another heroine. Also wears a black costume; white skin, white hair.

Blackhawk: Hero. (Collectively: Blackhawks.) A whole bunch of white guys, except for a token Asian. Wore black costumes, flew black airplanes.

Black Goliath: Hero. Grew big. An actual black guy. If he were white, would he be called "White Goliath?"

The Black Hood: Hero. White guy in...a black hood.

Black Jack: Hero. Was not black. Wore black hood.

The Black Knight: Hero. White guy in black suit of armour.

The Black Knight (II): Hero. Ditto. Descendant of the first guy; joined the Avengers.

Black Lightning: Hero. Wears a black costume, and is in fact black. Angry, dedicated schoolteacher by day, ass-busting crimefighter by night. If he were white, would he be called "White Lightning?" Hmmm...that would give a different impression.

Black Manta: Villain. Wears a black deep-sea diving suit, and is in fact black, though this wasn't revealed for many years. (I remember being surprised myself when I read the revelation in the 70s.)

The Black Musketeers: Heroes/Heroines. No, I'm not kidding. They're black, and they're musketeers. They help out the Black Panther.

The Black Panther: Hero. Wears a black costume, and is in fact black. Leader of a fierce, technologically-advanced warrior tribe in Africa.

The Black Pirate: Hero. Wears a black costume, has a black beard. (No relation to Blackbeard the pirate.) White guy.

Black Racer: Force of nature. One of the New Gods; wears a goofy skiiing outfit, acts as the angel of death for the DC universe. Has black skin.

The Black Talon: Villain. An actual black guy, formerly known as The Black Rooster. Again, I'm not kidding.

The Black Terror: Hero. Wears a black costume with a skull and bones motif. Not a pirate. White guy.

Black Vulcan: Hero. One of the Super Friends. Actually black. Cheap Black Lightning knockoff for the cartoon series; the creators didn't want to spend the money to actually purchase the rights to the Black Lightning character.

The Black Widow: Heroine. Wears a black costume. Redheaded spy; white.

Black Bolt: Hero. Black costume, white guy.

Vykin the Black: Hero. One of the New Gods. Yeah, he was black, literally. The token black.

"White" Characters

White Witch. Heroine. A white witch in a white costume. Member of the Legion of Super-Heroes.


Black Characters who don't have the word "black" in their codename:

Amazing Man (II): Hero. As far as I can remember, the only black member of the Justice Society of America. And only retroactively, at that.

Blade: Hero. Maybe you've seen the movies, where he's played by Wesley Snipes. Black guy who hunts vampires.

Brother Voodoo: Hero. May as well be called the black something-or-other, since this name doesn't afford much more dignity.

Cottonmouth: Villain. Has "bionically enhanced jaws." A black character named "Cottonmouth?" This just isn't right.

The Falcon: Hero. Sidekick to Captain America. Has a falcon.

The Human Top: Hero. Spins around. Maybe "The Black Tornado" would have been a better name, at that.

Icon: Hero. Superman analogue; a shapeshifting alien who took the form of a black man, since this was the first example of a human he'd seen.

Moses Magnum: Villain. Holy cow, what a cool name. Too bad his costume is so lame.

Power Fist: Hero. Jive-talkin' hero, in fact. Costume has a disturbing chain motif, though perhaps this is a subtle statement of taking back the chains...or something.

Rocket: Heroine. Sidekick of Icon.

Static: Hero. Has a pretty good cartoon at the moment.

Steel: Hero. Wears a suit of armour. Played by Shaq in a terrible film that really did an injustice to a great character.

The Super Harlem Globetrotters: Heroes. Remember the cartoon? The Harlem Globetrotters received super-powers and fought crime around the world, living up to their name, I guess.

Tyroc: Hero. Sonic scream powers. Wears a white costume; member of the Legion of Super-Heroes.

Whitewash: Hero. Well, more like a comic sidekick. Terribly stereotypical; thankfully hasn't been seen much since his creation in the 40s.

Green Lantern (III): Hero. John Stewart was once the "emergency backup" for Earth's Green Lantern, Hal Jordan. Later on, he became a fully-fledged, full-time Green Lantern in his own right, and in fact it is the John Stewart Green Lantern who is currently being used in the popular Justice League cartoon.

XS: Heroine. Super-speedster. Member of the Legion of Super-Heroes.

Summary

Okay, there are lots of characters who use the word "black" in their codename, most of them white. But there are very few characters who use "white" as an adjective - only one that I could even remember.

What if writers felt the need to apply the "white" descriptor to white characters? How do these names grab you?

White Superman (YEESH! Don't even go there)
White Batman (Doesn't make sense)
White Wonder Woman (Uh...now it sounds like a porn star name)
White Flash (Hmm. Sounds kind of cool, I guess...)
White Spider-Man (uh-huh)
White Canary (Might actually work, I suppose; makes as much sense as Black Canary)
White Dr. Doom ("White Doom" might be cool, not to mention politically astute)
White Shadow (Hey, wasn't that a TV series?)

Well, no surprises here: comics, at least in their early years, were clearly as racist (if mostly unconsciously) as any other medium of the day. Fortunately, there are many more black comics heroes these days - great examples like Icon and Steel, positive role models with non-stereotypical day jobs. (Publisher and architect, respectively.)

Still, as one minority gains footing, others lag behind; there are still relatively few Asian or (openly) gay superheroes, and even fewer Native Americans. But, one by one, they do appear. Whether they will take hold of the public consciousness like Superman, Batman, or Spider-Man...time will tell.

Dance of the Pants

A couple of blahgs back, I related the tale of our attempt to see Bubba Ho-Tep. My charming, beautiful and intelligent girlfriend thought that the poems were brilliant, but a little off-base...in fact, from her perspective, the facts of the matter were somewhat...er...skewed.

"I look like a shrew in those emails!" she said.

"Er..." I replied.

Okay, full disclosure time. While I genuinely wanted to see the movie, the truth is I'd had a long, stressful week, and by the time Friday rolled around, Sylvia's reluctance to go (though she would have gone had I really wanted to) presented the perfect opportunity to weasel out and just stay home, while assigning the blame to my innocent girlfriend. Mea culpa! I am shamed.

Furthermore, Sylvia wishes to make it clear that Paul's "Lose pants to make show" line clearly implies that she wears the pants in our relationship. The truth is, we both wear the pants.

Well, not the same pair of pants. Not at the same time. And she wears designer pants, while I wear sweats.

Amusingly, Sylvia rattled off a poem about the event:

Don't know what to say
Can't make a haiku
But you're totally off base
So screw you!

P.S. I am too punctual!

(And as a matter of fact, she is quite punctual.)

For the record, my Squishy McMonkey is very good about letting me do whatever I want to do, and I do feel bad that I gave anyone the impression that she wouldn't have happily indulged my geeky film fetish. For crying out loud, she watches Deep Space Nine with me now and enjoys it as much as I do! That's relationship gold, my friends.

So now you know the sordid truth, dear readers. And I know that I'm going to suffer merciless ribbing for jamming out on the movie. I'm wincing already.

Hey, I think I've posted for three or four straight days now..! That's gotta be some kind of record.

Until tomorrow...

Space Cases

Several of my friends and colleagues - people I admire and respect - have opined that space travel is a waste of money, that the resources we devote to putting a man on the moon or space probes on Mars could be better used on Earth, presumably to shelter the homeless, feed the hungry, and so on. In other words, we should solve our problems at home before we start doing extraneous things like investigating outer space.

I've always been a space buff, so naturally I find this attitude somewhat shortsighted. But as a person who believes in social justice, I'm willing to ask myself if exploring space is worth the costs.

President Bush has asked Congress to increase NASA's budget from 15.4 to 16.2 billion dollars. That's a lot of cash, and sadly, thanks to Shrub's complete ignorance of rational space policy, much of that cash will probably be wasted on flashy projects designed not to advance science, but to score propaganda points and enrich aerospace firms (which donate millions of dollars to the Republican party).

That aside, let's pretend that 16.2 billion could be used only for experiments and programs that promise to deliver real results that will expand our knowledge of the universe. What kind of return are we getting on our investment? (And yes, even though I'm a Canadian, I do mean "we," even though my taxes aren't being touched by NASA. If we take a global perspective, we have to realize that resources diverted in one nation - and benefits accrued by that nation - affect all of us.)

Well, over the years NASA and other space agencies have given us reams of data about the composition of stars and planets, a much greater understanding of weather patterns on our own planet (including crucial environmental data), communications satellites, and various spinoff technologies that we use in everyday life. (Though some argue that such spinoffs could have been developed more efficiently with R&D programs devoted specifically to the invention of the spinoffs.) Space missions have also given us thousands of remarkable photographs, from the Earth/Moon shots of the Apollo missions to the Hubble Space Telescope's awe-inspiring vistas of deep space.

Could we make do without all this? I suppose we could. It's possible that understanding the nature of the universe is something we could learn in a thousand or ten thousand years, long after we've sorted out our problems. Perhaps it's not fair for us to delight in this new knowledge or to vicariously launch ourselves into space along with those daring astronauts - not when our neighbours are wondering where their next meal is coming from. I have to admit that I've had these doubts myself.

But let's see what else we're spending our money on.

Let's see...in the last three months of 2001, Coca-Cola enjoyed sales of $941 million. In just three months, human beings spent nearly a billion dollars on a soft drink that isn't even good for them. In fact, we're spending $60 billion a year on soft drinks.

One useless product that we can easily do without dwarfs NASA's budget. If we must eliminate space travel so that all that money can be devoted to solving Earth's problems, so too should that $60 billion we spend on soft drinks. There's just no excuse.

We spent over a billion dollars to see one movie: Titanic. Nearly that much to see three, the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

While we're at it, we should eliminate:

video games ($9.4 billion annually - nearly the size of the NASA budget)
NHL hockey ($2 billion)
Hallmark greeting cards ($4.3 billion annually - a quarter of the NASA budget - ONE greeting card company, producing one of the most wasteful and useless products on the market! And since Hallmark claims it has 50% of the greeting card market, I assume we're actually spending $8.6 billion a year on cards.)*



...and on and on it goes, including the US military, with an annual budget of $400 billion, more than every other government on Earth combined. The sheer waste and futility boggles the mind. How much are wealthy collectors willing to pay for rare works of art? Millions? Tens of millions? Why aren't we outraged that that money isn't being funnelled to worthy causes?

I think the lesson here is this: human beings spend a disproportionate amount of their intelligence and talent, not to mention the Earth's resources, on frivolity. Just as I defend NASA spending, I'm sure others can find reasons to support professional hockey and greeting cards.

But let's not kid ourselves. Even if every government on earth suddenly decided to cancel their space programs, the money saved wouldn't be diverted to feeding the hungry, healing the sick, or housing the homeless. More than likely, we'd all demand tax cuts so that we could buy more DVDs or books or Silly Putty.

I'm not alone in that. I'm just as hypocritical as everyone else.

But please, guys. Let's not single out the space program. At least our adventures in space have given us some genuinely worthwhile scientific insight. And perhaps more importantly, they've helped raised the consciousness of thousands of people, helping us see our Earth as one world without borders, a world that needs to be protected from our own shortsightedness. And we really can't predict the other benefits that may come from our exploration. Perhaps the answers to our problems can't be found on Earth; perhaps we need to look beyond our own horizons.




*Figures compiled from the New York Times, Advertising Age, Hallmark, and my own memories of box office figures. Come on, it's a Blahg, not a scholarly journal.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

When commenting on a friend's romantic relationship, Constable Odo once said, rather cynically, "You want to attend the baseball game, she wants to listen to Klingon opera. So you compromise...and listen to Klingon opera."

Odo was right in one sense; relationships are all about compromise. But that's not always a bad thing.

I like to wear sweats. They're comfy. Sylvia hates them and threatened to burn my only pair. So I offered to compromise: I'd only wear my sweats around the house or while going out on my own, never when we're in public together. She accepted the deal, and now she's happy, I'm happy, and my sweats are happy. And, at least when I'm with her, I look like less of a slob in public, which may have unforeseen positive consequences, though I can't imagine what those may be. (I can think of one downside: it seems to be that slobs are less likely to get mugged, since the muggers figure you can't possibly own anything worth stealing.)

Sylvia always looks great when we go out, and it doesn't really cost me anything to compromise, aside from a little comfort. And Sylvia assures me that if she takes me shopping, she'll find decent slacks that provide both style and comfort. I'm sceptical, but we'll see.

I guess you could say that Sylvia wears the pants in our relationship. But that's okay - I don't sweat it.

Unless, of course, I'm in private. ;-)

The Ballad of Bubba Ho-Tep

A bunch of the guys went out to see Bruce Campbell's latest masterpiece, Bubba Ho-Tep, on Friday night. Sylvia and I were going to go, and so were my brother and sister-in-law, but one thing led to another and, sadly, none of us made it. However, the fiasco inspired some poetry from my friends Pete, Mike, and Paul.

Mike suggested that we should all arrive at the Metro Cinema 5:30 to get our tickets. However, I knew there was no way I could get from St. Albert to Edmonton, pick up Sylvia, and then get to the theatre by that time; I suggested the earliest I could be there was 6:30.

Paul responded thus:

Earl and girl are lait,
What's milk got to do with it?
Worst haiku ever.

I then emailed this message:

Update! Sylvia's not coming. Too geeky, apparently. On the other hand, this means I don't have to pick her up, so I should be able to reach the theatre by 6.

Prompting Paul to reply:

Earl loses the girl,
This hastens his arrival --
Lose pants to make show.

And Pete added his own haiku:

Earl arrives dateless.
More speed is now possible,
Chicks can't be timely.

Along with a bawdy limmerick:

There once was a man we called Earl,
who had recently found a nice girl,
while she swallowed the geek,
thought his movies were weak:
Solo Earl gets to see Elvis hurl.

And finally, a sonnet:

Shall I compare thee to the Evil Dead?
Thou art more Kingly, man of rock and roll;
Ash never had a J.F.K. with soul,
and Bubba Ho-Tep's gore is much less red
than those who've lost their chainsaw-taken head.
This movie's sidekick passed the grassy knoll,
did Oswald's bullet make him black as coal?
Who cares? We are by Campbell's Elvis led.
The Mummy might in fact a Deadite be,
Bruce Campbell once more fights for liberty --
And so the two have more in common than
they did when this discussion first began
Yet I'll miss the shotgun tagline "Groovy!"

And then, sadly, I had to send this:

Ack! My whole house of cards has come crashing down. Sylvia's out, my brother is out, my sister-in-law is out, and I am out. :-P

Looking forward to the haiku for THAT...


To which Mike responded:

I can't remember the exact form, but here's my attempt:

EARL SUX0R5! D000000D!

And Paul wrote:

Earl causes four outs,
That's a good baseball pitcher --
But a bad army.

I'll have to ask the guys how the show was...