Thanks to reality TV, there's a lot of talk these days about the return of "bread and circuses," i.e., the tendency of the ruling class to distract the plebians with meaningless entertainments so that those plebians don't think too deeply about more important matters.
Of course, the days of bread and circuses never really left, but what today's distractions are beginning to lose is subtlety. On "Rebel Billionaire," contestants face genuinely life-threatening challenges every week, and on tonight's premiere episode of "The Real Gilligan's Island," a faux-Skipper was rushed to hospital after collapsing during the first challenge. He lived, but had to bow out of the contest early.
If this trend continues, I wouldn't be surprised if someone gets killed. If that happens during the taping of a reality show, will the producers or network choose not to air the episode? I wonder. The ratings would skyrocket. But would the reality show genre survive the backlash?
I think they would. Look at car racing - some people watch them only for the crashes, and hundreds of professional drivers have been killed in front of huge audiences. And yet the sport continues. It has become an accepted part of the culture. People are bloodthirsty, and when someone dies on television, it's exciting, it's dramatic. And if we're really wrapped up in the sport, we experience the powerful catharsis of grief. In a rational culture, sports with such high mortality rates would be banned - the loss of life would far outweigh the social and economic benefits.
But the races go on, to no purpose that I can see. And so will reality shows, even if Donald Trump fires the next apprentice from a cannon.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Monday, November 29, 2004
Roleplaying Games Without Frontiers
I finally figured out what Peter Gabriel is singing at the beginning of "Games Without Frontiers." It's "Jeux sans frontiers" - i.e., "Games without frontiers" in French. Duuuhhh. Well, it was news to me.
Every two or three weeks, I get together with friends to roleplay. Most people are at least vaguely aware of the concept, thanks to Dungeons & Dragons or drama classes. My group is playing Forbidden Kingdoms, a pulp-era roleplaying game. I play Cain Hood, a grim, bloody-minded crimefighter. Here's his character description:
Taciturn, ruthless, violent, fiercely loyal to the Commonwealth, dedicated to protecting the innocent…and perhaps just a little insane: that’s Cain Hood, born on Jarvis Island (a usually uninhabited British possession in the south Pacific) to a Welsh father and an Indian mother, both adventurers, both dead, murdered by agents of the Divine Claw (see below).
Cain is a tall man, over six feet, heavily muscled, but agile. He has a short shock of jet-black hair, dark eyes, and pale skin. He is thirty-six.
Cain is a master martial artist, expert torturer, and merciless foe. His chief weapons are his fists (often complemented by brass knuckles), his trusty Tommy gun (nicknamed, for reasons known only to Cain, “Jenny”), liberally thrown sticks of dynamite, and a sap.
Cain is, at heart, a decent man, not without a sense of humour (if a somewhat macabre one). He has a weakness for children, beautiful women, and marine life, particularly dolphins.
Lately Cain and his compatriots have been searching for a scientist, a man who went hunting for Bigfoot (such creatures actually exist in this world) and went mysteriously missing. Travelling from the UK to British Columbia to Yuma, Arizona, Cain and the band found themselves fighting sword-wielding werewolves, cyborg monkeys, suspicious townspeople, aggressive homeless persons (dispatched with a great deal of guilt with a sap to the teeth), and, of course, Nazis.
Below I attempt to dramatize a fraction of last weekend's adventures:
A night of carousing every once in a while keeps a crimefighter'sinstincts sharp. You can learn a lot about people when they drop their guard - and you can learn a lot about yourself when you let your own defences down.
But sometimes, letting those defences down has deadly consequences. One minute I was tossing back a shot glass full of Jim Beam...thenext, I was flat on my back in a six by six prison cell, head pounding. I went through my pockets. All the weapons were gone, of course, but I still had my Zippo. I tried lighting the door on fire, thinking that might draw the attention of the guards I presumed existed beyond the walls of my cell, but the wood stubbornly refused to catch. Not a surprise, really, but I had limited options.
I surveyed the room. Adobe walls, tin roof - rusted. My decidedly non-gilded cage had only a bare wooden bench and a chamberpot to adorn it.
So I did the only thing I could: I filled the pot.
With urine, ofcourse. I knew that someone would come eventually, and I needed to be ready.
So, chamberpot in hand, I waited. And after a while, my patience was rewarded.
'Stand away from the door!' someone barked - a German, from the accent. I stood my ground, and the door swung open. They were German,all right; one was bending over to place a tray on the ground, a tray laden with water and gruel. The other held a submachinegun levelled at my chest.I flung the chamberpot. The heavy tin bucket struck the standing guard in the face, spraying his eyes with urine.
'Was is dist?' he cried, 'Mein coupon!'
I immediately kicked the crouching man in the face. His teeth shattered,and his nose broke into deadly splinters, sundering his brain. He died without a sound. I pivoted forward, snapping my other boot into the first guard's groin. He grunted; I'd missed his privates by bare inches. But another kick found its mark, driving the family jewels up into his throat - I'm sure he was tasting his testicles, and I hoped they tasted bitter indeed. He fell into a foetal position, retching. I took his submachinegun and pistol, found another pistol on the man I'd killed - and a ring of keys. It was time to break my colleagues out of their cages. And then there would be hell to pay.
Gruesome and violent, I know, but the pulp era was...well...pretty pulpy. After getting my buddies out of jail, we went on to kill a few more Nazis, then battled a giant, fang-shooting spider and some zombie Nazis. There was also a film cannister filled with teeth and a purple phosphoresent skull, but those are stories for another day...
The condo is looking better and better. Sylvia had the carpet cleaned, her friend is coming over to re-do our hideous "feature wall," and I got the wireless network working. Wow, I'm a computer geek now. w00t! Fear my l33t skillz!!!!1111!!!!one!!1one!!!!111
Every two or three weeks, I get together with friends to roleplay. Most people are at least vaguely aware of the concept, thanks to Dungeons & Dragons or drama classes. My group is playing Forbidden Kingdoms, a pulp-era roleplaying game. I play Cain Hood, a grim, bloody-minded crimefighter. Here's his character description:
Taciturn, ruthless, violent, fiercely loyal to the Commonwealth, dedicated to protecting the innocent…and perhaps just a little insane: that’s Cain Hood, born on Jarvis Island (a usually uninhabited British possession in the south Pacific) to a Welsh father and an Indian mother, both adventurers, both dead, murdered by agents of the Divine Claw (see below).
Cain is a tall man, over six feet, heavily muscled, but agile. He has a short shock of jet-black hair, dark eyes, and pale skin. He is thirty-six.
Cain is a master martial artist, expert torturer, and merciless foe. His chief weapons are his fists (often complemented by brass knuckles), his trusty Tommy gun (nicknamed, for reasons known only to Cain, “Jenny”), liberally thrown sticks of dynamite, and a sap.
Cain is, at heart, a decent man, not without a sense of humour (if a somewhat macabre one). He has a weakness for children, beautiful women, and marine life, particularly dolphins.
Lately Cain and his compatriots have been searching for a scientist, a man who went hunting for Bigfoot (such creatures actually exist in this world) and went mysteriously missing. Travelling from the UK to British Columbia to Yuma, Arizona, Cain and the band found themselves fighting sword-wielding werewolves, cyborg monkeys, suspicious townspeople, aggressive homeless persons (dispatched with a great deal of guilt with a sap to the teeth), and, of course, Nazis.
Below I attempt to dramatize a fraction of last weekend's adventures:
A night of carousing every once in a while keeps a crimefighter'sinstincts sharp. You can learn a lot about people when they drop their guard - and you can learn a lot about yourself when you let your own defences down.
But sometimes, letting those defences down has deadly consequences. One minute I was tossing back a shot glass full of Jim Beam...thenext, I was flat on my back in a six by six prison cell, head pounding. I went through my pockets. All the weapons were gone, of course, but I still had my Zippo. I tried lighting the door on fire, thinking that might draw the attention of the guards I presumed existed beyond the walls of my cell, but the wood stubbornly refused to catch. Not a surprise, really, but I had limited options.
I surveyed the room. Adobe walls, tin roof - rusted. My decidedly non-gilded cage had only a bare wooden bench and a chamberpot to adorn it.
So I did the only thing I could: I filled the pot.
With urine, ofcourse. I knew that someone would come eventually, and I needed to be ready.
So, chamberpot in hand, I waited. And after a while, my patience was rewarded.
'Stand away from the door!' someone barked - a German, from the accent. I stood my ground, and the door swung open. They were German,all right; one was bending over to place a tray on the ground, a tray laden with water and gruel. The other held a submachinegun levelled at my chest.I flung the chamberpot. The heavy tin bucket struck the standing guard in the face, spraying his eyes with urine.
'Was is dist?' he cried, 'Mein coupon!'
I immediately kicked the crouching man in the face. His teeth shattered,and his nose broke into deadly splinters, sundering his brain. He died without a sound. I pivoted forward, snapping my other boot into the first guard's groin. He grunted; I'd missed his privates by bare inches. But another kick found its mark, driving the family jewels up into his throat - I'm sure he was tasting his testicles, and I hoped they tasted bitter indeed. He fell into a foetal position, retching. I took his submachinegun and pistol, found another pistol on the man I'd killed - and a ring of keys. It was time to break my colleagues out of their cages. And then there would be hell to pay.
Gruesome and violent, I know, but the pulp era was...well...pretty pulpy. After getting my buddies out of jail, we went on to kill a few more Nazis, then battled a giant, fang-shooting spider and some zombie Nazis. There was also a film cannister filled with teeth and a purple phosphoresent skull, but those are stories for another day...
The condo is looking better and better. Sylvia had the carpet cleaned, her friend is coming over to re-do our hideous "feature wall," and I got the wireless network working. Wow, I'm a computer geek now. w00t! Fear my l33t skillz!!!!1111!!!!one!!1one!!!!111
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Earl's Bad Jokes of the Day
1.
So Arthur the assassin goes to the grocery store and whacks a trio of targets, garroting them. His employer gives him a shiny new loonie as a reward. The grocer sees all this and asks, "Why do you work so cheap?"
The assassin points to a sign in the produce section: "Artie chokes three for a dollar."
2.
Q: What do prostitutes use to clean their teeth?
A: Heidi Floss.
So Arthur the assassin goes to the grocery store and whacks a trio of targets, garroting them. His employer gives him a shiny new loonie as a reward. The grocer sees all this and asks, "Why do you work so cheap?"
The assassin points to a sign in the produce section: "Artie chokes three for a dollar."
2.
Q: What do prostitutes use to clean their teeth?
A: Heidi Floss.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Goodnight, Superman
Q: Do you believe in the Lord?
A: Even though I don't personally believe in the Lord, I try to behave as though He was watching. -Christopher Reeve, speaking at the Courage Centre in 1996
When I was younger, I didn't understand why people could get so upset over the death of a famous person, someone they'd never met, particularly if they had an occupation that I considered frivolous: athlete, royalty...actor. Why shed tears for someone you never met? Aren't there dozens, millions of people who had harder lives, who are more deserving of our grief?
Sometimes I still feel that way, if only to remind myself of all the dead we never hear about. But Reeve's passing is personal, because, though he never knew me, he helped shape my life. I was nine years old when my cousin Cathy took me to a Winnipeg theatre to see the premiere of Superman, and on that day in 1978 I was inspired - inspired to be a better, kinder person, to acknowledge my strengths but always temper that knowledge with humility...to fight for truth and justice. Reeve made Superman a real, admirable human being; a fictional character, yes, but also an ideal worth aspiring to.
Years later, while I was attending university, I was sitting in the dorm lounge with my new friend Stephanie Gillis. Superman III was playing on the TV; it was the Smallville scene, where Clark is reunited with his old school sweetheart, Lana Lang. (A wonderful scene in an unfairly maligned film.) We watched for a bit, and then Stephanie turned to me and said, "You know, Earl, you're just like Clark Kent." I had to turn away, because I nearly cried. It was the highest compliment I've ever been paid.
As much as my parents, my teachers, my friends and the books that informed my character, Christopher Reeve helped make me the person I am, and I am grateful to him for that. Maybe he was "just an actor," but he was also an inspiration, and, after all, one of us - a fallible human being, trying to do the right thing. That's reason enough to mourn.
A: Even though I don't personally believe in the Lord, I try to behave as though He was watching. -Christopher Reeve, speaking at the Courage Centre in 1996
When I was younger, I didn't understand why people could get so upset over the death of a famous person, someone they'd never met, particularly if they had an occupation that I considered frivolous: athlete, royalty...actor. Why shed tears for someone you never met? Aren't there dozens, millions of people who had harder lives, who are more deserving of our grief?
Sometimes I still feel that way, if only to remind myself of all the dead we never hear about. But Reeve's passing is personal, because, though he never knew me, he helped shape my life. I was nine years old when my cousin Cathy took me to a Winnipeg theatre to see the premiere of Superman, and on that day in 1978 I was inspired - inspired to be a better, kinder person, to acknowledge my strengths but always temper that knowledge with humility...to fight for truth and justice. Reeve made Superman a real, admirable human being; a fictional character, yes, but also an ideal worth aspiring to.
Years later, while I was attending university, I was sitting in the dorm lounge with my new friend Stephanie Gillis. Superman III was playing on the TV; it was the Smallville scene, where Clark is reunited with his old school sweetheart, Lana Lang. (A wonderful scene in an unfairly maligned film.) We watched for a bit, and then Stephanie turned to me and said, "You know, Earl, you're just like Clark Kent." I had to turn away, because I nearly cried. It was the highest compliment I've ever been paid.
As much as my parents, my teachers, my friends and the books that informed my character, Christopher Reeve helped make me the person I am, and I am grateful to him for that. Maybe he was "just an actor," but he was also an inspiration, and, after all, one of us - a fallible human being, trying to do the right thing. That's reason enough to mourn.
Friday, September 17, 2004
New Digs
We've moved in! Well, we moved in September 4th, but we've been unpacking since then, one box at a time. It's going slooooowly...and to make matters worse, I won't have home Internet access until September 27th. So if you've emailed or ICQed me, be patient - I'll reply when I'm back on the web.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
The Bleak House of Boxes
Sanity...crumbling...still...packing...but...no...boxes...must...stuff...things...into...other...things...plastic...bags...unused...gifts...envelopes...
Haven't even - sob! - started cleaning...damage deposit...imperiled...
Must...summon...determination of Captain Kirk...will of Green Lantern...strength of Superman...je ne sais quois of that guy I see chewing on the mailbox every now and then...
Haven't even - sob! - started cleaning...damage deposit...imperiled...
Must...summon...determination of Captain Kirk...will of Green Lantern...strength of Superman...je ne sais quois of that guy I see chewing on the mailbox every now and then...
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Boxed In
My apartment has been reduced to an empty shell filled with cardboard boxes. In three days, Sylvia and I are moving into our new condominium, so I've been packing, packing, packing, stuffing my life into little brown cubes.
I've been watching episodes of Futurama while I pack, listening to the audio commentaries. Today, I found out that one of the show's story editors, Kristin Gore, is the daughter of former Vice President Al Gore. Kristin Gore revealed that her father is a huge fan of the show, and didn't need much arm-twisting at all to make several appearances, both before and after the American election debacle of 2000.
Listening to that commentary made me very sad. I've been reading Gore's post-2000 speeches, and they're remarkable - now that he's got nothing to lose, he's saying what he really thinks, and he sounds a lot like FDR or Tommy Douglas.
And perhaps most revealingly, he enjoys and understands Futurama, a smart, hip show that's not afraid to make jokes about math, quantum mechanics, and electrical engineering. On the commentary of one of the post-election Gore episodes, Kristin notes that her dad was grateful to the producers for providing the employment opportunity.
I have this vision of George W. Bush watching an episode of Futurama. He laughs whenever there's a puke joke (the writers are not above a little toilet humour), but most of the time he scratches his head and says "I don't get it."
I know who I'd rather have in charge of the nukes.
I've been watching episodes of Futurama while I pack, listening to the audio commentaries. Today, I found out that one of the show's story editors, Kristin Gore, is the daughter of former Vice President Al Gore. Kristin Gore revealed that her father is a huge fan of the show, and didn't need much arm-twisting at all to make several appearances, both before and after the American election debacle of 2000.
Listening to that commentary made me very sad. I've been reading Gore's post-2000 speeches, and they're remarkable - now that he's got nothing to lose, he's saying what he really thinks, and he sounds a lot like FDR or Tommy Douglas.
And perhaps most revealingly, he enjoys and understands Futurama, a smart, hip show that's not afraid to make jokes about math, quantum mechanics, and electrical engineering. On the commentary of one of the post-election Gore episodes, Kristin notes that her dad was grateful to the producers for providing the employment opportunity.
I have this vision of George W. Bush watching an episode of Futurama. He laughs whenever there's a puke joke (the writers are not above a little toilet humour), but most of the time he scratches his head and says "I don't get it."
I know who I'd rather have in charge of the nukes.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
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!
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
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'
Monday, August 09, 2004
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
#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.
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.
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.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, July 16, 2004
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?
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?
Monday, June 28, 2004
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
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
Sunday, June 27, 2004
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.
:-(
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.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
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.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
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.
"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.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Viva Blahg Vegas, Part II
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...
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
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 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.
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