Some say that even bad pizza is good, but I think bad pizza is truly disgusting. I feel the same way about love songs, but when they're good...man, they deliver like Domino's. So I decided to list a few of my favorites:
- As The World Falls Down (Written and performed by David Bowie)
- Revolution Earth (Written and performed by the B-52s)
- Baby's Coming Back (Written by Andy Sturmer, performed by Jellyfish)
- I Don't Know How to Love Him (Written by Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice, performed most notably by Yvette Elliman)
- I'm Your Moon (Written and performed by Jonathan Coulton)
- Ordinary (Written and performed by Paula Cole)
- I Never Dreamed Someone Like You Could Want Someone Like Me (Written by Pino Donagggio and Merritt Malloy, performed by Katie Irving)
Feel free to suggest some of your own!
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Cathy Connery (1966-2010)
I met Cathy Connery when I was 25, and I can tell you I am now a long way from 25. We worked together at a law firm in Philadelphia, and the day we met she was wearing this really sharp suit. It was all wrong for a law firm in the 90s, but it told me that we were going to get along just fine. When she saw me wear a NARAL t-shirt on dress-down Friday, also the wrong thing for a law firm in the 90s, she realized the same thing. The department in which we worked had an "in crowd" and Cathy and I were pleased to be together on the outside. We were the only people that Irish-Catholic law firm could get to work on Good Friday, so Cathy promptly renamed our portion of the hallway "Atheist Alley."
We got through the day by indulging a mutual appreciation for humor that was both intelligent and silly. We shared a passion for rewriting pop songs to describe our lives, and my personal favorite was when Cathy's car was stolen and she reworked the Go-Go's hit "Head Over Heels" into "I Have No Wheels." She retained that sense of humor even when misfortune struck. A diagnosis with lupus didn't blunt her funny view of the world, and she quickly reworked Helen Reddy's "I Am Woman" into "I Have Lupus" for the newsletter for the Lupus Foundation of America.
Cathy was someone who was not intimidated by the world. When buying her home, she declared herself ready to walk away from the deal two weeks before settlement over a small charge that was nevertheless the seller's responsibility to pay. "She who holds the gold makes the rules," she told me at the time, and sure enough, the seller came around. Once she owned that house, she decided she wanted to put up drywall and case new windows, but did she call a contractor? Nope. She learned how to put up drywall and case windows. Just like that. She was never afraid to ask the question, to speak her mind and to learn something new.
This fearlessness also served her well when she was diagnosed with lymphoma, she quickly became a mini-expert on cancer, consistently amazing me with the amount of medical knowledge she could acquire, process and recall. She was as on top of her medical condition as her doctor, and she didn't even have an "MD" after her name.
Cathy was well acquainted with misfortune, however, and in the end it was just too much for her. Cathy took her own life in a motel room at the New Jersey shore. Knowing Cathy as I did, I was not surprised to hear she'd gone off alone to do it. She was an intensely private person, and she would never have wanted the neighbors to know what she'd done. It's taken me a year to admit that publicly. I don't know why suicide is a dirty little secret, but this is one secret I have held long enough. I'm not and never was angry at her, but the long hug she gave me at the end of last year's Halloween party takes on a new and terrible meaning: she knew she was never going to see me again.
I knew Cathy for sixteen years, long after both of us left that law firm, and in that time we each went through ups and downs, wins and losses. No matter how she chose to leave this life, her ability to laugh at her downs and face her losses helped me do the same with mine. Twenty-five years old was a long time ago, but the road from there to here was infinitely more wonderful because I knew Cathy walked it too. Now her journey is over, and even though I take with me the memories of her intelligence, her courage, and her ability to find joy in the unlikeliest places, my road will be that much lonelier.
We got through the day by indulging a mutual appreciation for humor that was both intelligent and silly. We shared a passion for rewriting pop songs to describe our lives, and my personal favorite was when Cathy's car was stolen and she reworked the Go-Go's hit "Head Over Heels" into "I Have No Wheels." She retained that sense of humor even when misfortune struck. A diagnosis with lupus didn't blunt her funny view of the world, and she quickly reworked Helen Reddy's "I Am Woman" into "I Have Lupus" for the newsletter for the Lupus Foundation of America.
Cathy was someone who was not intimidated by the world. When buying her home, she declared herself ready to walk away from the deal two weeks before settlement over a small charge that was nevertheless the seller's responsibility to pay. "She who holds the gold makes the rules," she told me at the time, and sure enough, the seller came around. Once she owned that house, she decided she wanted to put up drywall and case new windows, but did she call a contractor? Nope. She learned how to put up drywall and case windows. Just like that. She was never afraid to ask the question, to speak her mind and to learn something new.
This fearlessness also served her well when she was diagnosed with lymphoma, she quickly became a mini-expert on cancer, consistently amazing me with the amount of medical knowledge she could acquire, process and recall. She was as on top of her medical condition as her doctor, and she didn't even have an "MD" after her name.
Cathy was well acquainted with misfortune, however, and in the end it was just too much for her. Cathy took her own life in a motel room at the New Jersey shore. Knowing Cathy as I did, I was not surprised to hear she'd gone off alone to do it. She was an intensely private person, and she would never have wanted the neighbors to know what she'd done. It's taken me a year to admit that publicly. I don't know why suicide is a dirty little secret, but this is one secret I have held long enough. I'm not and never was angry at her, but the long hug she gave me at the end of last year's Halloween party takes on a new and terrible meaning: she knew she was never going to see me again.
I knew Cathy for sixteen years, long after both of us left that law firm, and in that time we each went through ups and downs, wins and losses. No matter how she chose to leave this life, her ability to laugh at her downs and face her losses helped me do the same with mine. Twenty-five years old was a long time ago, but the road from there to here was infinitely more wonderful because I knew Cathy walked it too. Now her journey is over, and even though I take with me the memories of her intelligence, her courage, and her ability to find joy in the unlikeliest places, my road will be that much lonelier.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Now I am a flake, too
This evening, Dan and I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a couple of years, a woman I'd met playing Ultimate. We'll call her Angela. Angela's an artsy type, and the kind who, ten years ago, made me a bit uncomfortable. She ekes out a living doing whatever is available, and views whatever job she holds this week as only a means to sustaining her passion for the arts. I always viewed that sort as flakey and unreliable, unable to hold down a "real" job. Having a "real" job was very important to me in those days, you see.
Well, I haven't held a "real" job since 2009. In fact, in the last five years I have been fully employed, partially employed, self-employed and unemployed. I've earned money picking through the corpse of a law office, doing tech support for people half my age with twice my earning potential, filing papers for the Department of Commerce, and telling jokes about breakfast cereals on stage. I've spent much of the last three years writing and preparing to publish a novel that will, in all likelihood, net me only a teeny, tiny profit. And, surprise surprise, I found out it's not such a bad place to be.
So when I ran into Angela tonight, I felt not discomfort but kinship. Here was someone who not only understood that earning money was just an unfortunate necessity, but lived it. She wouldn't have batted an eye if I told her I once worked in an office where someone very carefully explained to me the process of using a stapler. She would have been unruffled knowing that I once paid for a doctor's appointment with the money I had gotten for telling a muppet masturbation joke. She understands that holding down a go-nowhere job is fine as long as it's only the job that's going nowhere. When you're creating, and experimenting, and becoming the person you want to be, then regardless of what you do for a paycheck you're moving faster than light. And defying the laws of relativity is not such a bad place to be, either.
So if Angela's a flake...well, then, so I am I. And I think that's a great place to be.
Well, I haven't held a "real" job since 2009. In fact, in the last five years I have been fully employed, partially employed, self-employed and unemployed. I've earned money picking through the corpse of a law office, doing tech support for people half my age with twice my earning potential, filing papers for the Department of Commerce, and telling jokes about breakfast cereals on stage. I've spent much of the last three years writing and preparing to publish a novel that will, in all likelihood, net me only a teeny, tiny profit. And, surprise surprise, I found out it's not such a bad place to be.
So when I ran into Angela tonight, I felt not discomfort but kinship. Here was someone who not only understood that earning money was just an unfortunate necessity, but lived it. She wouldn't have batted an eye if I told her I once worked in an office where someone very carefully explained to me the process of using a stapler. She would have been unruffled knowing that I once paid for a doctor's appointment with the money I had gotten for telling a muppet masturbation joke. She understands that holding down a go-nowhere job is fine as long as it's only the job that's going nowhere. When you're creating, and experimenting, and becoming the person you want to be, then regardless of what you do for a paycheck you're moving faster than light. And defying the laws of relativity is not such a bad place to be, either.
So if Angela's a flake...well, then, so I am I. And I think that's a great place to be.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Gee...I AM a baby
As you may know, Lenore Skenazy earned fame (and, in some circles, infamy) when she allowed her 9-year-old to take a NY subway by himself. I'm not going to get into the wisdom of that decision in this post, but the whole thing caught my attention and so I read her blog now and again. Recently, Lenore posted this.
I'll admit to being a bit cantankerous when it comes to mobile phones. I don't think people should use them while driving, or in restaurants, or in line for the cashier, an certainly not (with a few exceptions) while seeing friends or on a date. Despite this, I have found myself calling Dan while on the way home from one event or another simply to say, "I'm on my way home", and Lenore's comments have made me rethink the necessity of that practice. After all, Dan knows that, when I go out, I will indeed come home shortly after the engagement ends; if my plans change, I'll phone him with that news. He doesn't expect or need minute-by-minute updates of my location, course, and heading, so why I am providing them? Why are any of us?
I'll admit to being a bit cantankerous when it comes to mobile phones. I don't think people should use them while driving, or in restaurants, or in line for the cashier, an certainly not (with a few exceptions) while seeing friends or on a date. Despite this, I have found myself calling Dan while on the way home from one event or another simply to say, "I'm on my way home", and Lenore's comments have made me rethink the necessity of that practice. After all, Dan knows that, when I go out, I will indeed come home shortly after the engagement ends; if my plans change, I'll phone him with that news. He doesn't expect or need minute-by-minute updates of my location, course, and heading, so why I am providing them? Why are any of us?
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
How the circle has turned!
It's pretty amazing to me the way that, in eight years, support for same-sex marriage has gone from about two-thirds opposed to a narrow majority in favor.
Still, something from the article gives me pause:
Change the gender of one partner and the race of the other and nobody, but nobody would ever think that denying marriage equality was anything but judgmental.
It's amazing that, in this day and age, people still get a pass for harboring demonstrably bigoted notions simply because they say, "I don't agree." Some say that all opinions are worthy of respect, but I say that's bullshit. Respect isn't something you order like Chinese food; it's earned. An opinion that doesn't merit respect shouldn't get it.
And in case anyone's wondering, yes, if you oppose marriage equality for gay people, you are not my friend. That's not making politics personal; that's just personal.
Still, something from the article gives me pause:
Barbara Von Aspern loves her daughter, "thinks the world" of the person her daughter intends to marry and believes the pair should have the same legal rights as anyone else. It pains her, but Von Aspern is going to skip their wedding. Her daughter, Von Aspern explains, is marrying another woman.
"We love them to death, and we love them without being judgmental," the 62-year-old Chandler, Ariz., retiree said. "But the actual marriage I cannot agree with."
Change the gender of one partner and the race of the other and nobody, but nobody would ever think that denying marriage equality was anything but judgmental.
It's amazing that, in this day and age, people still get a pass for harboring demonstrably bigoted notions simply because they say, "I don't agree." Some say that all opinions are worthy of respect, but I say that's bullshit. Respect isn't something you order like Chinese food; it's earned. An opinion that doesn't merit respect shouldn't get it.
And in case anyone's wondering, yes, if you oppose marriage equality for gay people, you are not my friend. That's not making politics personal; that's just personal.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
A journalist does his job...for once
I don't want to give this too much oxygen - I have a bigger point to make - but as you may have heard, Christine O'Donnell walked out of an interview with CNN's Piers Morgan because he asked her a question about something that's in her book. Since, however, this blog is not to my knowledge read by thousands of people, I'll indulge a bit.
I don't care what Christine O'Donnell does; as far as I'm concerned, she's Sarah Palin with even less policy knowledge. (If you watch the video carefully, she even delivers a Caribou Barbie wink.) However, it's telling that she's able to get away with calling Morgan "rude" for pressing her on a point she's made again and again in the various (unsuccessful) political campaigns she's conducted. What's telling is not that such a claim is unusual, but that it's completely usual.
I think what we're seeing is an example of how the role of a journalist has changed in the last forty years, and a review of the basics is clearly needed. A journalist's goal is not, I repeat, not, objectivity. The goal of a journalist is to get to the truth. Period. If one political party's line is closer to the truth than the other's, it's the journalist's job to call that out. It is most decidedly not the job of a journalist to engage in false equivalency, in which every story has two sides that are equally credible and well supported, and, gosh-darn it, there is just no way to choose between them.
Here's an example. Creationists (or intelligent design proponents, if you prefer) believe that evolution is unsupported by the evidence, and that irreducible complexity is a compelling argument in their favor. Scientists know, and can empirically demonstrate, that evolution is so well supported that it's just not reasonable to doubt it. A bad journalist interviews a creationist and a biologist, gives each equal column space, then throws up his hands and concludes that there is just no way to tell. A good journalist interviews the same people, then she checks the facts, looks at the history of the theory, talks to some other scientists, and reports that the biologist is pretty much correct. She treats everyone involved fairly, but excusing anyone from the truth is not fairness; it's cowardice.
So was Piers Morgan rude? No, but if he had been, so what? In these days of powder-puff, ideologically biased media outlets like Fox News we could use more rudeness and less cowardice from our journalists. A nation was never hurt by a lack of courtesy, but a lack of courage can be deadly.
I don't care what Christine O'Donnell does; as far as I'm concerned, she's Sarah Palin with even less policy knowledge. (If you watch the video carefully, she even delivers a Caribou Barbie wink.) However, it's telling that she's able to get away with calling Morgan "rude" for pressing her on a point she's made again and again in the various (unsuccessful) political campaigns she's conducted. What's telling is not that such a claim is unusual, but that it's completely usual.
I think what we're seeing is an example of how the role of a journalist has changed in the last forty years, and a review of the basics is clearly needed. A journalist's goal is not, I repeat, not, objectivity. The goal of a journalist is to get to the truth. Period. If one political party's line is closer to the truth than the other's, it's the journalist's job to call that out. It is most decidedly not the job of a journalist to engage in false equivalency, in which every story has two sides that are equally credible and well supported, and, gosh-darn it, there is just no way to choose between them.
Here's an example. Creationists (or intelligent design proponents, if you prefer) believe that evolution is unsupported by the evidence, and that irreducible complexity is a compelling argument in their favor. Scientists know, and can empirically demonstrate, that evolution is so well supported that it's just not reasonable to doubt it. A bad journalist interviews a creationist and a biologist, gives each equal column space, then throws up his hands and concludes that there is just no way to tell. A good journalist interviews the same people, then she checks the facts, looks at the history of the theory, talks to some other scientists, and reports that the biologist is pretty much correct. She treats everyone involved fairly, but excusing anyone from the truth is not fairness; it's cowardice.
So was Piers Morgan rude? No, but if he had been, so what? In these days of powder-puff, ideologically biased media outlets like Fox News we could use more rudeness and less cowardice from our journalists. A nation was never hurt by a lack of courtesy, but a lack of courage can be deadly.
Friday, July 29, 2011
What's wrong with True Blood
(The following post contains mild spoilers. You are duly warned.)
So I've been watching "True Blood", and by now I feel qualified to say that the show just doesn't work...except as a soap opera, and even there it's got problems. Here's why I think so:
1) The characters never change no matter what happens. Sookie has been betrayed on multiple occasions by Erik Northman, and yet she insists upon trusting him. Bill Compton is either Sookie's boyfriend, her ex-boyfriend or her enemy in turns, at it never seems to faze him. Jason has been pro-vampire, anti-vampire, and vampire-indifferent all in a single season. It's crazy, and if your defense is, "Well, since the characters interact with monsters, they don't have to act like human beings" then you're missing the point of drama, which is study of the human condition. I'm not particularly interested in characters who act like something other than human beings.
2) The magic is confusing. If vampires can move faster than the human eye can follow, there's little chance a human could ever hit one, even with a bullet; the vamp could dodge out of the way before you could even pull the trigger. Shifters can apparently only turn into animals that are on hand, except when they can turn into any animal they want. Sookie can send people flying with the flick of a finger, except whenever she's actually threatened with danger, at which time she can do nothing. And don't even get me started about Sookie's "telepathy", which was not sufficient for her to discover the murderer in Season One despite the fact that she spends half the season in the same room with the dude. Alfred Bester (from "Babylon 5") would have tracked down the guy before lunch and had him killed and buried in enough time to catch "Project Runway."
Magic is an acceptable story device, but it has to have rules and it has to be consistent, or else it's cheating. "True Blood" cheats.
3) The show is just vulgar. Every bit of violence is as explicit, bloody and graphic as possible, and the same goes for the sex. Humans are not killed; they are raped, terrorized, beaten, mutilated and then killed. When vamps are staked/stabbed/shot, they explode in great gouts of blood and viscera. Evidently, the directors think they if they turn the volume up to 10 in Scene One it will keep everyone excited until the end, but in fact, the opposite occurs. You get numb during the first fifteen minutes, and to snap you out of it the show tries somehow to get the volume to 11. After awhile, it's all just noise. They'd do better to dial it back, and only turn that knob to 10 when they have a real point to make...and only once in a while. But when your characters are flat and your storylines contrived, I guess you go with the noise.
I could go on and on, but I'll leave off. I understand why people watch "True Blood", and I can myself enjoy a hit of the show now and again. It's fun. However, you to enjoy this supernatural soap opera, you need to shut down your brain, and honestly, I enjoy drama more when my brain is on.
So I've been watching "True Blood", and by now I feel qualified to say that the show just doesn't work...except as a soap opera, and even there it's got problems. Here's why I think so:
1) The characters never change no matter what happens. Sookie has been betrayed on multiple occasions by Erik Northman, and yet she insists upon trusting him. Bill Compton is either Sookie's boyfriend, her ex-boyfriend or her enemy in turns, at it never seems to faze him. Jason has been pro-vampire, anti-vampire, and vampire-indifferent all in a single season. It's crazy, and if your defense is, "Well, since the characters interact with monsters, they don't have to act like human beings" then you're missing the point of drama, which is study of the human condition. I'm not particularly interested in characters who act like something other than human beings.
2) The magic is confusing. If vampires can move faster than the human eye can follow, there's little chance a human could ever hit one, even with a bullet; the vamp could dodge out of the way before you could even pull the trigger. Shifters can apparently only turn into animals that are on hand, except when they can turn into any animal they want. Sookie can send people flying with the flick of a finger, except whenever she's actually threatened with danger, at which time she can do nothing. And don't even get me started about Sookie's "telepathy", which was not sufficient for her to discover the murderer in Season One despite the fact that she spends half the season in the same room with the dude. Alfred Bester (from "Babylon 5") would have tracked down the guy before lunch and had him killed and buried in enough time to catch "Project Runway."
Magic is an acceptable story device, but it has to have rules and it has to be consistent, or else it's cheating. "True Blood" cheats.
3) The show is just vulgar. Every bit of violence is as explicit, bloody and graphic as possible, and the same goes for the sex. Humans are not killed; they are raped, terrorized, beaten, mutilated and then killed. When vamps are staked/stabbed/shot, they explode in great gouts of blood and viscera. Evidently, the directors think they if they turn the volume up to 10 in Scene One it will keep everyone excited until the end, but in fact, the opposite occurs. You get numb during the first fifteen minutes, and to snap you out of it the show tries somehow to get the volume to 11. After awhile, it's all just noise. They'd do better to dial it back, and only turn that knob to 10 when they have a real point to make...and only once in a while. But when your characters are flat and your storylines contrived, I guess you go with the noise.
I could go on and on, but I'll leave off. I understand why people watch "True Blood", and I can myself enjoy a hit of the show now and again. It's fun. However, you to enjoy this supernatural soap opera, you need to shut down your brain, and honestly, I enjoy drama more when my brain is on.
Monday, July 11, 2011
I watch "Who Watches the Watchers"
In case you didn't know, Star Trek: The Next Generation has been added to Netflix "Instant View" queue, which is neat, so I have been watching it. Sad to say, I just can't enjoy it as I used. The characters are one-dimensional, the story resolutions contrived, and the almost complete lack of dramatic tension is just, well, dull. That being said, yesterday I watched my favorite episode, "Who Watches the Watchers", and I'd like to share.
Plot summary: Enterprise has been dispatched to Mintaka III to help repair a technological duck-blind that some Federation anthropologists are using to observe a proto-Vulcan, Bronze Age society. What makes the Mintakans interesting is that, despite their lack of technological sophistication, they have discarded nearly all their superstitious beliefs in gods, spirits, magic, etc. Just before Enterprise arrives, the duck-blind suffers a power surge that injures the anthropologists and disables the holo-projector that is hiding the site from the Mintakans. One of the scientists, Palmer, wanders away from the station in an injured daze, just before two Mintakans, a father and daughter, arrive on the scene and spy the cliff-side station. The father, Liko, climbs up the cliff wall to investigate and is just in time to see the Enterprise away-team materialize from thin air and then beam the other injured scientists to sick bay. When the officers discover him, Liko panics and falls, landing injured and unconscious. The selfless Beverly Crusher, MD, climbs down to tend him and, realizing she cannot effectively treat him in the field, beams up with him to the ship. From hiding, Liko's daughter watches this in horror. Last spring she lost her mother to a flood, and now she's watching her father teleported away by some alien woman.
Back on Enterprise, Picard is displeased to find that Crusher has brought Liko aboard, and instructs her to erase the Mintakan's memory of what he saw. She says she's not sure that will work, but before she can explain Liko awakens and witnesses Picard speaking over the communicator, which of course to him appears as getting answers from thin air. Crusher sedates him, does her memory thing, and beams him back down to the planet. He reunites with his daughter and tells her how he was killed in the fall from the cliff, but was taken to a magical place and brought back from the dead on the order of a supernatural being called "the Picard." They return to their village and spread the word.
Meanwhile, Picard is having no luck locating Palmer with the ship's sensors, so he sends Riker and Troi down to the planet, disguised as Mintakans, to continue the search on foot. They arrive in time to hear Liko telling Nuriya, the village leader, about the Picard and his resemblance to the mythical Overseers in whom they once believed. Nuriya is skeptical at first, but when two Mintakans enter, dragging the injured Palmer between them, she is convinced. The Mintakans decide that Palmer must have angered the Picard in some way, and they resolve to keep him prisoner until the Picard can make his wishes known.
Troi distracts the Mintakans and Riker drags Palmer off to a private location where they can be beamed away without witnesses. Troi, however, is not so fortunate, and the Mintakans decide to keep her in Palmer's place, to placate the Picard in case he is angry with them for letting Palmer escape. Picard, at wit's end, rejects a suggestion that he give the Mintakans a set of commandments, and instead decides to try leveling with the Mintakans. He beams Nuriya aboard and, in a great exchange, sets about trying to explain to her why he is not a god:
With Nuriya convinced, Picard beams down with her to Mintaka, where he confronts Liko, who at this stage is ready to kill Troi to avert the wrath of the Picard. When Picard tries to reason with him, Liko goes bananas and begs him to resurrect his wife from the dead. Picard points out that such is outside his power, and Liko, half-mad with grief, shoots Picard with the same bow he was going to use on Troi, to prove that the Picard is incapable of being affected by mortal weapons. The arrow strikes Picard in the shoulder, and when he sees the blood Liko is finally convinced that the Picard is as mortal as the Mintakans themselves.
I think "Who Watches the Watchers" is one of the best episodes of the series, and here's why. On too many TNG episodes, and in fact in the entire Star Trek franchise, the super-technology the characters possess becomes an easy way out of any problem. Got an incurable disease? We'll run you through the transporter buffer and cure you in three seconds. Federation losing a war? Just zip back in time and correct that one error that made every battle go bad. It's ridiculous, and not at all conducive to good drama. "Who Watches the Watchers" avoids all of this because no matter how much technology the characters bring to bear, the problem just keeps getting worse. Not transporters nor miraculous medicine nor long-range sensors do a damned thing to resolve the problem, and things are only put right when Picard bites the bullet and faces the problem with nothing but his mind. We as viewers are lost when Geordi LaForge starts babbling about re-routing power through secondary deflector systems, but we can understand perfectly Picard's pitch to Nuriya about why she shouldn't worship him. We may not know anything about chronoton surges, but we can directly relate to Liko's plea for the resurrection of his wife. Good drama does not rely on a bunch of tech-talk we don't understand; it draws us in with the commonality of human experience and the power of human emotion.
So that's why "Who Watches the Watchers" is my favorite episode.
Plot summary: Enterprise has been dispatched to Mintaka III to help repair a technological duck-blind that some Federation anthropologists are using to observe a proto-Vulcan, Bronze Age society. What makes the Mintakans interesting is that, despite their lack of technological sophistication, they have discarded nearly all their superstitious beliefs in gods, spirits, magic, etc. Just before Enterprise arrives, the duck-blind suffers a power surge that injures the anthropologists and disables the holo-projector that is hiding the site from the Mintakans. One of the scientists, Palmer, wanders away from the station in an injured daze, just before two Mintakans, a father and daughter, arrive on the scene and spy the cliff-side station. The father, Liko, climbs up the cliff wall to investigate and is just in time to see the Enterprise away-team materialize from thin air and then beam the other injured scientists to sick bay. When the officers discover him, Liko panics and falls, landing injured and unconscious. The selfless Beverly Crusher, MD, climbs down to tend him and, realizing she cannot effectively treat him in the field, beams up with him to the ship. From hiding, Liko's daughter watches this in horror. Last spring she lost her mother to a flood, and now she's watching her father teleported away by some alien woman.
Back on Enterprise, Picard is displeased to find that Crusher has brought Liko aboard, and instructs her to erase the Mintakan's memory of what he saw. She says she's not sure that will work, but before she can explain Liko awakens and witnesses Picard speaking over the communicator, which of course to him appears as getting answers from thin air. Crusher sedates him, does her memory thing, and beams him back down to the planet. He reunites with his daughter and tells her how he was killed in the fall from the cliff, but was taken to a magical place and brought back from the dead on the order of a supernatural being called "the Picard." They return to their village and spread the word.
Meanwhile, Picard is having no luck locating Palmer with the ship's sensors, so he sends Riker and Troi down to the planet, disguised as Mintakans, to continue the search on foot. They arrive in time to hear Liko telling Nuriya, the village leader, about the Picard and his resemblance to the mythical Overseers in whom they once believed. Nuriya is skeptical at first, but when two Mintakans enter, dragging the injured Palmer between them, she is convinced. The Mintakans decide that Palmer must have angered the Picard in some way, and they resolve to keep him prisoner until the Picard can make his wishes known.
Troi distracts the Mintakans and Riker drags Palmer off to a private location where they can be beamed away without witnesses. Troi, however, is not so fortunate, and the Mintakans decide to keep her in Palmer's place, to placate the Picard in case he is angry with them for letting Palmer escape. Picard, at wit's end, rejects a suggestion that he give the Mintakans a set of commandments, and instead decides to try leveling with the Mintakans. He beams Nuriya aboard and, in a great exchange, sets about trying to explain to her why he is not a god:
Picard: Nuriya, your people live in huts. Was it always so?
Nuriya: No. We've found remnants of tools in caves. Our ancestors must have lived there.
Picard: Well, then why do they now live in huts?
Nuriya: Huts are better. Caves are cold and wet.
Picard: Then why did they once live in caves?
Nuriya (considers): The most reasonable explanation would be that, at one time, we did not know how to make huts.
Picard: Just as you once did not know how to weave cloth, how to make a bow.
Nuriya: That would be reasonable.
Picard: Someone invented a hut; someone invented a bow, who taught others, who taught their children, who built a stronger hut, who built a better bow, who taught their children. Now, Nuriya, Suppose one of your cave-dwelling ancestors were to see you as you are today. What would she think?
Nuriya: I don't know.
Picard: Well, put yourself in her place. You see, she cannot kill a horn-buck at a great distance. You can. You have a power she lacks.
Nuriya: Only because I have a bow.
Picard: But she has never seen a bow! it doesn't exist in her world. To you, it's a simple tool; to her…it's magic.
Nuryia: I suppose she might think so.
Picard: Now how would she react to you?
Nuriya (the dawn breaking): I think…she would fear me.
Picard: Just as you fear me.
With Nuriya convinced, Picard beams down with her to Mintaka, where he confronts Liko, who at this stage is ready to kill Troi to avert the wrath of the Picard. When Picard tries to reason with him, Liko goes bananas and begs him to resurrect his wife from the dead. Picard points out that such is outside his power, and Liko, half-mad with grief, shoots Picard with the same bow he was going to use on Troi, to prove that the Picard is incapable of being affected by mortal weapons. The arrow strikes Picard in the shoulder, and when he sees the blood Liko is finally convinced that the Picard is as mortal as the Mintakans themselves.
I think "Who Watches the Watchers" is one of the best episodes of the series, and here's why. On too many TNG episodes, and in fact in the entire Star Trek franchise, the super-technology the characters possess becomes an easy way out of any problem. Got an incurable disease? We'll run you through the transporter buffer and cure you in three seconds. Federation losing a war? Just zip back in time and correct that one error that made every battle go bad. It's ridiculous, and not at all conducive to good drama. "Who Watches the Watchers" avoids all of this because no matter how much technology the characters bring to bear, the problem just keeps getting worse. Not transporters nor miraculous medicine nor long-range sensors do a damned thing to resolve the problem, and things are only put right when Picard bites the bullet and faces the problem with nothing but his mind. We as viewers are lost when Geordi LaForge starts babbling about re-routing power through secondary deflector systems, but we can understand perfectly Picard's pitch to Nuriya about why she shouldn't worship him. We may not know anything about chronoton surges, but we can directly relate to Liko's plea for the resurrection of his wife. Good drama does not rely on a bunch of tech-talk we don't understand; it draws us in with the commonality of human experience and the power of human emotion.
So that's why "Who Watches the Watchers" is my favorite episode.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Thinking about The Real World
I was clued into these reviews of Season One of MTV's The Real World...remember that? The great-grandmom of reality TV? I can't stop reading them.
Now, let me say right off the bat that, like the libbie I am, I used to be contemptuous of reality TV until I figured out the secret to watching it: don't sympathize with anyone on the cast, no matter what. These fools have agreed to make their lives my entertainment, so I am damned well going to gawk and chortle. When Jersey Shore's Snooki got rapped in the face at a bar, I laughed and wished she'd gotten two. When Dr. Zasio on Hoarders tried to connect to poor Arlene, who had been saving her own excrement, I cracked open a root beer and thanked my lucky stars there are people so insane. The cast of a reality show are just jesters who caper for my amusement, and I say, "Dance, monkeys, dance!"
The Real World (at least in Season One) was different. I'll quote the review, which does a better job explaining why:
This is a remarkably astute comparison of where reality TV began and where it is now. Don't get me wrong; I'm not launching a "in my day things were better rant", because these days I enjoy lots of reality TV. However, where my enjoyment of Real Housewives is purely visceral, whereas my experience of The Real World was more intellectual.
Now, let me say right off the bat that, like the libbie I am, I used to be contemptuous of reality TV until I figured out the secret to watching it: don't sympathize with anyone on the cast, no matter what. These fools have agreed to make their lives my entertainment, so I am damned well going to gawk and chortle. When Jersey Shore's Snooki got rapped in the face at a bar, I laughed and wished she'd gotten two. When Dr. Zasio on Hoarders tried to connect to poor Arlene, who had been saving her own excrement, I cracked open a root beer and thanked my lucky stars there are people so insane. The cast of a reality show are just jesters who caper for my amusement, and I say, "Dance, monkeys, dance!"
The Real World (at least in Season One) was different. I'll quote the review, which does a better job explaining why:
At some point, the vibe of social experimentation gave way to tawdry cliches, as cast members figured out that the best way to get screen time was to act out—not to sit around having freshman dorm-room-style conversations about race relations.
First, there’s the allegedly underemployed cast, who compared to Snooki and The Situation—not to mention subsequent Real World cast members—seem incredibly ambitious, articulate, and thoughtful. Each and every one has a discernable career goal. Julie, 19, wants to be a dancer; Kevin, 25, is a poet and journalist; Eric, 20, is a model; Heather B., 21, is a rapper with a gold record under her belt; Andre, 21, is in a band; Becky, 24, is a folksy, Suzanne Vega-ish musician; Norm, 24, is an artist. The cast member who most closely approximates the Gen-X stereotype is Andre, who seems drowsy no matter the time of day. Yes, they’re nearly all performers of one sort or another and certainly have ulterior motives for starring in a television show. But in retrospect, it turns out there’s something to be said for ulterior motives. In the grand scheme of things, free publicity seems like a relatively noble reason to open up one’s life to the scrutiny of cameras; in 1992, “reality television star” was not yet a career goal in and of itself.
Indulge me for a second here, but Julie, Kevin, et. al., are defined primarily by their aspirations, whereas today’s Real World cast members are often defined by their pasts. Consider the bios on MTV’s Real World XXV site. Leroy is a self-described ladies’ man who “was 10 years old when he and his sisters were suddenly taken away from their birth mother for her alcoholism and drug abuse.” Nany is a “Hispanic-American sweetheart” who longs to one day meet her father. Nowadays, everyone arrives at the house with their backstory clearly delineated, their psycho-babbly autobiographies down pat. Cast members are never unaware of their own “narrative,” a state of affairs that is the inevitable by-product of two decades of reality television.
This is a remarkably astute comparison of where reality TV began and where it is now. Don't get me wrong; I'm not launching a "in my day things were better rant", because these days I enjoy lots of reality TV. However, where my enjoyment of Real Housewives is purely visceral, whereas my experience of The Real World was more intellectual.
Saturday, June 04, 2011
My life is nearly complete
Saw the Go-Go's in New York last night, and I am still flying high over it. Following a tasty black-and-white milkshake, Dan and I went to Irving Plaza and picked up our fancy VIP badges that gave us access to the meet-and-greet. I should at this point mention that the ticket taker told us bluntly the badges were just for show; an unimpressive white card was the important thing for getting into the event. Ugh. In any case, I was taut as a bowstring, afraid I'd vomit tasty black-and-white milkshake all over the band, which would definitely make the wrong impression. Funny, but wrong.
While waiting for the meet-and-greet, I chatted with a guy down from Boston who had seen my Iridium video. I was excited to learn that although my video hasn't yet gone viral, it might at least come down with a mild head cold.
Meet and greet happened soon after, and there was no vomiting, just autographs and a bit of chit-chat. And pictures. Great googlymooglies, but I was on a cloud. My favorite band of all time. You can see the results above. That pic is kinda stiff though, which is to be expected; to them, I am just Fan #257732. However, when Dan's turn came, I said, "Ooh! This is my boyfriend...can I be in his pic?" Then the five of them broke up laughing and Jane said, without sarcasm, "Adorable lovebugs!" Then I thanked them all profusely, slobbering all over the place, until Dan, mercifully, pushed me out of the room.
After that we went down to the reserved area to watch the show, and I have to admit it was neat to be ushered past the unlucky saps who hadn't paid VIP prices. The unlucky saps didn't seem to care, but I pretended that they glowered enviously. Then the show started and I forgot everything except dancing and singing along. Well, that and the strange biker-looking (but not unattractive) guy who kept kinda scamming on me. When he twirled me around during "Lust to Love" I was laughing and absurdly grateful. When he slung and arm around my neck in a near-headlock I was a bit less grateful, particularly considering that oxygen was fast becoming an issue. Thanks to Dan for rescuing me from his clutches.
Set list (not in this order):
Vacation
How Much More
Tonite
Lust to Love
Get Up and Go
Mad About You (from Belinda solo)
Cool Places (Sparks and Jane Wiedlin, with Belinda singing Ron Mael's part)
Our Lips Are Sealed
Automatic
Fading Fast
The Whole World Lost Its Head
Unforgiven
Mother's Little Helper (cover)
This Town
We Got the Beat
Head Over Heels
Fun With Ropes
Skidmarks on My Heart**
Surfing and Spying
Beatnik Beach
The crowd was older, and serious fans who knew not only the lyrics but the harmonies. They were super-enthusiastic, and when Gina Schock stepped out from behind the drums to say a few words she was immediately greeted with 500 people yelling, in perfect unison, "Gi-na! Gi-na!" This could have gone on forever, really; we as an audience were ready to sing along with anything Go-Go's related.
A wonderful night! Given Dan and a picture with the Go-Go's, all I need is a book deal to call my life amazing!
**OK, so Dan winced at this song. I understand it's not exactly poetry, but I like!
Monday, May 09, 2011
We are all "Friday"
Being a the pop-culture idiot, I'm just now getting clued into this Rebecca Black, "Friday" stuff. If you even more of a PC idiot than I, watch the video.
Yes, I know the lyrics are insipid, the music forgettable, and the bridge puzzling. (I wasn't aware that passing a school bus on the highway was worthy of even a line in a song, much less three or four.) However, is "Friday" really qualitatively dumber than this? Or this? The world is full of uninspiring music, so why should Rebecca Black be criticized for cashing in? Everybody else is doing it. Hell, if I thought a little auto tune would make me some money I'd be composing "Mambo No. 5, Friday is a Place on Earth."
*OK, maybe Belinda gets a pass for being off her trolley on quaaludes at the time.
Yes, I know the lyrics are insipid, the music forgettable, and the bridge puzzling. (I wasn't aware that passing a school bus on the highway was worthy of even a line in a song, much less three or four.) However, is "Friday" really qualitatively dumber than this? Or this? The world is full of uninspiring music, so why should Rebecca Black be criticized for cashing in? Everybody else is doing it. Hell, if I thought a little auto tune would make me some money I'd be composing "Mambo No. 5, Friday is a Place on Earth."
*OK, maybe Belinda gets a pass for being off her trolley on quaaludes at the time.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Man, this chaps my hide!
This article is dated, but it's infuriating nonetheless.
A classic example of "scope creep." Personally, if I am on a plane I don't care if my seatmate has cash, a pound of blow and a bag full of child pornography; as long as he doesn't have a gun or a bomb, we're five by five. I thought it was the job of the TSA to ensure that said gun or bomb never made it on the plane, but the experience of Kathy Parker proves that the TSA is now really just the airport division of the FBI and state and local police.
The really insidious part of this story is on page 2:
If I were confronted by two police officers and four TSOs, accused of embezzlement and threatened with arrest I imagine I'd act pretty fearful as well. That kind of reasoning is analogous to making an animal savage by locking it in a cage, and then claiming, "Of course I have a cage...see how savage that beast is?" And of course the criterion for subjecting this woman to an in-depth search ("she seemed as if she feared discovery") is so subjective that it could be used to stop virtually anyone for anything. After all, one should be a bit hesitant to undergo TSA screening, so wouldn't an overly calm passenger be equally suspicious?
I remember when the notion of a TSA was floated back in 2002, and at the time I thought it was a good idea. Back then I harbored golden dreams of ex-Marines and retired FBI agents or police officers staffing the security lines, bringing years of experience to bear on an important job. What we actually got were a bunch of lightly trained, power-tripping Rent-a-Cops. I could not have been more wrong.
I said it before and I'll say it again: the 9/11 terrorists won.
A classic example of "scope creep." Personally, if I am on a plane I don't care if my seatmate has cash, a pound of blow and a bag full of child pornography; as long as he doesn't have a gun or a bomb, we're five by five. I thought it was the job of the TSA to ensure that said gun or bomb never made it on the plane, but the experience of Kathy Parker proves that the TSA is now really just the airport division of the FBI and state and local police.
The really insidious part of this story is on page 2:
TSA spokeswoman Ann Davis said the reason Parker was selected for in-depth screening was that her actions at the airport had aroused the suspicion of a behavior detection officer, and that she continued to act "as if she feared discovery."
If I were confronted by two police officers and four TSOs, accused of embezzlement and threatened with arrest I imagine I'd act pretty fearful as well. That kind of reasoning is analogous to making an animal savage by locking it in a cage, and then claiming, "Of course I have a cage...see how savage that beast is?" And of course the criterion for subjecting this woman to an in-depth search ("she seemed as if she feared discovery") is so subjective that it could be used to stop virtually anyone for anything. After all, one should be a bit hesitant to undergo TSA screening, so wouldn't an overly calm passenger be equally suspicious?
I remember when the notion of a TSA was floated back in 2002, and at the time I thought it was a good idea. Back then I harbored golden dreams of ex-Marines and retired FBI agents or police officers staffing the security lines, bringing years of experience to bear on an important job. What we actually got were a bunch of lightly trained, power-tripping Rent-a-Cops. I could not have been more wrong.
I said it before and I'll say it again: the 9/11 terrorists won.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
So excited!
I am pleased to announce that Dan and I will be working with literary agent Rebecca Strauss of McIntosh and Otis on getting a book deal for "The Duchess of the Shallows." Those of you who have read TDotS (that's our clever acronym for the story) have our eternal thanks for your wonderful feedback, and we promise you a signed copy should the thing actually make it into print. Those who haven't...well, you'll have to wait until it hits bookstores, if it ever does.
Rebecca is super cool and we have the highest hopes that she can help us turn TDotS from a manuscript into a published novel. We welcome any prayers, hopes, spells, incantations you care to offer in our favor; although we've worked hard on the writing and Rebecca is a sharp agent, we'll take all the help we can get!
Stay tuned...if TDotS gets picked up by a publisher, look for a Facebook status update that reads, "Book deal, bitches!"
Rebecca is super cool and we have the highest hopes that she can help us turn TDotS from a manuscript into a published novel. We welcome any prayers, hopes, spells, incantations you care to offer in our favor; although we've worked hard on the writing and Rebecca is a sharp agent, we'll take all the help we can get!
Stay tuned...if TDotS gets picked up by a publisher, look for a Facebook status update that reads, "Book deal, bitches!"
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
I definitely have time for this
I'm going to complain about stuff people say; specifically, "I don't have time."
You hear these words all the time, "I don't have time for [fill in name of important activity]." This is often, but not always, used in the context of work, but in my view this has as little value there as anywhere else. Saying you don't have time = you don't want to do this, ever.
I think about the myriad of time-wasting, bullshit, no-value activities in which I engage on a daily basis. I visit my bookshelf refresh my memory as to why the House of Finwe was dispossessed in the First Age; suffice to say no lives hang on the answer to that question. I play Galactic Civilizations II, but no one besides me really cares if the Tavri Cooperative blunts the imperialistic tendencies of the Drengin Empire. I cruise the Web to find out which sitting presidents lost their own party's primary in their reelection bids, and that matters only if I plan to go back in time to vote for them. (OK, I admit that last one helped me win a game of Quizzo, but let's not confuse the issue.) And I'm hardly the only one who spends time on this kind of thing. So unless you work and live in the White House you have plenty of time to do the stuff you need to do, assuming you're willing to cut out the useless crap.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not proposing that we fill up our time to the limit with worthwhile activity; engaging in fluff is nice. I like fluff. Fluff relaxes me. Nor do I suggest that we take on every unpleasant chore asked of us. But let's be honest about it and drop the no-time-for-that excuse. When explaining why I am not doing something I just don't want to do (like, say, accumulating 16 more credits towards a master's degree) I'm trying to say, "I don't want to devote time to that." That kind of honesty also relaxes me.
By the way, I apply the same skepticism to "Life is too short for [insert undesirable concern]." Life is long; if you don't think so, try watching the remake of "Love Affair" with Warren Beatty and Annette Benning.
P.S. No need to point out the irony that I spent significant time composing this post. I get it.
You hear these words all the time, "I don't have time for [fill in name of important activity]." This is often, but not always, used in the context of work, but in my view this has as little value there as anywhere else. Saying you don't have time = you don't want to do this, ever.
I think about the myriad of time-wasting, bullshit, no-value activities in which I engage on a daily basis. I visit my bookshelf refresh my memory as to why the House of Finwe was dispossessed in the First Age; suffice to say no lives hang on the answer to that question. I play Galactic Civilizations II, but no one besides me really cares if the Tavri Cooperative blunts the imperialistic tendencies of the Drengin Empire. I cruise the Web to find out which sitting presidents lost their own party's primary in their reelection bids, and that matters only if I plan to go back in time to vote for them. (OK, I admit that last one helped me win a game of Quizzo, but let's not confuse the issue.) And I'm hardly the only one who spends time on this kind of thing. So unless you work and live in the White House you have plenty of time to do the stuff you need to do, assuming you're willing to cut out the useless crap.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not proposing that we fill up our time to the limit with worthwhile activity; engaging in fluff is nice. I like fluff. Fluff relaxes me. Nor do I suggest that we take on every unpleasant chore asked of us. But let's be honest about it and drop the no-time-for-that excuse. When explaining why I am not doing something I just don't want to do (like, say, accumulating 16 more credits towards a master's degree) I'm trying to say, "I don't want to devote time to that." That kind of honesty also relaxes me.
By the way, I apply the same skepticism to "Life is too short for [insert undesirable concern]." Life is long; if you don't think so, try watching the remake of "Love Affair" with Warren Beatty and Annette Benning.
P.S. No need to point out the irony that I spent significant time composing this post. I get it.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The Wizard of Oz...revealed
As some of you know, I have a serious problem with "The Wizard of Oz." I like the story well enough, mind you, but let's not kid ourselves that it's about a young woman learning where home is. Ohhhh no. Let me tell you what that tale is about.
What is the very first thing Dorothy does upon arriving in Oz? No, it's not talk to some overly cheery small people. She kills the Wicked Witch of the East, on whom her house conveniently lands. The witch's body isn't even cold before Glinda "the Good" floats in and gets the Munchkins all excited about being "free." (You'll understand the motivation behind these quotes in a second.) The big party is brought to a screeching halt by the arrival of the Wicked Witch of the West (WWW), who is understandably upset that someone has iced her sister. Glinda responds by zapping the shoes right off the corpse and onto Dorothy's feet, then telling Dorothy "you've made a bad enemy." Seems to me it was Glinda who made Dorothy that enemy.
After WWW motors, Glinda packs Dorothy off to the Emerald City, ostensibly to beg the Wizard for help getting back to Kansas. The Wizard, no fool, recognizes a dupe when he sees one and aims her directly at the WWW, never suspecting that Dorothy has already wasted one witch and is perfectly capable of killing a second. She goes further than he expected, though, exposing him as a fraud and forcing him to flee Emerald City before the indictments come rolling out.
So let's review the story so far. The Wicked Witch of the East is crushed under Dorothy's house. The Wicked Witch of the West is melted into a puddle of goo thanks for a bucket of water thrown by Our Gal from Kansas. The Wizard of Oz is completely discredited, also courtesy of Dorothy. So who's left? Oh, yeah...Glinda.
Now the truth comes out. This story is not about Kansas, or Dorothy, or the power of friendship; it's about Glinda's bloody rise to power.
The tornado that swept up Dorothy's house now seems a bit too convenient, doesn't it? We know Glinda can turn herself into a pink bubble...can she also take the form of a twister? Even if we call that storm a coincidence, it was no coincidence that put those ruby slippers on Dorothy's feet and set her on a collision course with not only the WWW but also the Wizard himself. In a single stroke, Glinda gave Dorothy reason to leave Munchkinland (where Glinda will no doubt replace the Wicked Witch of the East), and set her up to take out not one but two of the only remaining magic-users in Oz. Well played, Glinda. Well played.
But it doesn't stop there. Once the Wizard has fled and his administration has been irredeemably tarnished, Glinda pops in with the news that Dorothy could have gone back to Kansas any time she wanted, courtesy of those ruby slippers Glinda stole from the witch's still-twitching corpse. The Scarecrow, no Nobel Prize winner, still has the wit to ask:
Glinda Butter-Wouldn't-Melt-In-Her-Mouth the Good, without missing a beat, replies:
Dorothy swallows this easily enough, although any rational person would say, "Wait a minute...you teleported these shoes on my feet, showed me a solid gold highway and then floated away as a giant pink balloon. At that point, I'd have believed anything you told me." Dorothy is not a rational person, so she allows herself to be whisked away by Glinda, who no longer needs her. In fact, getting Dorothy out of Oz is in Glinda's best interests; after all, the chick has already taken out three magic users. Who can say Glinda might not be her next target?
Emerald City is now without a leader, so Glinda naturally moves in to fill the power vacuum. Not that she does the day-to-day work; she has Dorothy's Three Stooges to do that for her. The Scarecrow is left in the Wizard's place, which makes sense for Glinda because the guy has no brain and is therefore easily manipulated. I imagine that Glinda put the Lion in charge of Emerald City's army; he's too cowardly to ever gainsay her. And the Tin Man? Who better to lead Glinda's secret police than a guy with no heart? The three of them will make a muck of ruling, but the citizens of Emerald City will resent them and not Glinda, who will float above it all while consolidating her power in Munchkinland.
And you thought "The Wizard of Oz" was about home or friends or whatever? Feh. It's a naked power grab, baby. Dig on it.
Kirkus Reviews calls The Duchess of the Shallows "a fresh, compelling twist on fantasy."
What is the very first thing Dorothy does upon arriving in Oz? No, it's not talk to some overly cheery small people. She kills the Wicked Witch of the East, on whom her house conveniently lands. The witch's body isn't even cold before Glinda "the Good" floats in and gets the Munchkins all excited about being "free." (You'll understand the motivation behind these quotes in a second.) The big party is brought to a screeching halt by the arrival of the Wicked Witch of the West (WWW), who is understandably upset that someone has iced her sister. Glinda responds by zapping the shoes right off the corpse and onto Dorothy's feet, then telling Dorothy "you've made a bad enemy." Seems to me it was Glinda who made Dorothy that enemy.
After WWW motors, Glinda packs Dorothy off to the Emerald City, ostensibly to beg the Wizard for help getting back to Kansas. The Wizard, no fool, recognizes a dupe when he sees one and aims her directly at the WWW, never suspecting that Dorothy has already wasted one witch and is perfectly capable of killing a second. She goes further than he expected, though, exposing him as a fraud and forcing him to flee Emerald City before the indictments come rolling out.
So let's review the story so far. The Wicked Witch of the East is crushed under Dorothy's house. The Wicked Witch of the West is melted into a puddle of goo thanks for a bucket of water thrown by Our Gal from Kansas. The Wizard of Oz is completely discredited, also courtesy of Dorothy. So who's left? Oh, yeah...Glinda.
Now the truth comes out. This story is not about Kansas, or Dorothy, or the power of friendship; it's about Glinda's bloody rise to power.
The tornado that swept up Dorothy's house now seems a bit too convenient, doesn't it? We know Glinda can turn herself into a pink bubble...can she also take the form of a twister? Even if we call that storm a coincidence, it was no coincidence that put those ruby slippers on Dorothy's feet and set her on a collision course with not only the WWW but also the Wizard himself. In a single stroke, Glinda gave Dorothy reason to leave Munchkinland (where Glinda will no doubt replace the Wicked Witch of the East), and set her up to take out not one but two of the only remaining magic-users in Oz. Well played, Glinda. Well played.
But it doesn't stop there. Once the Wizard has fled and his administration has been irredeemably tarnished, Glinda pops in with the news that Dorothy could have gone back to Kansas any time she wanted, courtesy of those ruby slippers Glinda stole from the witch's still-twitching corpse. The Scarecrow, no Nobel Prize winner, still has the wit to ask:
"Why didn't you tell her before?"
Glinda Butter-Wouldn't-Melt-In-Her-Mouth the Good, without missing a beat, replies:
"Because she wouldn't have believed me. She had to learn it for herself."
Dorothy swallows this easily enough, although any rational person would say, "Wait a minute...you teleported these shoes on my feet, showed me a solid gold highway and then floated away as a giant pink balloon. At that point, I'd have believed anything you told me." Dorothy is not a rational person, so she allows herself to be whisked away by Glinda, who no longer needs her. In fact, getting Dorothy out of Oz is in Glinda's best interests; after all, the chick has already taken out three magic users. Who can say Glinda might not be her next target?
Emerald City is now without a leader, so Glinda naturally moves in to fill the power vacuum. Not that she does the day-to-day work; she has Dorothy's Three Stooges to do that for her. The Scarecrow is left in the Wizard's place, which makes sense for Glinda because the guy has no brain and is therefore easily manipulated. I imagine that Glinda put the Lion in charge of Emerald City's army; he's too cowardly to ever gainsay her. And the Tin Man? Who better to lead Glinda's secret police than a guy with no heart? The three of them will make a muck of ruling, but the citizens of Emerald City will resent them and not Glinda, who will float above it all while consolidating her power in Munchkinland.
And you thought "The Wizard of Oz" was about home or friends or whatever? Feh. It's a naked power grab, baby. Dig on it.
Kirkus Reviews calls The Duchess of the Shallows "a fresh, compelling twist on fantasy."
Thursday, February 03, 2011
One Reason We Believe
No, this isn't a post about religion but about belief in general. Jeff Wise, whom I read occasionally, had an interesting post about the erroneous belief that vaccinations cause autism in children, but I think his words apply to other baseless beliefs:
This pretty well explains why people think the Affordable Care Act is deficit-increasing, or that climate change is a hoax. You find one bit of data that seems to contradict the rest of the facts and cling to that in the face of all the other evidence. If you've ever heard someone say, "This winter has been so cold...so much for Al Gore's ideas!", you know what I'm talking about.
I think most people find a belief or course of action that feels right, then find facts to ex post facto justify that position. That's why it's so incredibly difficult to change someone's opinion; he/she is emotionally committed to that position, and won't change until emotionally ready to do so. Until then, facts and logical persuasion are like bullets to Superman: they bounce right off.
Mary Griffith is a good example of this. She was pretty strongly anti-gay until her gay son's suicide broke through her emotional resistance and got her thinking more clearly about human sexuality. It would have been better if something less horrific could have gotten through to her, though.
The anti-vaccine movement is not an isolated case. Rather, it is an example of a problem that is endemic in the public health sphere. Scientists and policy makers operate on the assumption that if the public is provided with the most up-to-date, scientifically verified information about their health, then they will be able to rationally weigh their options and make the correct choices. The reality is anything but. Millions of highly intelligent, well-educated consumers are continually being misled by erroneous information because they fall victim to a single simple error of logic.
This pretty well explains why people think the Affordable Care Act is deficit-increasing, or that climate change is a hoax. You find one bit of data that seems to contradict the rest of the facts and cling to that in the face of all the other evidence. If you've ever heard someone say, "This winter has been so cold...so much for Al Gore's ideas!", you know what I'm talking about.
I think most people find a belief or course of action that feels right, then find facts to ex post facto justify that position. That's why it's so incredibly difficult to change someone's opinion; he/she is emotionally committed to that position, and won't change until emotionally ready to do so. Until then, facts and logical persuasion are like bullets to Superman: they bounce right off.
Mary Griffith is a good example of this. She was pretty strongly anti-gay until her gay son's suicide broke through her emotional resistance and got her thinking more clearly about human sexuality. It would have been better if something less horrific could have gotten through to her, though.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The Trouble with Telepaths
I'm going to bitch about Babylon 5, so here's your escape hatch.
Byron, the rogue PsiCop, was quite possibly the most annoying character I've ever run across in sci fi. (Keep in mind that I've been exposed to Deanna Troi.) He shows up on Babylon 5 in the fifth season little more than a beggar, asking for permission to set up a colony of rogue telepaths in direct violation of Earth law. Captain Lochley very wisely turns him down, but Michael-Steele wannabe John Sheridan, President of the Interstellar Alliance, overrides her. Not two weeks later, when one of Sheridan's lackeys comes asking for a favor, Byron turns him away with open contempt and (overdramatic) mockery. Way to mind-scan the hand that feeds you!
Later, when Byron finds out (during sex with Lyta that's telepathically shared by the rest of Byron's little coterie of psychic hippies) that the Vorlons are responsible for creating telepaths, he comes to the most baffling conclusion possible: the other races owe him and his psychic hippies their own home. Leaving aside the incredible creepiness of the tele-sex (yikes), Byron misses the fact that although every race was used by the Vorlons, he and his hippies got superpowers. The others just got used. Still, Byron never lets reality get in the way of his delusions, so he instantly begins "planning" his next move.
Now, if you were a P12 with the personal friendship of the President of the Interstellar Alliance who was currently banging the most powerful telepath in the universe, you'd have some pretty strong advantages, right? However, you are not an overwrought drama queen with shampoo-commercial hair and a baseless sense of entitlement. Byron is not you. Byron is barking idiot. So he decides to blackmail the ISA into granting him and his people a planet. An entire planet. Most people might be satisfied with a town or even a small city, but Goldilocks has to have the whole shebang. When the ISA reacts with dismay to this blackmail, Byron locks himself and his hippies in the shittiest part of the station and says there will be a hunger strike until their planet arrives.
The members of the ISA, quite correctly, are cheered by this. After all, a man who has threatened to reveal their innermost secrets has now threatened to starve himself to death. Would that all of the douchebags in my life would be so accommodating. Naturally, Byron loses control of his hippies, some of whom run off to take hostages and act tough until Byron's conscience reasserts itself and he kills the bunch of them, loyalists and rebels both, by igniting some fuel with a PPG.
Sigh.
Byron thought telepaths were a more evolved form of humanity, but I think a chimpanzee with a meat tenderizer could have gotten closer to being given a planet than that pack of self-righteous, mind-reading morons. Criminy.
Byron, the rogue PsiCop, was quite possibly the most annoying character I've ever run across in sci fi. (Keep in mind that I've been exposed to Deanna Troi.) He shows up on Babylon 5 in the fifth season little more than a beggar, asking for permission to set up a colony of rogue telepaths in direct violation of Earth law. Captain Lochley very wisely turns him down, but Michael-Steele wannabe John Sheridan, President of the Interstellar Alliance, overrides her. Not two weeks later, when one of Sheridan's lackeys comes asking for a favor, Byron turns him away with open contempt and (overdramatic) mockery. Way to mind-scan the hand that feeds you!
Later, when Byron finds out (during sex with Lyta that's telepathically shared by the rest of Byron's little coterie of psychic hippies) that the Vorlons are responsible for creating telepaths, he comes to the most baffling conclusion possible: the other races owe him and his psychic hippies their own home. Leaving aside the incredible creepiness of the tele-sex (yikes), Byron misses the fact that although every race was used by the Vorlons, he and his hippies got superpowers. The others just got used. Still, Byron never lets reality get in the way of his delusions, so he instantly begins "planning" his next move.
Now, if you were a P12 with the personal friendship of the President of the Interstellar Alliance who was currently banging the most powerful telepath in the universe, you'd have some pretty strong advantages, right? However, you are not an overwrought drama queen with shampoo-commercial hair and a baseless sense of entitlement. Byron is not you. Byron is barking idiot. So he decides to blackmail the ISA into granting him and his people a planet. An entire planet. Most people might be satisfied with a town or even a small city, but Goldilocks has to have the whole shebang. When the ISA reacts with dismay to this blackmail, Byron locks himself and his hippies in the shittiest part of the station and says there will be a hunger strike until their planet arrives.
The members of the ISA, quite correctly, are cheered by this. After all, a man who has threatened to reveal their innermost secrets has now threatened to starve himself to death. Would that all of the douchebags in my life would be so accommodating. Naturally, Byron loses control of his hippies, some of whom run off to take hostages and act tough until Byron's conscience reasserts itself and he kills the bunch of them, loyalists and rebels both, by igniting some fuel with a PPG.
Sigh.
Byron thought telepaths were a more evolved form of humanity, but I think a chimpanzee with a meat tenderizer could have gotten closer to being given a planet than that pack of self-righteous, mind-reading morons. Criminy.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
A return to tradition
More craziness in Congress...the Republicans must once again be in charge of the House or Representatives. Once the anti-flag-burning amendment is introduced, I'll be certain of it.
Reading the Constitution aloud is just a harmless bit of silliness, compared to this truly useless measure:
I just can't figure out exactly what this measure is supposed to accomplish. Obviously, no legislator will introduce a bill she herself believes to be unconstitutional, but that doesn't mean her colleagues will agree. Lawmakers often disagree about the meaning of the Constitution...they're like people that way. People interpret the Constitution in a variety of ways, and usually in line with their ideological beliefs. Slapping a constitutional citation on the front of a bill isn't going to convince those who believe the bill unconstitutional; hell, even actual rulings by courts don't always accomplish that. (There are still Americans who believe that the income tax is unconstitutional.) At the end of the day, the courts, and not Congress, decide if a law squares with our founding document, and no citation on a bill will change that. Period.
But I suppose a return to the past is a reminder that, like gravity, there are some things you can always rely upon.
Reading the Constitution aloud is just a harmless bit of silliness, compared to this truly useless measure:
[House Republicans] say they will require every new bill to contain a statement by the legislator who wrote it, citing the constitutional authority to enact the proposed law.
I just can't figure out exactly what this measure is supposed to accomplish. Obviously, no legislator will introduce a bill she herself believes to be unconstitutional, but that doesn't mean her colleagues will agree. Lawmakers often disagree about the meaning of the Constitution...they're like people that way. People interpret the Constitution in a variety of ways, and usually in line with their ideological beliefs. Slapping a constitutional citation on the front of a bill isn't going to convince those who believe the bill unconstitutional; hell, even actual rulings by courts don't always accomplish that. (There are still Americans who believe that the income tax is unconstitutional.) At the end of the day, the courts, and not Congress, decide if a law squares with our founding document, and no citation on a bill will change that. Period.
But I suppose a return to the past is a reminder that, like gravity, there are some things you can always rely upon.
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