Tag: Hey Fanboy!

I was 6 when _2001_ premiered; 15 for _Star Wars_. I keep a set of weird-looking dice in my briefcase. Nuf said?

Ageless Speech

SPEAKING OF H.P. LOVECRAFT, as I was in the prior post, it’s easy to dismiss him for what some have called his “overly purple prose.” He can, I admit, become extremely flowery at times, but as mentioned here and elsewhere, the man was a true poet at heart: his writing is evocative, and justly so – its literary power is derived from the consent of the reader to simply and happily wallow in it. By way of illustration, I offer the following sonnet from a collection of same on weird topics titled Fungi from Yuggoth. It speaks to me, and deeply; I hope it does the same for you.

XXXVI. Continuity

There is in certain ancient things a trace
Of some dim essence—more than form or weight;
A tenuous aether, indeterminate,
Yet linked with all the laws of time and space.
A faint, veiled sign of continuities
That outward eyes can never quite descry;
Of locked dimensions harbouring years gone by,
And out of reach except for hidden keys.

It moves me most when slanting sunbeams glow
On old farm buildings set against a hill,
And paint with life the shapes which linger still
From centuries less a dream than this we know.
In that strange light I feel I am not far
From the fixt mass whose sides the ages are.

Cool Exchange

DESPITE ITS MANY FLAWS, I still use Facebook every day to keep in touch with good friends without which and from whom I would otherwise fall out of contact. As I seek to entertain and uplift, most of my usual posts are questions or tasks for my friends to play with (“Who was your first crush?” or “What local sights would you insist visitors see?” or even “Picture silence.”), Good Shabbos messages (many of which also appear on this blog) and other Judaeocentric-but-universally spiritual items, and the occasional random observation.

Today is the second anniversary of Paul Rubens’ death. His humor was and still is a big part of my life, and I have nothing but warm feelings for his most famous character, Pee-wee Herman. I was a never-miss viewer of his 1980s Saturday morning “kids” show, Pee-wee’s Playhouse; Pee-wee epitomized for me the importance of play, silliness, and innocent but subversive fun. As my longtime friends have roughly the same tastes I do, I posted the following this morning:

If I had a patron saint, it would be Pee-wee, whose second yahrzeit is today. May his memory continue to be for a blessing, and may his laughter never cease.

This prompted a friend of mine to say:

I recognize two secular saints,
St. George Carlin and
St. Frank Zappa.
(There is room for my pantheon to increase.)

To which I responded:

I respectfully beg to differ. Prophets don’t get to be saints; saints are universally loved, but prophets “comfort th’ afflicted and afflict th’ comfortable” (as newspaperman Finley Peter Dunne (1867-1936) put it). Being a saint is easy – just do the right thing for the right people at the right time – but a prophet’s job is a much harder one: Bring The People The Truth. Most folks don’t want to hear that sort of talk; if they did, the world would be very different – and wouldn’t continually need prophets _or_ saints. MTC; YMMV.

Don’t get me wrong – I think this most interesting of all possible worlds needs both saints and prophets – but let’s be clear on who has what job, and why. Dig?

First Graf (rather, Line): The Lord of the Rings

OF THE 90% PETER JACKSON got right in his 11-hour and 22-minute adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien’s best-beloved work – the lush landscapes, the Balrog, Elves, the Nazgul, Sauron, Orcs and Uruk-hai, Gollum, Ents, hobbits (MY GHAWD! THE HOBBITS!!!), the Ring, Grima, the very different cultures and props and sets and cities and overall “look” – he got right in abundance.

But that other 10% … oy.

Read the actual books and you’ll discover that Aragorn is not a timid wimp, Gimli is not comic relief, Arwen isn’t an avenging angel, Saruman and Gandalf never duked it out with magic staves, Faramir didn’t try to bring the Ring to his father, the dialogue is more formal and less modern (except for the rustic hobbits), there’s a wonderful character named Tom Bombadil, and the book features a single climax instead of three simultaneous ones. And that well-traveled literary road begins, quite simply, like this:

When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.

The Zine Scene

A LONG TIME AGO, IN a post office far, far away, our mailbox was fraught with wonder and excitement.

In those cultural Dark Ages of pre-public Internet access, creative folk could communicate through the medium of “zines” – homegrown/amateur magazines, usually (but not always) photocopied by the dozen at the local 24-hour Kinko’s. Zine subjects were limited only by the interests and imaginations of their creators: politics, music (mainly punk rock), personal essays, communality, underground comix, satire, movies, TV shows, media criticism in general, religion, cassette culture, spirituality, alternative lifestyles, history, science fiction, fantasy, sexuality – the list goes on.

At the hub of this textual universe stood Factsheet Five, the quarterly “zine of zines” stuffed with hundreds of brief reviews and publisher contacts. Each issue opened up entire worlds of conceptual adventure, and she and I would take turns devouring it and highlighting the publications we wanted to receive. Per-issue costs could be anywhere between a few stamps, a few bucks, or trade for “something interesting” — including one’s own zine.

We were both well-supplied to swap: she with her women’s spirituality “perzine” (personal zine) Sacred Wilderness and me with my elsewhere-described Far Corner, a UFO/paranormal satire journal. For those small but intense investments – thinking, writing, copying, and postage – we netted a substantial return from independent publishers all over the planet.

Factsheet Five has passed into the What-Was, having ceased production in 1998. Blogging, vlogging, Substack, YouTube content, and social media in general now fill the creativity gap once occupied by zines; they’re cheaper, have a potentially longer reach, and can be published and accessed with greater immediacy. As a result, the weekly post-box trip has become more prosaic and less exciting. But the memories remain, of a secret world populated by anyone who could afford to get their personal word out and connect with likeminded others. I like to think that, though the medium may have dwindled, the spirit hasn’t. Long live the revolution!

“2001” in 2024

LET’S TAKE IT FROM THE top, shall we?

– Earth-orbiting weapons: check.
– Commercial spaceflight: check.
– “Shirtsleeve” space environments: check.
– Seatback videoscreens: check. (Legal pad-sized portable videoscreens: check.)
– Spaceflight stewardesses: not to my knowledge.
– Zero-G pens: check.
– Zero-G toilets: check.
– Space station: check. (Commercial space station, with hotel: in development.)
– Voiceprint identification: check.
– Inexpensive picturephones: check.
– Pasty space food: check. (Actually, we’re now well beyond the “pasty” stage, so double-check.)
– Lunar base: in development.
– Fashionable spacesuits: check.
– Crewed deep-space mission: in development.
– Voice-interactive, slightly sinister AI: check.
– Tint-adjustable glass: check.
– Solar-powered alien transmitter buried millions of years ago beneath the Moon’s most conspicuous crater: Dear God, I hope so.

Prosatio Silban and the Ravenous Inebriate

WHEN YOU’RE ROUSTED FROM A warm bed around midnight, it had better be worthwhile.

What in the Nine Hells is that racket? Prosatio Silban thought, rolling out of his sleeping berth and onto his galleywagon’s ornate braided rug. Is something on fire? A rampage of animals? Natural disaster? What? and more so, why?

The loud and rhythmic rapping at his door was then punctuated by slurred cries of “Hey! Cook! Wake up! I’m hungry!” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Ravenous Inebriate”

Prosatio Silban and the Grave Matter

ALTHOUGH THE UULIANS COMMONLY CREMATE their deceased, it is also common for the bereaved survivors – at least, those with means – to erect quaint stone monuments in favored locations. Rare is the park, garden, or waterside lacking at least one discreet marker listing a decedent’s name, death date, and tender qualities, thus:

Melora Hyart
13 Jackal, Year of the Panting Cat
Beloved Friend, Wise Mentor, and Devoted Daughter-in-Law

On occasion, the memorial might also mention an achievement of some sort – Honest Launderer, perhaps, or Accomplished Throat-Musician, or Taxidermist Supreme.

And sometimes, the “achievement” was a favorite recipe. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Grave Matter”

Prosatio Silban and the Comedic Situation

IT ALL BEGAN WHEN Prosatio Silban leapt forward.

“Look out!” he bellowed, grabbing the careless man’s belt and yanking him back from the edge of the algae-slick dock.

“Blessed All-Mother!” the man exclaimed, straightening. “You saved me life!”

Prosatio Silban smiled. “Not really. All I did was –”

“All you did was save me life!” the man finished, taking his rescuer’s hand and shaking it with deep feeling. “As sure as my name is Gremo Elyp, I’ll never forget it!” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Comedic Situation”

Prosatio Silban and the Plain Truth

EVEN WHEN HOSPITALITY PROFFESSIONALS ARE “off the clock,” their discourse – like that of the other trades – can’t help but revolve around their livelihoods.

“How’s this for a topic?” asked Piriforma Syndro, head chef at epicurean Pormaris’ renowned Diamond Star. She stood at the crowded rear bar in Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, that much-beloved late-night asylum for the city’s food-service folk. “What makes for the perfect dining room?”

Her question provoked appreciative laughter and variations of “ah-HA!” and “Now that is a topic!” from those gathered nearby.

“I believe I have the rightest answer,” put in Prosatio Silban, raising his glass of blue duliac. “My tables-and-chairs are always, as the saying goes, ‘in the fresh’ – and all depends on wherever my galleywagon is parked. What could be better than taking a meal surrounded by the open air, and the comedic drama of passing humanity?” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Plain Truth”

Prosatio Silban and the Secondhand Saga

IT IS A LONG-SAID saying, and with good reason: “Workers are only as good as their tools.”

Prosatio Silban lifted down yet another old pot from the galleywagon’s ceiling-mounted rack, placed it among its fellows in an empty durian-crate, dropped his weary arms, and sighed.

I never thought I’d have to sell any of these implements in order to provide for myself, he thought. Fortunately, I can make do with what’s left.

It had been an unusually long economic drought. First his dray-beast had taken ill, then his galleywagon broke a leaf-spring, and the price of blue rice had almost doubled. Finally, it seemed that the only way to earn his keep was to turn used cookware into coin, thence into low-cost ingredients from which to fashion meals that would, he hoped, bring in more coin.

I have to start again somewhere, he thought with a grim grimace. And I hope Cadro Borsh gives me a decent-enough price. What else can I do? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Secondhand Saga”

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