>> Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Oh no! They don't have the robots?
Fuck the robots.
And say hello to Cinematic Titanic.
Can I get a "Hell Yeah!" over here?
I thought so.
No need existed to bait Fat with idle questions, such as, "If God can do anything can he create a ditch so wide he can't jump over it?" We had plenty of real questions that Fat couldn't field. Our friend Kevin always began his attack one way. "What about my dead cat?" Kevin would ask. Several years ago, Kevin had been out walking his cat in the early evening. Kevin, the fool, had not put the cat on a leash, and the cat had dashed out into the street and right into the front wheel of a passing car. When he picked up the remains of the cat it was still alive, breathing in bloody foam and staring at him in horror. Kevin liked to say, "On judgment day when I'm brought up before the great judge I'm going to say, 'Hold on a second,' and then I'm going to whip out my dead cat from inside my coat. 'How do you explain this?' I'm going to ask."
By then, Kevin used to say, the cat would be as stiff as a frying pan; he would hold out the cat by its handle, its tail, and wait for a satisfactory answer.
Fat said, "No answer would satisfy you."
"No answer you could give," Kevin sneered. "Okay, so God saved your son's life; why didn't he have my cat run out into the street five seconds later? Three seconds later? Would that have been too much trouble? Of course, I suppose a cat doesn't matter."
"You know, Kevin," I pointed out one time, "you could have put the cat on a leash."
"No," Fat said. "He has a point. It's been bothering me. For him the cat is a symbol of everything about the universe he doesn't understand."
"I understand fine," Kevin said bitterly. "I just think it's fucked. God is either powerless, stupid or he doesn't give a shit. Or all three. He's evil, dumb and weak. I think I'll start my own exegesis."
"But God doesn't talk to you," I said.
"You know who talks to Horse?" Kevin said. "Who really talks to Horse in the middle of the night? People from the planet Stupid. Horse, what's the wisdom of God called again? Saint what?"
"Hagia Sophia," Horse said cautiously.
Kevin said, "How do you say Hagia Stupid? St. Stupid?"
"Hagia Moron," Horse said. He always defended himself by giving in. "Moron is a Greek word like Hagia. I came across it when I was looking up the spelling of oxymoron."
"Except that the -on suffix is the neuter ending," I said.
That gives you an idea of where our theological arguments tended to wind up. Three malinformed people disagreeing with one another.-Valis, 26-27 (Vintage Books, 1991)
J.K. Rowling has outed Dumbledore. Of all the questions I might have had reading the Harry Potter books, Dumbledore's sexual orientation never crossed my mind. But good for him, I guess, or for Rowling. (Although I also can't help thinking that, if she wanted to make a statement, outing Dumbledore is about as innocuous a statement as you can make.)
Your Friend: My grandfather was a marine and served in WWII and Korea.Now, someone might be saying that accepting your parents and grandparents as sexual beings is part of growing up. Could be, but it's not really part of Harry's growing up in Deathly Hallows. Or in any of the other books. It's trivia. Okay, Dumbledore's gay. What I really want to know is if Lily Potter really had Farrah hair. That's a far more essential matter when it comes to how I pictured the characters, seriously. Dumbledore gay? 'Kay. Whatever. Lily Potter had big hair and grooved to disco? As Darth Vader famously said, "Noooooooooooooooooooo!" What's next? Moony, Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail sitting around a table in Red's basement,
You: My grandfather banged my grandma.
...whatever the Hell that means. Anyway, I guess I don't have Asperger's Syndrome.
Boing Boing features a review of the ultimate Swiss Army Knife. No, really, it's the ultimate: $1000 gets you every single blade or gadget they've ever put onto a Swiss Army Knife.
On Boing Boing today:
When we played our version of funk or dub reggae, or tried to make a synthesizer sound like a dolphin fixing a tractor... it felt natural. Most of our music didn’t require singing, but a few pieces needed the sound of a human voice to round them out. Yet singing stumped me. Except for a single, miraculous week when I was sixteen, I’ve never rapped successfully, and melodic singing was inappropriate for the jumpy, polyrhythmic music we played. So I fudged, splitting the difference between singing, chanting, and rapping, each time with diminishing returns.... And the problem was clearly related to race. It seemed silly to try to sound “black,” but that is what happened, no matter how hard I tried not to. In some ways, this was the result of a categorical confusion, the assumption that if I could use my hands to play a derivation of black music with any authority I could use my voice to do the same thing. Playing black music never felt odd, but singing it—a more intimate gesture—seemed insulting.One wonders: was the problem some mysterious cultural thing, or was it that Frere-Jones felt embarrassed singing in front of other people? Why ascribe it to race? Indeed, the problem doesn't seem "clearly related to race" at all--it seems clearly related to Frere-Jones feeling awkward singing in front of a crowd. I mean, I've heard David Byrne split the difference between singing, chanting and rapping, and I don't think he has any kind of feeling of diminishing returns. Rather, I get the sense that he opens his mouth and things come out of it. Should it be about something more? How could it be--what else is there?