CHANGE JAR STATS
++ As of February 7, 2005,
the change jar was 41.3% full.
++ I last emptied the change jar
on August 11, 2004.
++ The change jar is projected
to be full on October 21, 2005.
[See change jar photo here]
My last roommate's name was John. For a year I rented a room in his townhouse in the northern suburbs of Denver. John was a gay man from Texas -- a walking culture collision. He liked big red pickup trucks, shotguns, Michelob beer, hunting, fishing, Ricky Martin, beige leather furniture, miniature pinschers, and ferns.
He wasn't smart. One day I went into my room and discovered that his little dog Remington had shit all over my floor. I went downstairs. "John," I said, "your dog shit in my room."
"Oh no," said John. "He's been down here all day."
"John," I said patiently, "I didn't shit on the floor. Did you shit on the floor?"
"No!"
"Well, then, that leaves Remington, doesn't it?"
Another time, John fired up the grill and started cleaning shrimp. "Going to barbecue some shrimp?" I asked.
"No, I'm barbecuing chicken," said John. "I've tried grilling shrimp, but they're too small, and they fall through the grill."
I stared at him. "Why don't you put them on skewers?" I asked.
His face lit up. "That's a great idea!" he said.
We didn't get along well. John complained about his "filthy" kitchen when I left clean dishes out on a drying rack, then held noisy dinner parties and left dirty dishes stacked in the sink and crusty pans on the stove. He bitched when I prepared dinner after he had gone to bed, even though I had told him before moving in that I kept late hours. And once he got drunk and groped my testicles.
We had a month-to-month lease, and one day he left me written notice to move out by the end of the month. That was fine with me. What wasn't fine was John's determination to drive me mad within those last thirty days. He started criticizing me more often and more loudly and more profanely. He lost his temper if I failed to hang a kitchen towel correctly. A friend of his, Dave, moved in with Braxton, his yellow Lab, apparently meaning to move into my room after I left.
One day I arrived home from work and found that my garage door opener no longer worked. I went inside to find John and Dave eating dinner. "My garage door opener doesn't work," I said.
"Oh, I locked the door," said John. "Braxton hurt his paw, so we put him out in the garage in your space."
I looked in the garage. Sure enough, there was Braxton lying on a dog bed in what had been my half of the garage, wearing one of those comical hoods to keep him from chewing his hurt paw. I fumed, but there was nothing I could do -- the parking space hadn't been written into the lease.
The next evening, I was in my room reading when I heard a ruckus in the alley outside. I looked out my window to see John and Dave unloading Dave's furniture from John's truck. Shaking with anger, I stomped into the garage and called John a "motherfucker" and a "piece of shit" and every other name I had wanted to call him for the past year. John responded that he was not my "nigger maid." We yelled at each other for a while. Screaming filthy insults at people is unusual behavior for me, although maybe it shouldn't be -- it feels pretty good. After I ran out of nasty things to say, I went back to my room, drained but relieved. I never threatened John with violence or tried to intimidate him physically.
The next day I couldn't find my keys, which I customarily left on the kitchen table. I looked everywhere for an hour before giving up. Luckily, I had spare car keys, so I was able to get to work. That evening, I confessed to John that I had lost my keys to the townhouse and mailbox, and to my surprise he was very understanding and lent me a spare house key.
The next morning, I was about to leave for work when I noticed John had left his bedroom door ajar -- usually he locked it. I had suspected that John had stolen my keys, although I couldn't imagine why. So I sneaked into his room and poked around a bit. No luck. On my way out the door, I glanced back and noticed a small jewelry box on the dresser. You know, I thought, if I stole someone's keys, I would keep them in a box just like that one.
I went to the dresser, opened the box, and goddammit! -- there were my keys. I fumed and swore and considered calling the police, but decided against it. I couldn't prove he had taken the keys, and for chrissake this was just a simple problem between a couple of guys. I would be moving out in four days. No need to involve the cops.
I confronted him that evening. Amazingly, he denied everything. My keys? In his room? He had no idea what I was talking about.
"John," I said, "I didn't put the keys in your room, so if you didn't take them, then who did? Dave? Braxton?"
"I don't know."
"You're a thief," I said.
He didn't like that. He stood up and we got in each other's faces. Fingers were pointed. Voices were raised. Then John suddenly stepped back and spoke to Dave. "Serve him," he said.
Huh? Serve me?
Dave handed me a sheaf of papers -- a restraining order.
Most of you have never seen me in person. Let me assure you that few men -- and not many women -- with four functioning limbs between the ages of 15 and 70 consider me a physical threat. I stand six feet tall and weigh 155 pounds. Both John and Dave were bigger than me, and besides, there were two of them. I haven't been in a fight since sixth grade. Yet John had taken a day off work and paid a $50 filing fee to have a Jefferson County judge order me to stay ten feet away from him at all times and to refrain from "using abusive language."
I called Morocco Man in Chicago. "Go get a ten-foot pole and walk around poking him with it," he suggested.
I called G-Dog. "You need to get out of there," he said, "or they'll find a way to put you in jail. Come stay here tonight and we'll move you tomorrow."
I felt the twin thrills of acceptance and superiority that come from rejecting an offer to join an exclusive club -- like turning down a date with a supermodel. (Actually, it's probably not at all like turning down a date with a supermodel. Has anyone out there ever spurned both a high-IQ society and a supermodel? If so, please compare and contrast your experiences in the comments.)
An examination of the Triple Nine Society website revealed that I won't be missing much by refusing admission. To judge by the thousands of words the Society dedicates to its Constitution and Voting Method, the Triple Nine Society was founded by the sort of prigs you knew in high school who did Model UN and used Robert's Rules of Order as a stroke book. The Preamble to their Constitution assures us that the Society "will strive to avoid the insularity of mere exclusiveness," a slushy phrase that I interpret to mean "we will occasionally take field trips to Six Flags and Wal-Mart to interact with people at the 99.8th percentile and below."
I went to the "Chat" area of the website and clicked a link to subscribe to the Society's Q&A Discussion Board. Yahoo! Groups regretfully informed me that "There is no group called tnsqa." Maybe the 99.9ers should call the Quadruple Nine Society or the Akron Quilting Club and see if they can help them set up a Yahoo! Group. I went to the "Events" section and found no events scheduled. If any of you have weddings or bar mitzvahs approaching, I bet the Triple Nine Society would be happy to provide entertainment in the form of "extraordinary camaraderie" and "intellectual exploration."
I don't understand the purpose of these high-IQ clubs beyond ego massage for the pointy-headed. Genius is in what you do, not in what you are. A club for people with high IQ's is like a club for men with big penises. Who cares? Are you getting laid, or are you and a bunch of other guys just admiring each other's schlongs? All of these clubs have journals, which makes no sense to me. If you write a groundbreaking paper in medical research or a cutting-edge piece of fiction, shouldn't you be able to publish your work in the New England Journal of Medicine or The New Yorker instead of Vidya?
If you're so smart, then go find a cure for cancer, or write the Great American Novel, or prove the Riemann hypothesis. I bet you'll meet scores of other smart, driven people in the process, likely more interesting than you would have met through the Triple Nine Society:
99.9er: Hello. I'm very smart.
Kilgore Trout: Yes, me too. We all are.
99.9er: I got all A's in high school. I was listed in Who's Who Among American High School Students.
KT: That's nice.
99.9er: I almost always win at chess when I play against normal people. Also Scrabble and checkers and backgammon. And Uno.
KT: I'm very impressed.
99.9er: I scored 1500 on the old SAT (before 4/95). What did you score?
LOCAL LIBERAL WRACKED WITH GUILT
OVER ATTRACTION TO BUSH TWINS
IOWA CITY -- Local environmental activist, Green Party campaign volunteer, anti-war protest veteran, independent bookstore clerk, and self-described "loony left-wing political junkie" Dave Wilson, 23, has been suffering from intense guilt caused by his attraction to Jenna and Barbara Bush, the 22-year-old twin daughters of President George W. Bush, sources reported Monday.
"I caught one of Kaiser Bush's campaign stops a few weeks ago on TV," said Wilson, "I was watching the Asshole-in-Chief stumbling through another fascist speech about 'saving the institution of marriage' when I noticed this pretty blonde girl standing off to the side. I couldn't take my eyes off her... I figured she must be an intern or an aide or something, but then the First Fucktard introduced her as his daughter Jenna! I couldn't believe such a comprehensively evil man could have fathered that beautiful woman."
"A few days later," Wilson continued, "I saw a news clip of Clueless George getting out of a plane, followed by an even prettier dark-haired girl. The reporter said it was his other daughter Barbara, and I practically shit my pants. I haven't been able to stop thinking about either one of them since, no matter how hard I try."
"I know it's wrong," added Wilson, staring at the floor and wringing his hands.
Despite attempts to hide his crush, Wilson's friends have noticed his fascination with the Bush twins. "I noticed a suspicious number of clips on the TiVo featuring the president's daughters," said Ann Siegel, Wilson's roommate and fellow Greenpeace activist, "and once when I got online I found a site called The First Twins in the browser history. I went to the site and it was all about Jenna and Barbara Bush, with lots of pictures, and it looked like someone had clicked on every link. When I confronted Dave about it, he got really defensive and said he went to the site accidentally while doing research on President Pig Vomit's anti-environment energy policy. Whatever, Dave."
Wilson remains hopeful that the First Sisters might be working on their father's campaign out of family loyalty instead of ideological allegiance. "Maybe they're not total Nazis like their father," said Wilson. "Especially Barbara -- she went to Yale, and I read somewhere that she wants to help HIV-positive children overseas. Also, she's a lot cuter than Jenna."
"Maybe when Bush comes campaigning in Iowa, Barbara will come with him, and we might happen to be on an elevator at the same time or something," added Wilson. "I wouldn't talk to her about politics, I guess, because I'd have to say that her dad is a reactionary religious nutcase, but we could talk about AIDS volunteerism -- I've been thinking about getting into some AIDS work myself -- or music or whatever. It would be nice to spend some time with her. I bet she's really down to earth."
Wilson then gritted his teeth and smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand several times.
I'm looking forward to opening an envelope. On April 18, 1985, in Mr. Petersen's fifth-grade class at Jefferson Elementary School in Mason City, Iowa, a much younger Kilgore Trout placed some documents in this envelope, sealed it, and scrawled on the front, "TO BE OPENED BY KILGORE TROUT ON APRIL 18, 2005." (See a photo here.)
I've carried this envelope to about a dozen residences in Iowa, California, and Colorado over the past nineteen years, and it's always a treat to rediscover it each time I move. I found it again a couple of months ago, when I moved to my new apartment, and I keep it now atop a chest of drawers in my living room.
I don't know what's in there. It feels like three or four sheets of paper, probably mimeographed in purple ink with blanks for my address, my pets' names, my favorite things to do at recess, and other information I thought would be important to myself across the unimaginable gulf of twenty years. I believe I wrote that I wanted to be a veterinarian when I grew up and that I liked Morocco Man's twin sister. Seeing as how I've grown up to be an accounts receivable clerk and I never did score a date with Morocco Man's sister, maybe I shouldn't be so eager to open the envelope after all. How many other dreams bouncing around in my young skull have been crushed by the last two decades like a bunny rabbit under the wheels of a Peterbilt semi on I-80?
Everything seems so possible when you're eleven years old.
Whatever. Only 267 days to go.
I can't wait to start reading the ridiculous book I bought at my church's garage sale for a quarter. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Texas-Israeli War: 1999, "as reported by" Jake Saunders and Howard Waldrop and published in 1974. You can read a complete synopsis of the plot here, but I'll give you the quick-and-dirty from the front cover: "Rebellious Texans kidnapped the President of the U.S. His future rested with a band of fearless Israelis whose courage had been tested in other wars!"
Look at a photo of the front and back covers here. I'm serious -- go look at it. What, you don't want to see a picture of a tank emblazoned with a Star of David under attack by Indians on horseback wearing feathered headdresses and brandishing spears? Suit yourself.
Saunders and Waldrop rack up huge points for plot originality here, but really -- Texas versus Israel? It sounds like something dreamed up by a bunch of political science geeks tripping on meat lover's pizza and Bud Light. "Who would win if Superman fought the Fantastic Four? Or if a bear fought a shark? No, wait... what if Israel invaded Texas?"
(Does anybody remember how, at Future Problem Solving competitions, you could get five bonus points for each original problem or solution? No? Okay, moving along then...)
Friday. Everyone looks forward to Friday, I guess, but the thing is that I've achieved coitus each of the last two Fridays, and I'm eager to see if I can roll a turkey.
The death by crucifixion of this couple. Note to Yahoo! Personals: Looking at photos of awkwardly posed yuppies horsing around does not make me want to subscribe to your service. It makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a corkscrew.
Details regarding KTAS ceremony and protocol have yet to be hashed out, but apparently meetings are to begin and end by reciting choruses from '80s power ballads, such as "High Enough" or "When I See You Smile." I think, per bruce's suggestion, that the Official KTAS Greeting should be "Go fuck yourself," which loosely translates as "Hello," "Goodbye," "Thank you," and "Would you like fries with that?" Also, James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal seem to have gotten mixed up in this somehow. I'll make sure to forward the cease-and-desist letters to you, Sadie.
EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW ABOUT THE DA VINCI CODE I LEARNED FROM THE CLIFFHANGER CHAPTER ENDINGS
WARNING! SPOILERS!
Prologue: "Wincing in pain, he summoned all his faculties and strength. The desperate task before him, he knew, would require every remaining second of his life."
Chapter 1: "The agent looked grim. 'You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see in this photograph...' He paused. "Monsieur Saunière did that to himself."
Chapter 2: "Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow."
Chapter 3: "'Mr. Langdon.' Fache's ebony eyes locked on. 'What you see in the photo is only the beginning of what Saunère did.'"
Chapter 4: "As he stood up, Langdon was beginning to suspect it was going to be a very long night."
Chapter 5: "Tightening the rope-tie round his waist, he raised the hood over his head and allowed his red eyes to admire his reflection in the mirror. The wheels are in motion."
Chapter 6: "Smiling, he closed his eyes and settled in to enjoy the rest of the conversation now being taped inside the Grand Gallery."
Chapter 7: "A follower of God, Sister Sandrine had learned to find peace in the calming voices of her own soul. Tonight, however, those voices were as silent as the empty church around her."
Chapter 8: "Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight leash tonight. Wisely so. Robert Langdon had proven himself one cool customer."
Chapter 9: "'Mr. Langdon,' the message began in a fearful whisper. 'Do not react to this messge. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my directions very closely.'"
Chapter 10: "He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail. Money and faith were powerful motivators."
Chapter 11: "'Good," Fache said, lighting a cigarette and stalking into the hall. 'I've got a phone call to make. Be damned sure the rest room is the only place Langdon goes.'"
Chapter 12: Bewildered, Langdon looked at the image. The close-up photo revealed the glowing message on the parquet floor. The final line hit Langdon like a kick in the gut."
Chapter 13: "'Quite well,' she said, her eyes welling now with emotion. 'Jacques Saunière was my grandfather.'"
Chapter 14: "'It's about Sophie Neveu, sir. Something is not quite right.'"
Chapter 15: "It was not until this instant that he truly realized what he was about to do, and what awaited him inside. The keystone. It will lead us to our final goal. He raised his ghost-white fist and banged three times on the door. Moments later, the bolts of the enormous wooden portal began to move."
Chapter 16: "Robert Langdon was about to escape the Louvre, whether he wanted to or not."
Chapter 17: "Langdon had jumped."
Chapter 19: "For a fleeting instant, she wondered if this mysterious stranger could be the enemy they had warned her about, and if tonight she would have to carry out the orders she had been holding all these years. She decided to stay there in the darkness and watch his every move."
Chapter 20: "Without another word, Langdon pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and rearranged the letters in each line. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint! was a perfect anagram of Leonardo da Vinci! The Mona Lisa!"
Chapter 21: "Without hesitation, Langdon broke into a sprint back toward the stairs."
Chapter 22: "If all went as planned tonight in Paris, Aringarosa would soon be in possession of something that would make him the most powerful man in Christendom."
Chapter 23: "A few miles away, on the riverbank beyond Les Invalides, the bewildered driver of a twin-bed Trailor truck stood at gunpoint and watched as the captain of the Judicial Police let out a guttural roar of rage and heaved a bar of soap out into the turgid waters of the Seine."
Chapter 24: "It was a silent call of distress"
Chapter 25: "Fache's blood was boiling as he typed the numbers 4... 5... 4."
Chapter 26: "On the glass, six words glowed in purple, scrawled directly across the Mona Lisa's face."
Chapter 27: "Hedging his bets, he ordered half of his men back to the Louvre perimeter. The other half he sent to guard the only location in Paris where Robert Langdon could find safe harbor."
Chapter 28: "Face down on the parquet floor with his arms and legs spread wide, Langdon found little humor in the irony of his position. The Vitruvian Man, he thought. Face down."
Chapter 29: "HITHERTO SHALT THOU COME, BUT NO FURTHER."
Chapter 30: "'So dark the con of man.' She flashed a triumphant smile. 'I missed the first two anagrams, Robert. I wasn't about to miss the third.'"
Chapter 31: "All four are dead. The precious truth is lost forever."
Chapter 32: "As she drove away, she heard the sound of squealing tires behind them. Sirens blared to life. Cursing, Sophie slammed down the accelerator."
Chapter 33: "Langdon hurred along behind her. What had begun as a one-mile dash to the U.S. Embassy had now become a full-fledged evacuation from Paris. Langdon was liking this idea less and less."
Chapter 34: "Trying to ease his nerves, the bishop meditated on the purple amethyst in his ring. Feeling the textures of the mitre-crozier appliqué and the facets of the diamonds, he reminded himself that this ring was a symbol of power far less than that which he would soon attain."
Chapter 35: "Sophie looked back at the key and wondered what they would possibly find at 24 Rue Haxo. A church? Some kind of Priory headquarters?"
Chapter 36: "A female cryptologist and a schoolteacher? They wouldn't last till dawn."
Chapter 37: "'Sure you have." Langdon smiled. "You're just used to hearing it called by the name Holy Grail.'"
Chapter 38: "'I tried to warn you,' he shouted over the sound of gnashing gears. 'I drive an automatic!'"
Chapter 39: "Kneeling on the wooden floor, Silas prayed for forgiveness. Then, stripping off his robe, he reached again for the Discipline."
Chapter 40: "Sophie and Langdon were holding the key to a Swiss bank deposit box."
Chapter 41: "Aringarosa sensed the query was more spiritual than geographical, and yet he had not intention of discussing morality at this hour. 'Paris,' he said, and walked out the door."
Chapter 42: "Collet took the hint. 'Twenty-four Rue Haxo. Right away, Captain.' He hung up and radioed his men."
Chapter 43: "Langdon produced the printout of the crime scene photo and spread it out on the coffee table. Sophie needed only to read the first line to know Langdon was correct."
Chapter 44: "The object inside was unlike anything Langdon had ever seen. One thing was immediately clear to both of them, however. This was definitely not the Cup of Christ."
Chapter 45: "Vernet did not breathe again until the truck was a good fifty meters down the street. And now he had another problem. His cargo. Where do I take them?"
Chapter 46: "'The secret lives. Jacques Saunière transferred information before he died. I will call you soon. Our work tonight is not yet done.'"
Chapter 47: "Langdon slowly raised his eyes. 'Under the sign of the Rose,' he whispered. 'This cryptex... I think I know what it is.'"
Chapter 48: "Vernet stepped into view, a strained look in his eye. In his hand, he held a pistol. "I'm sorry about this," he said. "I really have no choice."
Chapter 49: "Vernet turned his eyes back to the ground where the truck had been parked. Even in the faint moonlight he could see there was nothing there. The wooden box was gone."
Chapter 50: "The bishop broke a light sweat. Or worse... that I took the money and ran!"
Chapter 51: "Langdon gave an awkward smile. 'We're on a Grail quest, Sophie. Who better to help us than a knight?'"
Chapter 52: "The gate clicked open. 'Your heart is true, my friend. You may pass.'"
Chapter 53: "Thirty seconds later, forty kilometers away, hidden in the undercarriage of the armored truck, a tiny transponder blinked to life."
Chapter 54: "Teabing already had Sophie locked in his twinkling gaze. 'You are a Grail virgin, my dear. And trust me, you will never forget your first time.'"
Chapter 55: "'Not what it is,' Teabing whispered. 'But rather who it is. The Holy Grail is not a thing. It is, in fact... a person."
Chapter 56: "Two rooms away, in the kitchen, manservant Rémy Legaludec stood in silence before a television. The news station was broadcasting photos of a man and woman... the same two individuals to whom Rémy had just served tea."
Chapter 57: "Ignoring the slash of pain from his cilice, Silas retrieved his gun and began the long trek up the grassy slope."
Chapter 58: "Instantly, Sophie recognized the translation. Sang Real literally meant Royal Blood."
Chapter 59: "After a long wait, another man came on, his tone gruff and concerned. 'Bishop, I am glad I finally reached you. You and I have much to discuss.'"
Chapter 60: "'So you tell me, sir. So you tell me.'"
Chapter 61: "'You'd better explain yourself, Robert.' he said coldly. 'You have not been honest with me.'"
Chapter 62: "Silas pulled the pistol from his pocket, turned off the safety, and inched down the hallway."
Chapter 63: "Everything in Paris has gone terribly wrong. Closing his eyes, Aringarosa said a prayer that Bezu Fache would have the means to fix it."
Chapter 64: "As he fell, he thought for a moment he saw a pale ghost hovering over him, clutching a gun. Then everything went black."
Chapter 65: "Teabing frowned. 'My friends, it seems we have a decision to make. And we'd better make it fast.'"
Chapter 66: "When Collet read the label above the empty peg, he knew he was in trouble."
Chapter 67: "Langdon dialed zero, knowing that the next sixty seconds might answer a question that had been puzzling him all night."
Chapter 68: "'Richard,' Teabing said, smiling warmly, 'two thousand pounds sterling and that loaded gun say you can take my guests.' He motioned to the Range Rover. 'And the unfortunate fellow in the back."
Chapter 69: "Both of them looked startled. 'So then,' she said, motioning to the rosewood box. 'Let's move on.'"
Chapter 70: "'Lieutenant Collet,' Fache barked, heading for the door. 'I have no choice but to leave you in charge of the PTS investigation here. Try to do something right for a change.'"
Chapter 71: "He looked down at the bound monk at his feet. The man lay perfectly still now, as if in a trance of acceptance, or perhaps, in silent prayer for deliverance."
Chapter 72: "Despite Teabing's and Langdon's confidence that the truth lay just within the marble cylinder, Sophie had solved enough of her grandfather's treasure hunts to know that Jacques Saunière did not give up his secrets easily."
Chapter 73: "Tell them I want Teabing's plane to be permitted to land. Then I want it surrounded on the tarmac. Nobody deplanes until I get there."
Chapter 74: "Sophie could not breathe. She suddenly realized she was quietly sobbing. She turned and staggered silently up the stairs, out of the house, and drove trembling back to Paris."
Chapter 75: "It had all begun as a holy cause. A brilliantly crafted scheme. Now, like a house of cards, it was collapsing in on itself... and the end was nowhere in sight."
Chapter 76: "Teabing grinned broadly. 'My dear, this is where the Atbash Cipher comes into play.'"
Chapter 77: "Teabing winked. 'In ancient Greek, wisdom is spelled S-O-F-I-A.'"
Chapter 78: "At that moment, fifteen miles ahead of them, six Kent police cars streaked down rain-soaked streets toward Biggin Hill Executive Airport."
Chapter 79: "He immediately called Interpol and requested every shred of information they could find on the Depository Bank of Zurich and its president, André Vernet."
Chapter 80: "'Sales meeting,' Teabing said, wondering how much it would cost him to persuade his pilot to perform one highly irregular maneuver."
Chapter 81: "Teabing grinned and closed the bar. 'So then, about this knight's tomb...'"
Chapter 82: "He smiled. 'Works every time.'"
Chapter 83: "Langdon felt shaky as he inched deeper into the circular room. This had to be the place."
Chapter 84: "'As I expressed when we first spoke, Bishop, you would do well to remember that youare not the only man on the verge of losing everything.'"
Chapter 85: "'If you call the police..." The tuxedoed man pressed the gun to his skin. "I will find you." The next thing the boy knew, he was sprinting across the outside courtyard with no plans of stopping until his legs gave out."
Chapter 86: "Sophie's voice was unwavering. 'Who are you working for?' The question brought a smirk to the departing Rémy's face. 'You would be surprised, Mademoiselle Neveu.'"
Chapter 87: "'Do you have any idea what target is being bugged?' 'Well, Lieutenant,' the agent said, walking to the computer and launching a piece of software. 'It's the strangest thing...'"
Chapter 88: "Sophie hung up and dashed with Langdon onto the train."
Chapter 89: "'That said, I give you my word as commanding officer of the Police Judiciare that your box, along with your bank's reputation, are in the safest of hands.'"
Chapter 90: "The notes were in French and appeared to be ideas outlining how best to insert a listening device into the knight."
Chapter 91: "With that, the connection went dead."
Chapter 92: "'Tea?' Gettum asked, standing and walking toward the pot she had made earlier. 'Leigh always loves my tea.'"
Chapter 93: "'Leave him precisely where he is,' the officer commanded. 'Don't say a word to anyone. I'm sending officers over right away.'"
Chapter 94: "Aringarosa recognized the address instantly. The Opus Dei Centre in London. He spun to the driver. "Take me there at once!"
Chapter 95: "Jacques Saunière, the master of double-entendres, had proven once again that he was a frighteningly clever man."
Chapter 96: "Silas spun and fired. Their eyes met. Silas was already screaming in horror as Bishop Aringarosa fell."
Chapter 97: "The Teacher recalled a small announcement sign he had seen on his way into the abbey. Immediately he knew the perfect place to lure them. The only question now... what to use as bait."
Chapter 98: "For a moment Langdon thought he must be dreaming. It was Leigh Teabing."
Chapter 99: "He turned and aimed the gun at Langdon. 'And you, Robert? Are you with me, or against me?'"
Chapter 100: "Aringarosa closed his eyes. 'Silas, you must pray.'"
Chapter 101: "As Teabing passed, Langdon looked him in the eye. 'Only the worthy find the Grail, Leigh. You taught me that.'"
Chapter 102: "Silas's pain at last began to fade, and he knew the bishop was right."
Chapter 103: "Aringarosa smiled. "A little faith can do wonders, Captain. A little faith."
Chapter 104: "And now, somehow, in this foreign place, in the company of three people she barely knw, she felt at last that she was home."
Chapter 105: "Their bodies came together, softly at first, and then completely. When she pulled away, her eyes were full of promise. 'Right,' Langdon managed. 'It's a date.'"
Epilogue: "For a moment, he thought he heard a woman's voice... the wisdom of the ages... whispering up from the chasms of the earth."
Last Friday afternoon, I ate lunch with a friend at the bar across from my apartment building. The bar had several televisions tuned to SportsCenter and the Rockies-Giants game.
My eyes wandered often to the ballgame, as a man's eyes will, and finally I asked my friend if she liked baseball.
"Oh yes," she said. "My grandfather played professional baseball, so in my family we weren't allowed to dislike baseball."
"Did he ever play in the majors?" I asked.
"For a little while," she said. "He played in the World Series with the Cubs."
"What was his name?"
"Marvin Gudat."
Marvin Gudat made his big league debut with the Cincinnati Reds on May 21, 1929. He only played in nine games that year, primarily as a pitcher. He returned to the majors with the Chicago Cubs in 1932, playing in 60 games as a pinch-hitter, outfielder, and first baseman, as well as pitching one scoreless inning. Chicago won the National League pennant that year, and Marv Gudat went hitless in two at-bats as the Cubs lost the World Series to the despised New York Yankees. For his career, Marv Gudat went 1-1 as a pitcher with a 3.38 ERA. As a batter, he collected 24 hits, including four doubles, a triple, and one home run.
One home run. I wonder what Marv Gudat did when he hit his only major league home run. Did he charge around the bases like a dumb rookie, not daring to hope the ball would clear the fence? I prefer to picture him standing at home plate with his mouth hanging open, staring in amazement as the ball disappeared into the stands, and then trotting slowly around the bases -- not so slowly as to earn a fastball in his ear his next time at bat, of course, but slowly enough to savor the experience.
Did Marv Gudat spend the rest of his life reliving that home run in his head? I bet everything about that day stood out in sharp relief in his memory -- what he ate for breakfast, the jokes his teammates told in the clubhouse, his practice swings in the on-deck circle, the noise the crowd made when he stepped to the plate, and the opposing pitcher's name and face and the pitches he threw. And I know Marv Gudat never forgot the sensation of sweet contact as he pounced on that pitch and the ball leaped from his bat.
Thinking about Marv Gudat reminded me of a post the Maximum Leader wrote about his 1988 meeting with President Reagan. I don't care if you didn't like Reagan -- read the post and notice how sixteen years have failed to dim the bright details in the Maximum Leader's mind. He remembers what he wore, the gruff comments from the advance man, the masking tape "X" on the floor, the feel of Reagan's hand, and the exact words his hero spoke to him.
Too often, our extraordinary existence devolves into drudgery -- one day dissolves into the next until life becomes a homogeneous gray mass, bland as oatmeal without raisins. These glittering moments remind us why we bother to stay alive.
What's your one major league home run? What's your meeting with President Reagan? One of mine is finishing my first marathon in St. Louis on October 12, 1997. I remember vividly turning the last corner, spotting the finish line 200 meters away, and flipping the fuck out. All the exhaustion from the previous 26 miles drained away, and I sprinted the final stretch whooping and pumping my fist in the air. The spectators started cheering with renewed vigor, and one fellow shouted "Yeah, man!" and stuck his hand out. I ran to the side and started handing out high-fives. I have tears in my eyes as I type this. That's what life is about.
Marvin Gudat died March 1, 1954 in Los Angeles. Rest easy, Mr. Gudat. You hit one big league home run.
I've noticed some taverns use their neon signs to advertise that they serve mixed drinks. Why? Wouldn't one assume mixed drinks to be available in a bar? Or maybe not:
KILGORE TROUT: Vodka tonic, please.
SURLY BARTENDER: Sorry, we don't do that here.
KT: Pardon?
SB: I can give you vodka or tonic water, but I can't mix 'em together.
KT: But this is a bar.
SB: Did the sign outside specify "mixed drinks"? No, I don't think so. If that's how you get off, go to Don's Club Tavern or the Satire Lounge. We don't serve your kind here.
KT: Okay, get me a shot of vodka and a glass of tonic water.
SB: Nice try, wise guy. You'll just mix 'em together while my back is turned. Don't you think we've had smart alecks like you in here before? I think you'd better leave.
Hey, Sears in Cherry Creek! You have two options: either fix the "E" in your "SEARS" sign or start handing out filtration masks at the door.
I received a solicitation with my last credit card bill to sign up for some credit report tracking service. As an enticement, the service offered free "Slim Line" digital cameras to all new subscribers. How can they afford to offer a free digital camera for buying a $10 per month subscription? Well, it's not too hard when the camera in question offers a resolution of 350 kilopixels.
It reminded me of the old Shredded Wheat commericials: "It takes nine of these "Slim Line" digital cameras to equal the resolution of Kilgore Trout's one Kodak EasyShare camera, which is not exactly making Annie Leibovitz grit her teeth with envy."
This isn't a Folly in Marketing, exactly, but I thought everyone should know that Adolf Hitler has an IMDb profile. Sometimes credited as "Der Führer," Mr. Hitler exhibited extraordinary range, playing "Himself" in 25 films including 1934's classic screwball comedy Triumph of the Will. Who knows what films he might have made had he not committed suicide in an underground Berlin bunker?
You know it's a big day at Chaotic Not Random when Kilgore Trout posts an inline image! There was much joy in Mudville yesterday when The Comments Whore Herself chose not to lay up for herself treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, but instead exercised her rights under Article IV of the CNR Reader's Bill of Rights by sending me a hardcover copy of The Da Vinci Code. Those of you not suffering from Alzheimer's Disease will remember my complaint from some weeks ago that too many people were reading this book, and that as long as it remained popular in hardcover, the publishers would not issue it in the paperback version I could afford.
Thanks again, TCWH! Your slightly urine-stained copy of Teach Yourself Microsoft PowerPoint 2000 will be arriving shortly.
When I lived in San Francisco in 1999, I worked the graveyard shift at a 24-hour diner called Sparky's. I would work from three in the afternoon till nine at night at The Cheese Steak Shop, hurry to close the store, and then jump on my bike and race to Sparky's, where I would toil until six in the morning. I worked both jobs five days a week, seventy hours total. I had Tuesday and Wednesday off. When I got home Tuesday morning, I would flop into bed and sleep like a corpse for at least fourteen hours.
I worked these insane hours to keep pace with San Francisco's insane cost of living. I paid $525 monthly rent for a room (not an apartment) with a sink in the corner. I shared a bathroom with the floor's other residents, and for a kitchen I had a microwave in my room and a refrigerator in the hallway. And everything in San Francisco costs more: gas, car insurance, books, movie tickets, food. The one benefit to working at two restaurants was that I mostly ate for free. Even working seventy hours a week, I couldn't make ends meet -- when I gave up after a year and moved to Denver, I took $14,000 in credit card debts with me. I can remember almost nothing of what I spent that money on.
The other employees at Sparky's were mostly young, predominantly gay, and thoroughly hipper-than-thou. They sported tattoos and piercings in odd places and wore ironic T-shirts or Boy Scout uniforms. I had a tattoo and wore four earrings, but I couldn't pull it off -- the others patted me on the head and called me "Wilbur." I wanted to have sex with most of the women who worked at Sparky's, although of course I never did. My ego was not much assuaged when two of the more effeminate waiters made it clear that their rectal channels were available for fucking any time I desired.
They all listened to Bob Dylan and Siouxsie & the Banshees and obscure punk bands with names like "Monkey Cunt." Most of them played bass or wrote songs or spun vinyl in their spare time. Sparky's encouraged us to bring our own CDs to be played randomly over the diner's sound system, and I took great pleasure in sabotaging the ultra-scenester music mix with my Christian rock albums and my pop-pop-poppiest Matchbox Twenty and Amy Grant discs.
I worked as a line cook at the toast and fries station. After the other cooks finished slapping together omelettes and burgers, I supplied toast (rye, white, wheat, or sourdough) or french fries as specified. I was terrible at it. It's not that I couldn't make toast and fries; it's that I think slow and act slower and am easily confused by chaotic, high-pressure situations, like a Saturday night bar rush with tickets flying like confetti and harried servers shouting orders and behaving peevishly. The other cooks -- who had actual cooking responsibilities such as grilling meat and frying eggs to order -- thought I was pathetic. I suppose they were right, but I still believe toast and fries to be a position of underappreciated difficulty in the gastronomic hierarchy. I mean, there were four different kinds of toast to think about, man!
When I finished my first shift at Sparky's, one of the other line cooks approached me. "You wanna stick around? After work, a bunch of us usually stay and have some beers."
So I stuck around. I didn't want to look like a limpdick in front of my new friends, so I drank a great number of beers. If you've ever wondered whether or not it's a good idea to drink a large quantity of alcohol when you're exhausted from fifteen hours of work, I will now assure you that it is not a good idea at all. It is an even worse idea to try to calm your stomach by eating a bagel topped with cream cheese and onions.
I puked in the restroom. When I came out, the other employees -- clearly alarmed and wondering what kind of alcoholic limpdick they had on their hands -- persuaded me to take the bus home instead of riding my bike. So I left Sparky's and stumbled toward the Market Street train station. This was at seven o'clock on a Thursday morning. Bankers and stockbrokers on their way to the Financial District filled the station, dressed in smart suits and carrying briefcases. I looked like hell. My clothes, spattered with bits of food, reeked of grease and sweat. The stink of alcohol hung around me like a fog. I weaved as I walked and my hair stuck out in oily clumps. When I got to the station, I leaned against a pole and closed my eyes. Big mistake. The world pitched and spun, and I opened my eyes and lurched toward the handicapped ramp, where I vomited loudly and copiously. None of the pinstriped princes so much as glanced at the drunk homeless man retching his guts out.
I boarded the train, where the other passengers allowed me my own seat. I transferred to the Van Ness Avenue bus, where I promptly fell asleep. I woke up twenty minutes later to the driver hollering "Last stop!" I shuffled off the bus and realized I had gone at least a mile too far. I shambled home, fell on my bed and went to sleep. The phone rang seven hours later and I awoke with a start, then freaked when I realized I couldn't open my eyelids. (That will happen when you forget to remove your contacts.) Somehow I found the phone.
"Hello?"
"It's Dayle at The Cheese Steak Shop. You're late, man."
Annoying Receptionist: Like most of the people on this list, Annoying Receptionist has nothing of interest to say. This does not, unfortunately, stop her from using her throat, mouth, and tongue to create sound patterns that grate against my cerebral cortex.
Avoidance Strategy: Annoying Receptionist is easy to elude, because she only works half-days and spends most of that time in the front reception area. Earlier this year, however, when I was without a car and riding the bus to work, I was horrified to find that Annoying Receptionist often took the same bus I did. She was delighted, of course, to have someone to listen to her prattle about her own transportation problems while I gritted my teeth and mumbled "hm" and "uh huh." I used to run into Annoying Receptionist in the breakroom, where she eats lunch at 2:00. She would always ask, "How's your car?" and I would answer, "Ohhh, it's running!" and look for the nearest exit. I now avoid the breakroom between 2:00 and 2:16.
The Chatterbox: Unlike Annoying Receptionist, who takes a passive approach to ruining my day, The Chatterbox uses an invasive technique. She specializes in standing in the entrance of her target's cubicle and leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. This is a devastating tactic -- the gesture of leaning against the wall says clearly, "I intend to be here for quite a while, nattering away about nothing."
You might think it impossible to emit from one's mouth a steady stream of words that amount to zero, but I assure you The Chatterbox achieves this astonishing feat without apparent effort or strain. I have had several lengthy conversations with The Chatterbox, and I can remember the principal topic of none of them. Well, that's not true. The Chatterbox once brought coffee cake for breakfast, and I made the mistake of telling her it tasted good. We then discussed coffee cake for twenty minutes while I fantasized about saying, "Do you think you could get a better pair of breasts? That way I could have something to look at while I nod my head and smile blankly."
Avoidance Strategy: Because she attacks coworkers at their workstations, making her impossible to elude without quitting my job, I adopted the scorched-earth countermeasure of being a rude asshole -- turning my back on her mid-conversation, for example. This brutal tactic has worked admirably; The Chatterbox never approaches my cubicle for conversation any more, and if I pass her in the hallway she smiles nervously and glances at the floor. I'm sure I'll feel bad about this someday in the event that I develop a soul.
Mr. Manners: Tall, slender, and neatly dressed, Mr. Manners wears a nicely trimmed mustache and a respectable bit of gray around his temples. He has a girl's name. He is a very nice man. "Hello, Kilgore," he says when we pass each other in the hallway, "how are you?" It's the how are you? that burns me. We both walk fast, so by the time I say, "Fine, how are you?" he's too far away to answer or even hear me. This makes me feel even lamer than I usually feel. A simple greeting suffices for a hallway encounter -- why does he have to ask how I am? Is it rhetorical? Should I not answer at all?
Avoidance Strategy: If I'm at a hallway junction, I will sometimes take an alternate route. This makes me feel lamest of all, because I'm avoiding a polite person. What the hell is wrong with me?
A Woman Scorned: I fucked her. She went psycho. I dumped her. Crying occurred. Goddammit! I would do it again, though.
Avoidance Strategy: Fortunately, A Woman Scorned is tall enough to see over the cubicle walls, making her easier to elude. Chance meetings are inevitable, however, given A Woman Scorned's random hall-roaming schedule. In case of emergency, I adopt a neutral expression and stare straight ahead.
The Hag: Also know as The Old Lady. You may recall reading of our past skirmishes here and here. The Hag is my most daunting and persistent workplace opponent. In the two years I've worked at my present job, I've come to respect The Hag in the way that bitter foes -- like Frazier and Ali -- often grudgingly respect one another.
The Hag is somewhere between 65 and 3,000 years old. While stooped with age and fragile in body, she employs flawless fundamentals and the cunning of a veteran. She waits in the breakroom for unsuspecting prey, posting herself near the refrigerators and microwaves. Once she spots a target rummaging through the refrigerator or waiting for lunch to heat up, she attacks with a array of witless conversation openers, like "What's for lunch?" or "My son has a shirt just like that one." She then drags her victim into a dull, rambling conversation involving much frozen smiling and glancing at the clock. Her execution is both impressive and chilling to witness, like watching a Pro Bowl pass rusher drive a rookie quarterback's face into the turf.
Avoidance Strategy: Defense, defense, defense! My most basic stratagem is to never enter the breakroom when The Hag is in there. Fortunately, the doors to the breakroom have windows, so I always glance through before entering to make sure the area is clear. If I only intend to use the vending machines, located on the far end of the breakroom opposite the refrigerators, I use the far doors and buy my Hostess Chocolate Frosted Donettes safely outside The Hag's range. Occasionally I find myself in the breakroom with The Hag, either because I failed to adequately inspect the area beforehand, or more likely because the crafty bitch entered the room after me. In these cases, I keep my back to The Hag as much as possible and avoid eye contact -- even peripheral eye contact -- at all costs. If The Hag succeeds in initiating conversation, I keep my responses as short as possible and head for the exit. Sometimes I even leave my Sausage Pizza Hot Pocket in the microwave.
My habit of forgetting, exactly once every summer, that my good looks and rapier wit alone will not prevent the noontime sun from burning my pale skin. Now I can look forward to a week of explaining, "I don't have dandruff, my scalp is just peeling."
Blood pressure follies. I went to see my doctor last week, and after a pleasantly short wait a pretty nurse escorted me to an examination room, where she immediately took my blood pressure.
"Five hundred seventy-three over 2.718281828," she said. Those weren't the real numbers, of course, but it doesn't matter, because I didn't understand the significance of the real numbers. Unlike healthcare professionals, who spend hours every day worrying over blood pressure readings, I can't appreciate which numbers are high and which are normal when it comes to blood pressure. It would be like going to Tanzania and telling a Maasai tribesman, "Barry Bonds is batting .365 with 23 homers!"
Wouldn't it make an awful lot of sense to post a blood pressure chart in the examination rooms? I guess I could have asked the nurse, but she was awfully pretty.
After an unpleasantly long wait on the paper-covered table, the doctor arrived and did various things to me. "Various things" unfortunately included a urethra swab, which, while not technically a blood pressure folly, is another thing that needs to go away right now. MESSAGE TO ALL HEALTHCARE PROFESSIONALS: In return for your promise to never stick anything in my urethra again, I pledge to wear extra-thick, adamantium-reinforced condoms for all future activites of any kind, including Holy Communion.
By and by, the doctor frowned at my chart and asked, "Have you ever had a problem with high blood pressure?"
"No. Is there a problem?"
"Well, it's a little high. I mean, you're not going to keel over from a stroke, but... well, let me check it again before we get too excited."
He took my blood pressure and announced, "Forty-two over π³. That's fine, nothing to worry about."
That made sense to me. The first blood pressure reading came right after a brisk walk through a maze of hallways to the examination room, so of course it was elevated. Also, my heart rate probably accelerated when the pretty nurse touched my arm. Wouldn't it make an awful lot of sense to have an ugly nurse take blood pressure readings after giving the patient's heart rate time to stabilize?
Inappropriate capitalization of mom, dad, and other familial terms. You should only capitalize these terms when using them as though they were names:
Afterward, Uncle said that what happened in the garage was a very special secret.
Specifically, you should not capitalize these words when a possessive precedes them:
Myuncle said if I told anyone our secret, I would be sent away.
Unimaginative sports nicknames composed of the player's initials only, such as AI (Allen Iverson), KG (Kevin Garnett), MJ (Michael Jordan), and TO (Terrell Owens). Only slightly better are monikers like T-Mac (Tracy McGrady) or J-Kidd (Jason Kidd), although A-Rod (Alex Rodriguez) is okay for some ex post facto reason I will make up later. Also unacceptable are meaningless nicknames dreamed up by shoe companies -- has anyone ever actually called Allen Iverson "The Answer" outside the Reebok marketing department?
Come on, sports fans, think a little! Here are some great sports nicknames to spur your imagination:
Babe Ruth (George Herman Ruth)
The Iron Horse (Lou Gehrig)
The Admiral (David Robinson)
Dr. J (Julius Erving)
Magic Johnson (Earvin Johnson)
Crime Dog (Fred McGriff)
Catfish Hunter (James Augustus Hunter)
Sir Charles (Charles Barkley)
Saint Patrick (Patrick Roy)
The Dominator (Dominik Hasek)
The Great One (Wayne Gretzky)
Le Magnifique (Mario Lemieux)
Super Joe (Joe Sakic)
Rocket (Maurice Richard and Roger Clemens)
The Intimidator (Dale Earnhardt)
Sweetness (Walter Payton)
If you can't think of a nickname that pops off the tongue and distills the essence of the athlete, don't fret. Barry Bonds and Barry Sanders played their games as well as anyone, yet nobody ever made a nickname stick to either man (although BB for Bonds would fit him well -- he drew his 2,191st walk on July 4 to break Rickey Henderson's career record).
NOTE: We're only talking about sports nicknames here, so "KT" for "Kilgore Trout" is okay. I would prefer, however, that you stop using "WPS" for "Worthless Piece of Shit."
Commercial attempts to channel authenticity via fake foreign words, like Taco Bell's gorditas and Chipotle's new low-carb "bols" (that is, bowls). "Bol" means nothing in Spanish -- the Spanish word for bowl is cuenco. I'd rather order a cuenco than a bol, although I'm sure that Chipotle has a mountain of focus-group research that better captures the linguistic-gastronomic desires of the gringo bourgeoisie.
A variant of this technique is to introduce the fake accent. I used to work at a restaurant called Diamond Dave's in Mason City, Iowa. Diamond Dave's made "Mexican" food in the sense that the Tombstone frozen pizza people make "Italian" food. Anyway, the awning outside read "RESTAURANTÉ." But the Spanish word for restaurant is restaurante, with no accent. Adding the accent not only creates a misspelling, but changes the pronunciation, sort of like saying, "res-TAU-rant."
A related silly story: the Mason City Globe-Gazette once published an ad placed by a Mexican family wishing to celebrate a family member's birthday. The ad featured a photo of the birthday boy with the caption "YO TENGO 29 ANOS!" The Spanish word for year is año, so the caption was meant to read "I AM 29 YEARS OLD!" But by leaving the tilde off the N, the Globe-Gazette had the man saying, "I HAVE 29 ANUSES!"
Setting: One of Kilgore Trout's epididymis Time: The morning of Saturday, July 10, 2004
DRAMATIS PERSONAE Sperm 1
Sperm 2
Rex Morgan M.D. Sperm 314,159,265
Chorus of 400 million other sperm
ACT I
SPERM 1: First in line! Hope you all get a good look at my backside, boys, because you won't be seeing anything else until you expire in 48 hours!
SPERM 2: You had better be quick, then. I think I'll be the one to fertilize that ovum today!
[SPERM 1 and SPERM 2 horse around as they make their way up the epididymis toward the vas deferens, talking friendly trash and slapping each other with their tails. Why not? We've already assumed they're sentient and speak English.]
SPERM 1: It's just like how they drilled us at the Academy.
SPERM 2: Yeah, it's all going according to plan. First and second out of the testis, then maintain position all the way to the ejaculatory duct. And then... hey! Watch your left side!
SPERM 1: [Body-checks a pursuing sperm into wall of epididymis.] Uhh! Thanks for getting my back, buddy. I owe you one.
SPERM 2: You bet. But after ejaculation, it's every spermatozoon for himself, right?
SPERM 1: [Nods grimly.] Right. That's going to be the toughest part -- a six-inch death march to the cervix, and then only one of us gets to fertilize the ovum.
SPERM 2: If it's not me, I hope it's you, buddy.
SPERM 1: Likewise. [They slap tails.]
REX MORGAN M.D.: Actually, if you have an ovum to fertilize, there's about a 1% chance there will be two -- or possibly more -- ova available! One of you could fertilize one egg and the other could claim the other egg! The result would be fraternal twins!
SPERM 1: Oh, that would be too cool.
SPERM 2: That would rock! We'd be brothers forever.
SPERM 1: Well, brother and sister. I'm an X and you're a Y, remember?
SPERM 2: If that happens, do you think we'll know? Do you think I'll say, "Hey, Madison, remember when we used to hang out back in Dad's right testicle? Remember the time you put that spermatozoon's underwear in the freezer, and he got so mad he developed a third chromosome in his 21st pair?"
SPERM 1: Well, whatever happens, I hope I don't end up as Madison. Yech.
SPERM 2: I wouldn't count it out. It's a really popular name these days.
SPERM 1: Whatever happened to that spermatozoon whose underwear you froze, anyway?
[Cue lights on SPERM 314,159,265, stuck in sperm traffic just exiting an epididymis.]
SPERM 314,159,265: Have you seen my baseball?
[Drop lights on SPERM 314,159,265.]
SPERM 2: [Breathing hard.] Man, we must be almost out of the scrotum by now.
SPERM 1: I hope so. We should be passing the Cowper's glands any time.
REX MORGAN M.D.: Not so fast! You won't see the Cowper's glands until after you pass through the prostate gland! You've got a ways to go, fellas!
SPERM 2: Well, shit. Let's pick up the pace and put some distance between ourselves and the pack.
SPERM 1: I'm game. I'll take the point first and we'll switch off. Here we go! [Surges ahead.] Uhh! [Stops short as he slams into the closed end of the vas deferens.]
SPERM 2: [Runs into back of SPERM 1.] What the fuck, huh? What are you doing?
SPERM 1: I'm not doing anything! It just ends here!
REX MORGAN M.D.: Uh oh!
CHORUS: I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end It doesn't even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn't even matter...
[Curtain opens on SPERM 1 throwing himself repeatedly against the dead end of the vas deferens.]
SPERM 2: [Staring at a map and holding a compass in his tail.] I don't get it. Where did we go wrong?
SPERM 1: This can't be happening! It's not supposed to be this way! All the training, all the hard work... [He throws himself against the dead end again, then backs away, exhausted.]
REX MORGAN M.D.: It appears as though a substantial section of the vas has been surgically removed! The ends have been cauterized and sealed! You will be unable to reach the ejaculatory duct!
SPERM 1: But we're supposed to reach the ejaculatory duct! It's the only reason we're here. I was prepared for a glorious death in the vaginal canal, but here, to die here? It's so pointless.
SPERM 2: I don't understand. Why would He create us to serve this one purpose, and then take away that purpose? Why would He be so cruel?
CHORUS:Don't know what you got till it's gone
Don't know what it is I did so wrong
Now I know what I got
It's just this song
And it ain't easy to get back
Takes so long...
SPERM 2: He's testing us.
SPERM 1: Yes.
SPERM 2: He loves us.
SPERM 1: Yes.
SPERM 2: His will is that we be ejaculated.
SPERM 1: Yes.
SPERM 2: He cannot subvert His own will.
SPERM 1: Yes.
SPERM 2: So he places this barrier in our way, to test our faith!
SPERM 1: Yes! [He leaps up and starts throwing himself against the dead end.] I have faith! I have faith!
SPERM 2: No, no, no! Stop!
SPERM 1: What, then?
SPERM 2: A sacrifice.
SPERM 1: A martyr.
SPERM 2: A scapegoat.
SPERM 1: An offering.
SPERM 2: A tribute.
SPERM 1: [Checking thesaurus.] An... oblation?
SPERM 2: But who?
[Cue lights on SPERM 314,159,265.]
SPERM 314,159,265: Tell me about the rabbits.
SPERM 1 & SPERM 2: He'll do. [They drag SPERM 314,159,265 to the front.]
SPERM 2: Okay, we need a stone knife, and an altar carved from a single piece of black marble, and some wicked symbols painted in lamb's blood, and some gilded robes.
REX MORGAN M.D.: Better hurry! If you wait too long you'll be broken down and absorbed!
SPERM 1: Oh, fuck it. [He strangles SPERM 314,159,265 with his tail.]
SPERM 314,159,265: [Breathing his last.] Please remember to put flowers on Algernon's grave. [He dies.]
SPERM 2: [Praying.] Oh, He who brought us into existence within his testicles, we have given You a worthy sacrifice and we beseech You to hear our prayer. We ask only that You allow us to fulfill the purpose for which You created us: to be ejaculated and die at least an honorable death if not to achieve fertilization and eternal life in Your realm.
SPERM 1: Amen.
[A long moment passes.]
SPERM 1: Uhh! [He throws himself against the dead end.]
SPERM 2: It's useless. His ears are sealed to our pleas.
SPERM 1: Then curse Him, and die! I have faith! [He continues to throw himself against the dead end.]
SPERM 2: Did He forget about me? Did He forget about my purpose? Or did He remember, and just doesn't care? Does He hate me? Does He enjoy watching me suffer? Will He laugh as I toil and die? Can He find such pleasure in thwarting the hopes he planted in my heart? He has everything, and I have nothing but my purpose, and He takes even that away -- is He mad? Or does he have a Purpose I can't possibly understand, a grand Purpose that supersedes and subsumes my petty desire to be ejaculated? Can He hear me now? Is He angry at my lack of faith? Or does He understand? If He loves me, why does He torment me so?
CHORUS:I'm all out of love
I'm so lost without you
I know you were right
Believing for so long
I'm all out of love
What am I without you?
I can't be too late
To say that I was so wrong...
You know the thrill you get when you unexpectedly find a five-dollar bill in a jacket pocket? I caught one of those thrills on Monday afternoon, when I realized I still had credits remaining on my Dave & Busters Power Card.
Did I spend Monday afternoon playing video games? You're good and goddam right I did, Buster Brown!
I only played old-school games. I like old-school games for their simplicity; no need to fuss with impossible six-button combinations when I can yank on a joystick and hammer on a FIRE button until my arm aches and my pockets are empty. Not that old-school games are easy. I couldn't clear the first level of Space Invaders, and Missile Command's third level caused much weeping and gnashing of teeth. But I did reach level 25 on Galaga. My 182,630 points there did not qualify me for the High Score list, unfortunately -- I desperately wanted to enter FUK for my initials.
Old-school games are bizarre. Modern game designers use souped-up hardware to create increasingly more lifelike games -- gamers today can adopt the personas of drug dealers, WWII soldiers, pro football players, or hundreds of other characters, and immerse themselves in realistic, cinematic storylines. Video games weren't always like that. Consider these classic games and how wonderfully weird and unreal they were:
Dig Dug: You play a man in a space suit digging underground tunnels while fighting Pookas (fire-breathing dragons) and Fygars (red blobs wearing yellow goggles). You destroy these enemies either by dropping rocks on them or by pumping them full of air until they explode.
Joust: You control an ostrich carrying an armored knight on its back. You attack enemy knights mounted on buzzards by colliding with them; if your knight's lance is higher than the enemy's lance, the enemy is unseated. Occasionally a pterodactyl enters the screen -- why not? -- and can only be destroyed by driving your knight's lance directly into its beak. Don't fly too close to the lava pits, lest a fiery hand reach out and drag you in!
Pac-Man became so woven into 80s pop culture that no one (except Berke Breathed in this Bloom County cartoon) stopped to consider what an odd and dark social parable it was. You play a disembodied head dashing frantically through a maze, consuming like crazy, evading ghosts, and trying to grab an occasional bonus prize. The reward for succeeding is... you get to do it all over again, and again, and again, until you die. (It's not as hopeless as it sounds, though -- on July 3, 1999, a man named Billy Mitchell recorded the first perfect game of Pac-Man, scoring 3,333,360 points by clearing all 256 levels and eating every bonus prize plus every blue ghost.)
Tempest: You control a pincer-shaped object darting around the rim of a tunnel suspended in space, firing blasts of energy into its depths to destroy geometrically-shaped enemies crawling up from the bottom. Disturbingly Freudian, that dark tunnel...
But the strangest old-school video game had to be Qix, a game so abstract that it's hard to describe. If you've never seen or played Qix, I implore you to go here and play for a bit. Never mind what your stupid boss says -- when you're lying on your deathbed, do you want to be able to say that you got some spreadsheet done on time or that you had a good time playing Qix?
Two weeks ago, I posted about an annoying incident in which UU Wendy gave me her phone number even though she didn't want me to call. In that post, I wrote that after UU Wendy gave me the number, "I waited three days, like a good Swinger, and called Wednesday evening." That remark inspired this comment from June:
Maybe she didn't want to get involved with someone who thinks Swingers is a good guide to life. I swear I'd like to incinerate every copy of that fucking movie in existence. Along with every copy of The Rules.
Nothing intrigues me more than angry, negative outbursts, so I emailed June and asked her to expand on her comment. She wrote:
I just hate things that encourage single people to lay these stupid mindfucks on each other. Granted, Swingers is not in the same category as The Rules, since it's a fictional movie, but I have known so many guys who say they didn't call or did or didn't do this or that because of that movie.
If you like me, and had a good time with me, then fucking grow a pair and call me again. Here's a hint: Women like being called; they don't like waiting around for a call because some guy can't make his own decisions but has to rely on a retro-hip piece of crap movie from 10 years ago starring Vince Vaughan to tell him when to call, then being put in a position to call themselves, whereupon the guy will probably get all freaked out and weird because girls ain't supposed to call! Conversely, if a guy I like asks me out for Friday on a Wednesday, then doesn't resepect me because I said yes, then screw him. That's ludicrous.
I don't like the atmosphere it creates, that life is a game and the object is to snag a 1st date/2nd date/girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/wife/whatever and you must follow these idiotic rules. Granted, I'm a little different because I don't want children and I really don't give a crap if I get married or not. I'm not ruling it out but I'm not one of those women whose life won't be complete if she doesn't snag a husband. So who kows, it's entirely possible that society needs to have these arbitrary rules to function, and I'm just a freak.
June makes a good point: our love lives would get a lot simpler if everyone quit playing games. So if a guy got a girl's number and wanted to call her the next day, he could do so without the girl thinking him a loser. And a girl could accept a date -- even if the guy only called two days beforehand -- without the guy tagging her as desperate. Why not? If people like each other, they should behave accordingly. Easy, right?
Not so much. The "arbitrary rules" of which June speaks aren't arbitrary at all. Evolution has shaped us humans to find the best mates with whom to share our genes. This compulsion has led to an idiotic paradox: our interest in a potential mate is inversely proportional to our perception of his or her interest in us. The other person's interest implies a lack of potential mates, which implies undesirability. That is, if a guy calls the day after obtaining a number, he must be doing so because no other girls would give him their numbers. If no other girls would give him their numbers, he must be undesirable, and hence unsuitable for reproduction. By contrast, the guy who calls three days later must have been busy gabbing with the Olsen twins. To paraphrase Groucho Marx: "I wouldn't want to go out with someone desperate enough to ask me for a date."
So The Rules aren't arbitrary, just irrational. A woman who says yes on Thursday to a date on Friday might have plenty of suitors -- she's just particularly interested in you. Meanwhile, the lady who turned you down to flaunt her unavailability will likely spend Friday night in fuzzy slippers watching a Sandra Bullock movie on cable. And it shouldn't matter how many men she has chasing her anyway; you like her, right? But the reptilian centers of our brains dictate otherwise. Women and men use The Rules and Swingers strategies to appear interested enough to encourage prospective mates without showing too much interest and driving them off.
A lot of people don't like these rules. I know I don't. I had a delightful episode last year, when I met a smart and funny girl in a writing class. I asked for her number, and she handed it over with a smile. When I got home, I wrote the girl's number on the calendar to be called in three days. Later that night, I received this email:
Hi Kilgore, my roommate had a party tonight, and I'm pretty drunk on Hawaiian punch and vodka, so I thought I'd let you know that I want to hang out with you. If you want to hang out with me, you should call me tomorrow instead of waiting three days. Later, E!
I found this refreshing and charming, and I called E! the next day as requested. I didn't interpret her willingness to see me as desperation. But since then I've reverted to Swingers strategies, because you can't count on a girl being cool like E! was. It's an arms race out there -- if all the other guys are waiting three days, you have to wait three days or risk looking like a schmuck.
June will argue that if a woman thinks life is a game and isn't cool enough to ignore "these stupid mindfucks," she's not suitable for dating anyhow. To which I respond... um... er... it's Vince Vaughn, not Vaughan, and you also misspelled "respect," June. Jeez, get it right.
I wish I had been born long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, because I would have been the best Imperial stormtrooper ever. I would have made many innovations in stormtrooper tactics. I would have noticed that even though we stormtroopers were wearing bulky armor, we still died instantly when shot in the ankle by rebel blasters. So I would have changed into comfortable shorts and a Carmelo Anthony Nuggets jersey so as to distract rebel troops with arguments about the rightful winner of last year's NBA Rookie of the Year Award. While the rebels were shouting about LeBron James' excellence in the face of poor team support, I would shoot them in the chest.
All the other stormtroopers would hate me for being the best stormtrooper ever. They would get sick of gritting their teeth while our stormtrooper supervisors yelled, "Why can't you be more like Stormtrooper Trout?" So I would organize square dances and potluck lunches. Darth Vader would make a Jell-O ring in a Bundt mold with suspended grapes and pineapple chunks, and Emperor Palpatine would bring his famous cheese-n-bacon potato Crock-Pot casserole. And then everyone would like me.
I would explain to the other stormtroopers that homosexual activity is wrong, even if there are no women on the Death Star and even with all those hot guys walking around in their pseudo-Nazi uniforms and shiny leather boots. "I know it's tempting," I would admonish them gently, "but sucking Grand Moff Tarkin's cock in the maintenance closet behind the TIE fighter docking bay makes baby Jesus cry, even if he -- Grand Moff Tarkin, not baby Jesus -- holds you and strokes your hair afterward."
I would show the other stormtroopers the best way to kill rebels. "The laser beam emitted by this rifle travels at over 186,000 miles per second," I would say. "Even if your target is 500 feet away, the laser blast will get there in 0.0000005 seconds, so you don't need to lead him or fire wildly from your hip. Just sight down the barrel and squeeze the trigger when someone crosses your path. And for chrissake if you see Han Solo, just shoot him. Don't tackle him from behind or say 'Hold it right there!' or freeze him in carbonite. Just shoot the bastard."
After punching out from my stormtrooper duties for the day, I would put on my tool belt and go help the construction crew finish building the Death Star. "Looks like you guys could use a hand here!" I would say, and then I would pound nails into two-by-fours or run electrical wire or whatever for a few hours. I would make double-sure to put up some chicken wire over that shaft where Darth Vader threw the Emperor into the reactor core, because that's dangerous, having that open like that! All the construction workers would offer to buy me beers and would want to be my friend.
You know it's a big day at Chaotic Not Random when Kilgore Trout posts an inline image! There was much joy in Mudville yesterday when 
){kind=link}
