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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
(You like zombies. You like computers. So you’d certainly like a zombie computer, right?
No, probably not. They’re sort of nasty. But maybe fun to learn about, over at Secondhand SCIENCE. Go on over, and feed your braaaaaaaaaains.)
I was just watching Dr. No on cable. I’d forgotten just how old — that would be 53 fricking years, if you’re scoring at home — it is. As someone who was interested in space as a kid, but grew up with Roger Moore’s Bond (I was in 3rd grade when Moonraker came out, for reference), it’s bizarre to watch a movie where the villain is disrupting Cape Canaveral rockets, before the start of the Apollo program.
I mean, today it would all be done with drones and femtolasers and such. And would probably be sabotaging the Facebook SpaceFace Social Satellite orbiter or something. So it would be dreadfully difficult not to root for the bad guys. Still.
Of course, Dr. No also began the long, convoluted and futile history of sending exotic animals to do an evil assassin’s job. Namely, killing James Bond. In a middle scene, a tarantula in bed fails to subdue Sean Connery, and eventually gets smashed all over a hotel floor.
I mean, we’ve all been there, amirite?
“Just because a critter is poisonous doesn’t mean its vicious and bloodthirsty and has a grudge against Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
Obviously, the animals — like the assassins, the henchmen, the hired goons, the masterminds, the evil geniuses and possibly ebola (I haven’t seen a couple of the more recent ones) — always fail. But unlike the evil idiots, the animals aren’t to blame for this failure. They’re just animals.
Spiders and vipers and boa constrictors (oh my) — these aren’t spy killers. Some of them are barely carnivores, for crissakes. Just because a critter is poisonous doesn’t mean its vicious and bloodthirsty and has a grudge against Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Which all comes back to the evil idiots, because — if you absolutely insist on sending an animal to kill James Bond, at least pick a good one. Here are a few suggestions, all better than the feeble attempts thwarted in the movies for the last fifty years:
Rhinoceros:
There’s been at least one snake snuck into a shower 007 was having, and it killed a big old bunch of nothing. But if the baddies had crammed a rhino in the tub? Bye-bye, Bondie. Rhinocerii are ill-tempered, huge and prone to trampling. And what’s more — for the first nineteen films or so, back when smoking was “cool”, James Bond was lighting cigarettes all over the place. Before sex, after sex, during a firefight, while he’s smushing spiders into the carpet, always. And rhinos hate fire. It’d only be a matter of time before some evil henchman has to come scrape Bond guts off the rhino’s shoe.
Jellyfish:
I know what I said about poisonous docile creatures, but this is different. You don’t rely on some snake to slither to the perfect spot or a black widow to bite just right. This plan is simpler — and yet, more diabolical. You take a bunch of lethal stinging jellyfish, seal them in a chintzy waterbed and stick it in Bond’s hotel room. The jellyfish don’t have to sneak anywhere — Bond will come to them. (Probably in the company of some cleavage-laden floozy named Charming Titters or Vagina Ponderosa, if history is any guide.) At some point, the flimsy mattress bursts, and Bond sinks into a stinging mass of death. Honestly, how hard is that?
Africanized bees
Look, I don’t know if they’d kill him. But half of Bond’s deal is looking pretty for the ladies, and I don’t know how you do that with fourteen angry bee stings on the tip of your nose. Lob a hive full of these bastards into the bedroom, and Bond might not be dead — but he won’t be Bond without an epi pen and a gallon of Bactine, either.
Housecats
Cats hate everyone, but they also pick up on people who don’t like cats. And James Bond is no cat lover. He might even be allergic. If you let nineteen cats into his room while he’s sleeping, by morning he’ll either be in asthmatic shock or they’ll have sucked his soul out, as cats are not-so-secretly planning to do to each and every one of us some day. And then they’ll eat his dead British spy face. Because they’re cats.
Blue whale
I’m just saying. Blue whales literally weigh two hundred tons. If you drop a blue whale anywhere on the same city block as James Bond, you’re going to kill him. Instantly. He’ll be a fine paste glommed onto a whale ass. Game over. Do the homework.
So I expect the next couple of Bond flicks will take some of these ideas to heart, and — if they just have to make animals do the dirty double-agent work — we’ll at least see more effective animal assassins in future flicks.
There’s a whole kingdom of critters out there, evildoers. Get your shit together, already.
Permalink | No Comments(Shift yourself into a new frame of mind!
That’s a clever wordplaying way to introduce the latest post over at Secondhand SCIENCE, all about frameshift mutations.
There’s wordplay over there, too. But also science. Clever, clever science.)
There’s a fine line — or so I’m told — in deciding when your car isn’t worth keeping up or fixing, and buying another one instead.
Mostly, this fine line has nothing to do with the car, and everything to do with money. If you’re a big bank CEO or sultan of some sweaty desert nation, you can buy a new car the first time some random bird turd-bombs your windshield.
(In fairness, I don’t know how many birds live in those desert countries. Maybe there, it’s more of a problem with camels shitting on your whitewalls. That would suck.)
Of course, there’s the other end of the spectrum, where either money’s so tight or you’re just that clingy with your ride that you can not swap cars, under any circumstances. Then you keep the old jalopy limping along with cracked pistons and busted gauges and a door that maybe isn’t attached so much to the frame any more. You spend more on duct tape for the thing than Donald Trump spends on Aqua Net for the chinchilla on his head. “New car” is not a phrase in your vocabulary.
For the rest of us, the answer is somewhere in between. But where, exactly, and how do you know? Do you tally up maintenance and repair costs, and when they equal the purchase price, you cut the cord? Do you wait a certain number of miles, out of respect? Where does the Blue’s Clues Book value come into it, anyway? Is that a thing? I don’t know cars so much.
“Let’s keep this conversation vehicular, sparky. My headlights are up here.”
What I do know is that I’m in the ballpark for a new ride. Not yet the market. But the ballpark. My car’s pushing ten years old, the brakes have worn repeatedly, some electronics have fritzed, certain bits have rusted, and I just had the front shocks replaced.
I mean, sure. That also sounds like the results of my last physical, but we’re not talking about me here. Let’s keep this conversation vehicular, sparky. My headlights are up here.
Worse for me and my particular peccadilloes, though, is the car’s profound out-of-dateness. I’m not a fancy guy, nor looking to drive a penis extension. I don’t need a Mercedes-Bonz or a Koenigswangg or one of those Masturberatis.
(Let’s hope that last one is a convertible. I’m just saying.)
What I do like, though, are gadgets. I’m a programmer; I can’t help it. Anything that connects or plays music or lights up or plays holograms of Obi-Wan Kenobi giving me directions to a sushi place out in the suburbs, I’m in. And my car does a little of that, barely. But so much capability is missing. I mean, do you even Bluetooth, car?
(You do, technically. But only to connect with the phone to pick up calls. If I want to play music from my phone, I’ve got to pair it to another device that shoots the signal to your FM radio, of all the 19th century places. And that other device?
It plugs into your cigarette lighter. Holy embarrassing Edsels, already. The lighter plug is a holdover from, like, the Model T. Get it together, man.)
Automotive engineers — and millennial automotive engineers, sometimes, probably — have had nearly a decade to figure out cool gadgety crap to cram into a car, and I want it all. YouTube on the dashboard console. Fingerprint sensors on the glove box. A gearshift that doubles as a selfie stick. And an automatic ignition starter embedded in a chip planted behind my shoulder blade, like some sort of Jason-Bourne-meets-Helio-Castroneves superhero. Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme.
I’ve got none of that right now. Not even close. I’ve got a fob to unlock the thing, yes. And an in-dash GPS, with directions apparently programmed by blindfolded hyperactive monkeys. And that far-far-too-phallic prong shoved into the cigarette lighter, so I can hear Not Shakespeare and Masaladosa any time I’m driving.
But it’s all pretty cheesy by modern standards. I mean, I’m using a key — an honest-to-god key — to start the engine, like a caveman. There’s no self-driving, self-parking, self-washing or self-respecting feature anywhere. And the stereo has a slot where you’re supposed to insert something called a cee-dee. I don’t even know if I’m saying that right. Is it pronounced “k’d”? What prehistoric nonsense is this?
So the car is old, in the same way your Luddite Aunt Carol is “old” and uncool and thinks Instagram is a fast-delivery system for dessert crackers. But since I only drive the thing — that’s the car, not your Aunt Carol, by the way — maybe twenty miles a week on average, it’s not quite fallen apart enough to warrant replacement.
Oh, it’s close. Another brake rehaul or a misaligned frame might do it. Hell, a flat tire might do it at this point. But the truth is, right now, as we net-speak — there’s nothing wrong with the vehicle. Debilitating out-of-touchness with the new millennium and the internet of things age, notwithstanding. Obviously.
Now I come back to my calculus question of: when to drive it, and when to dump it? As much as I might be ready for a bunch of new gadgets — and the motor, comfortable seats, ample trunk space and impressive safety rating that would of course come along with them — my old pile is still, in a manner of speaking, doing the job. Barely. And it’ll take a fairly significant problem to justify trading the old girl in for a shiny (and wirelessy and multimediay and augmented reality-y) new one.
So I suppose my real question should be:
Who’s got a screwdriver I can borrow to loosen a few important bolts? Or maybe gouge a brake line? I promise I’ll return it, quick.
Just as soon as Obi-Wan tells me how to find your house.
Permalink | No Comments(Psyched about science? Me, too!
Check out my latest Secondhand SCIENCE post about the so-called birthday problem [my guess: an improper cake to frosting ratio], or check out a bunch of us slapping science around over on the ScienceScape blog.
Two great tastes that science great together. How could you lose?)
I met a guy the other day whose name is Elias.
Only his name isn’t Elias. His name is pronounced “Elias”, and he certainly answers to “Elias”, but he gave me his business card and the first name on it is:
Alias
This makes me wonder what he did as a little tiny baby to piss his parents off so badly.
Because it’s one thing to give your child an unusual name. The Kal-els and Jermajestys and Moxie Crimefighters of the world have their own, sometimes spectacular, issues. But to name your kid “Alias” would seem to set him up for a lifetime of exasperating conversations.
With government employees. Who are already plenty exasperating enough.
Imagine the fun at a border crossing with a name like Alias. Not even a touchy border; say, just the one between the U.S. and Canada. Even the uber-polite Mounties would be all up in your business. Why do you list “alias” on your passport? Where is your real name, eh? What name are you hiding, anyway, hoser?
Honestly. You’d be cavity-searched by a randy moose before they’d let you cross into the country.
And that’s nothing, compared to what the DMV would do to you. Applying for a driver’s license would be like a hellish Laurel and Hardy routine:
DMV Flunky: Okay, sir. Do you have any any aliases?
Alias: No.
DMV Flunky: But you indicated “alias” here in the name column.
Alias: That’s my name. “Elias”.
DMV Flunky: Sir, aliases must go in the “alias” column. Names in the name column.
Alias: But that is my name.
DMV Flunky: What is?
Alias: “Elias”.
DMV Flunky: Elias is your alias?
Alias: No. My name. Right there.
DMV Flunky: This says “alias”. Those go in the “alias” column.
Alias: No, it says “Elias”.
DMV Flunky: Sir, we have a moose you’re going to need to talk to…
I’m just saying. I’m all for unique names. But one that will make you spend umpteen hours of your life, needlessly arguing with civil servant flacks?
That must have been one infuriating baby.
Permalink | No Comments(I bedo, you bedo, we all bedo for albedo!
Okay, probably we don’t. But if you want to see what all(-bedo) the fuss is about, hop over to Secondhand SCIENCE for this week’s lowdown. It’ll brighten your day. You can (al-)bet on it.)
I don’t believe in absolutes.
Unless saying I don’t believe in any absolutes is an absolute. Because then I couldn’t say that, because I wouldn’t believe it. How’s this:
I don’t believe in any absolutes I’ve heard of, but if some new absolute wandered by tomorrow, would I be flexible about it? Absolutely.
That seems better. Will not fit on a T-shirt. But better.
I know a lot of people feel differently. They believe in Right-with-a-capital-R, Truth-with-a-capital-T and assorted other Big-Important-Tremendously-Cosmic-Hypotheses-with-a-capital-B-I-T-C-H.
Me? I don’t see it.
But two plus two, a mathematician might protest, looking smug. Two plus two is Always — that’s capital-Always — four. You can’t argue math. It’s always true. Absolutely.
Except really, it isn’t. Math is an abstraction, a model that perfectly explains a perfect existence in a perfect vacuum. Not our existence, which is a messy tumble through a goopy universe full of weirdness and fraught with Kardashians. Math starts breaking down when circles aren’t absolutely perfect; you really think it can handle this shitshow we’re soaking in? No.
“To say, absolutely, that two plus two is immutably four, you have to ignore certain factors of everyday life. Like, all of them. Time. Temperature. Tony Danza fans.”
The problem with math is what it leaves out. To say, absolutely, that two plus two is immutably four, you have to ignore certain factors of everyday life. Like, all of them. Time. Temperature. Tony Danza fans. So while “2 + 2” is, on paper, always equal to “4”, that doesn’t always translate into the real world. For instance:
Two ice cubes plus two ice cubes in a word problem equals four ice cubes. Two ice cubes plus two ice cubes in a volcano equals no ice cubes, and probably a severe need for aloe vera.
Two bunnies plus two bunnies on paper gives you four bunnies. With a bit of time, two bunnies plus two bunnies in the real world gives you enough furballs to reenact the Tribbles episode from the original Star Trek.
(Note: This apparently also works with Tony Danza fans. Please don’t try this at home.)
What I’m saying is, context is important. The whole point of math is to strip away context completely and think about numbers; but in everyday life, we can’t do that. Context is like taxes, or death, or 2016 presidential candidates. You can’t escape it forever.
Other people appeal to some higher authority for their capital-A Absolutes. But really, are the “absolutes” in things like religion really that absolute to begin with?
Take the old “thou shalt not kill” rule. It makes sense. Nobody’s arguing it as a general guideline. But even in the book it comes from, there seem to be exceptions. Thou shalt not kill, except you can stone somebody who doesn’t follow the rules. Or thou shalt not kill, unless Goliath gets his chocolate in your peanut butter, or your peanut butter winds up on his fun-sized chocolate.
(Full disclosure: I haven’t really read the Bible since I was a kid, so it’s possible I’m getting the details mixed up with commercials that ran between Saturday morning cartoons. If Hershey’s chocolate company doesn’t actually sponsor the Old Testament, then sorry about that. But you get the gist.
Also, if it isn’t, then that’s totally an opportunity missed. If Ahab who begat Moab who begat Jeremiah had begat Almond Joy, the Nazareth nut-lover’s treat, it would’ve broken up the monotony a little. I’m just saying.)
Some might counter that all those funky rules and nearly-mostly-all-the-time “rules” changed, back when Jesus or Buddha or Mohammed or possibly Tony Danza showed up to set things straight. And that’s cool, sure. But there’s still the time factor. You’re basically saying:
We have rules that are capital-A-Absolute and immutable, starting… now.
Oh, no, wait. I forgot. There’s this other delicious animal nobody should eat, for some reason. Okay, starting… NOW. Absolutes!
Yeah. Seems legit.
Maybe there are Absolutes out there somewhere. Truthy Truths that no one can question, someone who’s so reliably Right you can set your atomic clock and your moral compass by them, and Beauty that would make every man, woman, child, dog, petunia, tree moss and nine-legged aquasaurus from Tau Ceti weep in awe. I’d like to think I’d know one of those when I saw it. But I haven’t yet.
And before you ask, fan clubbers: yes, that includes Tony Danza. Jesus. You people need a new hobby.
Permalink | No Comments(Hey, science fans. All Pluto’d out yet?
Well, over at Secondhand SCIENCE, this week’s science talk is all about the retrovirus. It ain’t space science. But it won’t take sixteen months to download, either. Give it a spin.)
Some people believe in omens.
I’m not one of those people. Sure, I believe in The Omen, insofar as I’m pretty sure a movie with that name exists. Maybe even a sequel — which I would assume is named The Omen II: Electric Omenloo. But as for actual omens, portending doom or luck or plagues of Elvis impersonators — nah. I don’t see it.
Which is a good thing. Because sometimes things happen that I could interpret as omens, were I so inclined. And they’re never good. Like the one last week.
I do a fair bit of collaborative writing with my friend Jenn.
(That’s not the “omen” part. That’s just the “background” bit. Keep going.)
Most of this collaboration comes in the form of an activity we call “drinkstorming”, a key and integral part of the process of getting a script together. Any process that comes in a pint glass, I can get behind.
Anyway, we finished a script a few days ago, which happened to be for a one-act play contest. This particular contest doesn’t accept online submissions — because it’s located in 1994, apparently — so I licked a copy of the script (the “GOLD, JERRY, GOLD! script) into an envelope and hoofed it down the block to my local post office.
Or Pony Express outpost, or Morse code relay station or carrier turtle holding pen. Whatever archaic technology the Luddites are using to snail information around the world these days. Maybe the place just puts lanterns in the window; one if by Amazon, two if the new Restoration Hardware catalog is in. I don’t know.
“After a short wait in line, I reached the counter and the Deskjobmaster General, or whatever it is he’s called.”
After a short wait in line, I reached the counter and the Deskjobmaster General, or whatever it is he’s called. He was a friendly older guy in absolutely no hurry — which was great, because if he was, his USPS-issued Apple Lisa-era personal computumotronic device would have sucked the “hurry” right out of him.
He didn’t seem to mind. And I was just happy not to get the “postal” flavor of postal worker. So we were cool.
When his computer’s hamsters finally ran through the numbers, he told me the price for the package — a little over three bucks — and I pulled out a tenner and paid him. He opened his drawer to make change — no, not his drawers, you pervert, jesus — and then he turned pale. Very pale. Like, as pale as I’d have turned if he’d pulled my change out of his drawers. Then he turned to me, all ashen-faced and crinkly-browed and said:
“Your change… is six sixty-six.”
This number concerns me not at all. I know what it’s associated with, yes. The horns and the forked tail and the violin-playing robot guy — all the stuff from the pamphlets the crazy “END IS NIGH” guys pass out on the sidewalk. I know. I don’t care.
Also, I know if it were an omen, it would just be the universe razzing me about my writing talent, or lack thereof.
(And considering the script in that envelope centered around a frustrated doofus romantically involved with his fitness tracker, I’m not sure I could adequately refute the universe’s mockery.
Well. Not in writing, apparently, anyway.)
So I smiled at mortified mailman guy, held out my hand and said, “Great, thanks!”
He wasn’t quite done looking horrified, but he dug out the money and handed over the Spare Change of the Beast, regardless. And he looked at my package with a new sense of “just what the hell is in that thing, anyway, mister?”
I thought about joking with my new Beelzebuddy over the situation. Maybe a “hey, keep that away from any flammable letters” or “don’t take any wooden brimstones, pal“. But I didn’t. He didn’t really seem in the mood.
And also, “postal” worker. There’s always the chance, right?
So I took my cursed cash, and wandered down the street for lunch where I combined it with a couple of presumably less-unholy dollars to buy a burrito that was only mostly damned. Mostly damned tasty.
And I have no doubt that our script — unholy as it definitely is — made its way uneventfully to its destination, without causing any gnashing of teeth or self-flagellation or plagues of carrier turtles poxing anyone’s doorstep.
Which is not to say that script will necessarily get into the contest. Oh my word, no. But that’s solely at the feet of our ability to tell an entertaining dick joke involving a wristband computer in five pages or less. As opposed to some sort of demonic literary critiquing force bedeviling the manuscript.
I can do that all by myself.
Just ask the universe.
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