The Sudden Curve

Altered Carbon -- Five Stars

Richard K. Morgan's fast-paced and impressive first novel is a rarity in SF -- it's also a crime/mystery novel. Set in the 25th century, when humans have "cortical stacks" implanted in the back of their brains, it has come to the point where's it's hard to die a final death -- your personality is being continually recorded by the implant (Robert Silverberg covered the same subject in the '60s in To Live Again).  When one body dies, the stack is implanted into a new one, sometimes even an artificial one, a process called "resleeving." In this culture we find Takeshi Kovacs, an Envoy, a specially trained soldier used to being resleeved, who finds himself in a cop's body to investigate one death of a centuries-old, extremely weathly man. At one point he finds himself in an AI hotel run by the ghost of Jimi Hendrix! Morgan's 25th-century Earth is  extraordinarily convincing, and deals with many adult themes (the graphic sex in this novel is not for the kiddies). Heck, now that I think about it, this whole novel is about Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n' Roll! With a little cage-fighting to the death thrown in. Don't miss it!

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO RANKS THIS BOOK ONE OF THE TOP FIVE SF NOVELS OF ALL TIME.

Lights Out

Yes, it's true. I was once a little kid, in body and mind. Now, I'm physically an adult but inwardly, like many a child, still have the urge to smack irritating people in the keester with a projectile, preferably from a slingshot. A stinging pebble for the averge jerk, but for politicians and busybodies who can't keep their noses out of other people's business, an 80-mph cue ball.

But years ago, when I was half as tall as I am now, and about one-quarter the weight, I had, in addition to a slingshot (and a pellet/BB/dart gun), about twice as much imagination as I do now. It was a great thing, but not always such a good thing. I not only slept with the night-light always on, but also, turtle-like, pulled the blanket completely over my head, because, as all kids instinctively know, being hidden under a blanket is complete protection against all monsters conceivable and inconceivable, no matter from what wacked-out dimension or time or space they appeared. It was even protection against the ones that a) lived under the bed b) in the closet or c) very sneakily and toothily disguised themselves as clothes lying on a chair (which was really really not a fair thing for them to do!).

Even today I sleep curled into a blob, with the blanket completely over me. Actually I use three blankets. An Intergalactic Death Ray couldn't get through three. Better safe than sorry, I say. I've grown out of using night-lights, although I keep a big flashlight by the bed to disintegrate monsters. I still keep the closet door closed, and there are most definitely no chairs in the bedroom! I used to throw my clothes on the floor, until I realized they were moving around at night, creeping closer and closer to me ("Hee hee hee. We're gonna get you, mister."). Forget that.

This overactive imagination of mine, which today gives me heart palpatations even though I mostly have control over it, was something that ran my life when I was a kid. I saw monsters standing in my bedroom door, and driving a '64 Ford Galaxy 500. I once thought I saw a girl with two heads (she had a little head and two great big ponytails).

Movies? I used to go ballastic in the theater during horror films ("Where's his head?! It's not on his body!"). The worst, however, were radio programs. The reason? Imagining something is worse than actually seeing it. In real-time, you might say, "Yeah, a ten-foot-tall monster. I can deal with that." But in your imagination, you might think, "Gee, maybe he's a thousand feet tall!"

When I was about eight, and had an imagination that weighed more than I did, I lived in an ancient two-story farmhouse that looked like something Mortica and Gomez might have inhabited. The driveway was horseshoe-shaped (I imagined from the air it looked like a giant's tongue), with our house at the inside bottom of the U. There were a lot of old, large, gnarly trees, which of course turned into monsters at night, with the branches reaching out for me like claws (everyone else remembers the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz; I remember those cranky talking trees).

One night, after my parents parked their VW Bug, we didn't get out. They wanted to finish listening to a radio program on their tinny little one-speaker AM radio (back in those days car radios had punch buttons and little knobs you twiddled). I was in the back seat. I don't remember if my sister was in the car. She probably wasn't, because if she had been she would have knocked me over and kicked out the back window trying to escape. She was even worse than me when it came to imagining monsters, and still tells me when she was four she often saw a guy with a handlebar mustache and a knife walking down the hall toward her room. Even today she still doesn't like mustaches. And all her knives are butter knives.

The program my parents were listening to I will never forget. I can't, since I spent years searching for it, and now own a tape of Arch Oboler's "The Dark," which was an episode of the often eerie, but unfortunately long gone, Lights Out.

I had no idea what to expect sitting that night in the back seat of my parents' car, with the trees going BWAHAHAHA! and waving around while waiting for me to get out. I certainly didn't expect a radio program about two guys walking into a farmhouse out in the country, just like the one in which I lived. And probably with great big sinister trees. And—brrr!—at night.

Their walking into the farmhouse wasn't the bad part. That was what they encountered in the farmhouse—a slimy shadow that jumped on them like one of those big spiders in Eight-Legged Freaks— and turned them inside out! And outside in! The special effects were the lolapalooza that sent me over the edge—they consisted of a horrible, sucking, slurping sound that I later found out was a wet rubber glove slowly being turned inside out. Slurrrrrpppp. It was the imaginative equivalent of a firecracker going off inside of the car.

Boy, I'll bet Oboler cackled for years over that program! I know I would have. Who would have thought it possible—creating one of the biggest frights ever on radio with a rubber glove.

And of course our two unfortunates were yelling, "Shadow! Slimy shadow! Get off of me! Quit turning me inside out! Ouch!" Slurrrpppp. And then they were trying to talk with their outsides on their insides, and vice versa. "Mmmph! Mmmph! Mmmph!"

I had had enough. I was twitching. My brains were hyperventilating. It felt like my brains were going to turn inside out. Yikes! Then I would have had my brains on the outside of my head, like the mutant lobster-people in This Island Earth! I felt like my eyes were going to pop out of their sockets—arrghh! Like Ray Milland in The Man with the X-Ray Eyes! Ack! Gack! Enough!

I did not want to listen to this program anymore! I had this vivid image of these two guys staggering around, with all their organs on the outside (how did they see?). And why didn't they just run before this thing latched onto them? Later I thought they must have been the fathers of those stupid teenagers in horror films who go upstairs and open the closet door when they know perfectly well there's a knife-wielding, hockey-mask-wearing, teenager-killing maniac loose in the house!

I was within seconds of losing control and yelling, "Turn it off!" when God took pity on me and ended the program. I guess even today those two poor guys are wandering around someplace, still turned inside out and going, "Mmmph! Mmmph! Mmmph!" And that is why I keep the closet door shut at night.

Occasionally I grin my evil grin and play that tape for innocent little kids. Every one of them does the same thing: their eyes bug out, they wave their hands at the radio, and they yell, "I don't want to listen anymore!" Ha ha! I was braver than I thought when I was little! At least I listened to the whole thing!

"The Dark" is not the only tape I own. I own some episodes of Quiet, Please and Suspense. Actually, I don't own them anymore, since they're on available on CD and I'm buying them. I sent the tapes to a fiend—uh, I mean friend—who said when he was little he would huddle under a blanket with a flashlight and read science fiction or else listen to radio programs (See? Blankets really are protection against everything.).

I sent the tapes to him in a big cardbox box. Why put three tapes into a big box, you might ask? Because I had to have room for the flashlight and blanket I sent him! I figured he'd need all the ammo he can use when he listens to "My Son John" and "Shadow of the Wings," which are stories about a father who brings his son back from the dead, and a sick little girl who sees something outside her window...something whose wings cast a shadow on her floor. At least I didn't send him probably the creepiest Lights Outs: "The Thing on the Fourble Board."

Ah...and some of the other tapes I own! Boris Karloff as a guy who bricks his wife up in a wall (but why then does she keep talking?) Edgar G. Robinson as a guy who's dead, but really ain't. There's one with some unknown actor who plays a catatonic who almost gets embalmed (more creepy-crawly special-effects: the embalming machine going SHOOKA SHOOKA SHOOKA.). It's all wonderful stuff, even if a bit unnerving at times.

Imagination is underrated. Albert Einstein understood its importance when he said, "Imagination is more important than knowledge." He didn't say knowledge wasn't important, but meant without imagination you can't use the knowledge properly. If Einstein hadn't had such an active imagination he would not have been able to see in his mind's eye what it was like to ride a light beam, and the world would have waited a lot longer for his discoveries.

Imagination is an inherent part of creativity. It is what I call a Thing Beyond All Doubt (which is not related to any of H.P. Lovecraft's Things Beyond All Belief). If we want more inventions—and best of all, more fun—we need more imaginative and creative people, even if they are a little goofy and eccentric and maybe even hide under blankets at night. And the imagination is like a muscle; it has to be exercised.It's not going to kill an adult to go oof oof over a book every once in a while. Kids don't even have to go oof—for them it's easy.

Many people today moan and groan and whine and get their shorts all twisted up about the sorry state of our schools. Paying teachers more is the answer, they say. Or standardized testing. Or more computers in the classroom. Or smaller classes. Or whatever.

Yet, in many schools, if children show any active interest in using their imaginations, a lot of people throw fits. Look how many goofuses don't want kids reading the Harry Potter books. I've read them; they're harmless. Some aren't even that good. What's next? C.S. Lewis and the Narnia books getting banned? Uh, what? They already are?

Just exactly how do these busybodies believe children are going to exercise and develop their imaginations? I never see it discussed. Just about the only thing I hear is "More money" and "More federal control." Oh, yeah, just great. A bunch of bureaucratic dweebs running the schools. I'd rather deal with Gollum than a bunch of bureaucrats. Actually, I'd rather sic Gollum on bureaucrats ("Hey, what is that thing?" "Me? Gollum. You? Snack!"Crunch.).

A lot of times, the child who is imaginative is the nail that gets hammered down. Dav Pilkey, author of the best-selling Captain Underpants books (which sometimes get banned), spent most of his school days sitting in the hallway writing and drawing. His teachers told him he'd never amount to anything (and boy did he get some good revenge! His principal is now a character in his books, one who runs around in his tighty-whities thinking he's a superhero.).

School was boring when I was a kid, and it's even more boring now. I perfected the nifty little trick of falling asleep while sitting up, with a book propped open in front of me (I think the title was, "ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE"). I never fell out of the chair, not once.

Fairy tales and fables, which have been around since who-knows-when, aren't taught in school, even though it's how people educated children for thousands of years. They weren't even taught in school when I was little. We had Dick and Jane and Pony and Spot, all of whom I thought were the spawn of Satan trying to suck the brains out of my six-year-old head and replace them with the twin demons of Boredom and Hyperactivity. Good thing Ritalin (which is Luciferian for "You're All Doomed") didn't exist back then; class clown that I was, it would have been shoved in me by the tablespoon.

Anyone who knows anything about children knows all of them like to be read stories, and they don't want to be read stories about recycling and some fake hole in the ozone layer! Even adults like stories, which is why Stephen King is so popular, and why I listen to those scary tapes.

Some adults, who remind me of the Byrds' song "My Back Pages" ("I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now") know that in some ways kids are a bit wiser than adults. G.K. Chesterton, in The Ethics of Elfland wrote this: "When the business man rebukes the idealism of his office-boy, it is commonly in some such speech as this: 'Ah, yes, when one is young, one has these ideals in the abstract and these castles in the air; but in middle age they all break up like clouds, and one comes down to a belief in practical politics, to using the machinery one has and getting on with the world as it is.' Thus, at least, venerable and philanthropic old men now in their honoured graves used to talk to me when I was a boy. But since then I have grown up and have discovered that these philanthropic old men were telling lies."

Bah—close the public schools down. Turn the lousiest teachers inside out and let them wander the countryside going "Mmmpph! Mmmpph! Mmmpph!" Read kids fairy tales and fables and myths. Let them read what appeals to them, even if they're comic books (I dare you to say something bad about Superman!). And if some of the stuff scares them, hey, so what? I actually kinda liked being scared in the back of that car, even if I nearly had a brain infarct. Everything seemed a little more real, more vivid. I remember very little from school, but I certainly remember that ding-dang frizzen-fruppen slimy shadow!

So, children, gather around the campfire, and for the next hour, sit quietly...you are about to  experience the awe and mystery...as you boldly go...Okay, I know I mixing my quotes, not to mention splitting my infinitives, but if you can guess what two programs those quotes are from, you get a gold star, one that you most definitely deserve. It shows you have imagination.

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO HAS A NIGHT-LIGHT

 

Monstrosity -- The Atomic Brain

This movie is sometimes known as Montrosity but is more often known as The Atomic Brain. As movies go, it's not really a monstrosity -- it's just boring, except for a few really weird scenes. There are brains in it, and some atomic energy, but no "Atomic Brain." The title might lead you to think there's some sort of nuclear-powered brain intent on taking over the world, but instead there's a Mad Scientist/Doctor whose passion is transplanting brains. The purpose of this cerebral mayhem is to transplant the brain of a really mean and really ugly old rich woman into the body of one of three nubile hotties. To that end he transplants the brain of a dog into some guy, creating what appears to be Joe Cocker, circa 1967. Another experiment produces a woman with the brain of a cat, which causes her to hiss, spit, claw and eat mice. Throw in a dim-witted butler/assistant to the mean ugly old rich woman, who gets offed with what appears to be a hatpin, a basement laboratory with dials and a bubbling vat, and you've got a flick that makes you give thanks DVD players have a fast forward.

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO HAS SEEN MORE BAD '50S SCI-FI FLICKS THAN ANYONE IN THE UNIVERSE.

Fire is Good, Smoke is Good

Especially when you use fire to smoke a Cohiba Double Corona LE 2003. Oooh. . .what a cigar. Of course, being a Cuban one, you can't get it in the US. But with the wonders of the Internet and Google, you'll find they are available in the Great White North, from our Canadian neighbors. This particular cigar is pretty expensive, but there are cheaper ones that are almost just as good.

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO HAS BEEN REDUCED TO SMOKING SWISHER SWEETS AND DRINKING MAD DOG 20/20. BEING HOMELESS, HE KEEPS THEM IN THE CHEVY CAPRICE STATION WAGON HE LIVES IN.

Great Poster, Awful Film

The measurement of a league differs from country to country, but in England, it's generally three miles. So what we have here is a monster from 30,000 miles. Actually, he's the Monster from 20 Feet Under the Ocean. This movie is so dumb and boring I can't recommend it at all. I like cheesy '50s SF/horror films. Some, like The Brain That Wouldn't Die and Teenagers from Outer Space, are worth watching. This turkey isn't. What we've got is a guy in a cheap monster suit, who kind of just sits there under the ocean, waiting to tump rowboats over so he can drown the retards in them. Then the bodies and the rowboats wash up in the exact same places on the shore. I suppose this film is a warning about the dangers of radiation, since the monster is supposedly a mutated turtle. This is strictly a "fast forward" film. It's sometimes part of other compliations, like Sci-Fi Flicks, which is a bit hard to find (it's not even listed at Amazon) but do not buy it by itself. You'll be wasting your money, unless you can get it for, oh, say a dollar.

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO WILL NEVER TAKE A ROWBOAT ONTO THE OCEAN.

Ash is back, lest we forget

Well... almost (Ash hisownself really will be back soon, in the next installment of Evil Dead already signed, sealed and in pre-production - Yay! ) in the meantime - Bruce Cambell is playing a suspiciously Retieflike character 2nite on Sci-Fi ~

posted by TomNovak who says, "this is my BOOMSTICK!"

Almost perfect pets

Orange Comets

Too bad you have to take them out of the bag.

posted by Tom Novak, who doesn't even have to bother with Purina Fish Chow."

The Late, Great A.E. van Vogt

During the Golden Age of science fiction, van Vogt was as popular as Heinlein, although often he was not the most logical of writers, nor did he sometimes take care of loose plot ends. Yet, he was the most radical and visionary of writers during his time. My personal favorite of his novels is The Weapon Shops of Isher, which I first encountered in Anthony Boucher's A Treasury of Great Science Fiction. Even his first published story, "Black Destroyer, is still a vivid, unforgettable story. Alexi Panshin thinks van Vogt is such a profound writer he devoted a substantial section of his website (click HERE) discussing his influence on the field.

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO WANTS TO OWN A WEAPON SHOP.

Some Great Financial Advice

I keep one Mastercard and one Visa, on the back of which, in the signature line, I have written, ASK FOR ID. If I lose them, it'll be hard for the thief to use them.

Here's some more advice:

1. The next time you order checks, have only your initials (instead of first name) and last name put on them. If someone takes your checkbook, they will not know if you sign your checks with just your initials or your first name, but your bank will know how you sign your checks.

2. Do not sign the back of your credit cards. Instead, put "PHOTO ID REQUIRED".

3. When you are writing checks to pay on your credit card accounts, DO NOT put the complete account number on the "For" line. Instead, just put the last four numbers. The credit card company knows the rest of the number, and anyone who might be handling your check as it passes through all the check
processing channels won't have access to it.

4. Put your work phone # on your checks instead of your home phone. If you have a PO Box, use that instead of your home address. If you do not have a PO Box, use your work address. Never have your Social Security number printed on your checks. (DUH!) You can add it if it is necessary. But if you have it printed, anyone can get it.

5. Place the contents of your wallet on a photocopy machine. Do both sides of each license, credit card, etc. You will know what you had in your wallet and all of the account numbers and phone numbers to call and cancel. Keep the photocopy in a safe place. I also carry a photocopy of my passport when I travel either here or abroad. We've all heard horror stories about fraud that's committed on us in stealing a name, address, Social Security number, credit cards, etc.

6. Call the three national credit reporting organizations immediately, if your cards or checks or stolen to place a fraud alert on your name and Social Security number. I had never heard of doing that until advised by a bank which called to tell me an application for credit was made over the Internet in my name. The alert means any company who checks your credit knows your information was stolen, and they have to contact you by phone to authorize new credit.

Now, here are the numbers you always need to contact about your wallet,
etc., has been stolen:

1.) Equifax: 1-800-525-6285
2.) Experian (formerly TRW): 1-888-397-3742 3.)
Trans Union: 1-800-680-7289
4.) Social Security Administration (fraud line): 1-800-269-0271

Classics from Outer Space

I've never liked buying a DVD with just one movie on it. Guess what -- my prayers were answered, in the form of Classics from Outer Space. Three DVDs, for about $10 depending on where you buy them, with 10 movies! Fourteen hours! Woo hoo! I swoon! This particular set of discs contains:

"Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women"
"Flash Gordon: Rocketship"
"Phantom from Space"
"Embryo"
"Voyage to the Prehistoric Planet"
"Killers from Space"
"Night of the Blood Beast"
"The Day the Sky Exploded"
"Attack from Space"
"Assignment: Outer Space"

I am raptured! And there are other sets like these!

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO WILL BE PARKED IN FRONT OF THE DVD PLAYER FOR HOURS AND HOURS.

 

A Little Story I Wrote

I wrote this litle story a long time ago. Don't ask me why I write them, because I have no idea.

When the nurse brought Sam into the room and his mother first laid eyes on him, she (like many mothers), exclaimed, "Oh, he's beautiful!" The nurse, having dealt with a few hundred newborn infants (sequentially, not simultaneously), had a contrary view of his looks: she rated him one above the bottom, not necessarily for attractiveness, but for being odd-looking. The one below Sam, who had none below him, had preceded Sam by a few days, greeting the doctor and nurses with snarling and scratching.

Outwardly the nurse smiled her professional nurse's smile, but inwardly she rolled her eyes upward and thought, "The poor kid looks like a mouse." Although, she did grudgingly admit that if he had been a mouse, he would have been a handsome one, with a cute pointy nose, fine sleek hair and beady but engaging eyes.

Sam's father, though unblinded by motherly love, still had his fatherly hopes for Sam. They evaporated on the spot. First his heart sank, then he sighed, then he gave up the thought of he and his wife being supported in their old age by a very large and very rich football player. His final thought was, "They're going to beat him up," since, when he looked several years into the future, he envisoned his tiny mousy son being the butt of many a joke at school.

Right from the start Sam was an adorable baby, one who bypassed crawling and walking and went straight to scampering and hopping. His mother found him terribly amusing, as (to his great surprise) did his father, especially when Sam engaged in such antics as springing straight up in the air and doing backflips. "Let's see your son do that!" he would say proudly to the other fathers, who would suppress looks of annoyance, since their babies could do little more than upend bowls of warm oatmeal on their heads.

Sam's father was immensely relieved, indeed very surprised, when Sam started school and, because of his unfailingly cheerful nature and natural comedic skills, became the most popular kid in class. His father had long since given up his football-player fantasies, and was content to not have Sam's tail pulled or his nose tweaked. In fact, he grew quite proud of Sam, who was so lovable and funny and talented he could bring the class down in hysterics (including the teacher) by doing something as simple as eating a piece of cheese.

Alas, all was not perfect. Unfortunately, there was one student who did not like Sam. Indeed, Toby hated Sam, and did so the first time he looked upon him. "I do not like you, Sam," thought the sullen and surly Toby, although he couldn't explain why. Toby didn't like anyone (Sam most of all), and would stalk through the school halls, aloof and haughty, casting insulting glances at whatever student who chanced to look at him.

Toby had it in for Sam every chance he could get. Very sneakily, when no one was looking, Toby pulled Sam's tail and whiskers, and pinched his ears, and tweaked his nose. Everyone else loved Sam. But not Toby. "Sam's different, but he's funny," the students said. "Toby's different, but he's creepy," all explained, claiming Toby would slink around at night, staring at people.

Sam, who quickly grew to loathe Toby, knew that with his tiny physique he would be unable to defend himself physically against Toby's bulk. Like most students, he subscribed to the Code of Kiddom, which prevented him from complaining to the school administration, or his parents, that some kid was trying to bully him. So, instead, Sam rapidly became adept at zipping away whenever he saw Toby, to hide in whatever hole was handy. "The kids all like me, and no one likes you," Sam taunted Toby, from his hole. "You'll never catch me, ever."

Sam was right on all counts. All the students loved Sam, none liked Toby, and Toby never caught him again all through the school years. Or after school, either, even when Toby went to the immense trouble of building a huge mousetrap and covering it with the fall leaves in Sam's front yard. "That boy's going to be nothing but trouble all his life," grumbled Sam's father, grimacing while he removed the sprung trap from his foot.

Time passed, and everyone graduated. "Goodbye, you creepy Toby," Sam thought, and then, taking his father's advice that everything loose in America rolled to California, moved to that state, which, he hoped, was so full of strange people that no one would pay any attention to a man who looked like a mouse. And he was right.

There, Sam blossomed. Exercising his naturally given talents, he found himself making a substantial living as a stand-up comic. "Amazing!" exclaimed those in his audiences. "I've never seen a man crawl up drapes before! And so fast!" they howled. Sam became, if not a huge success, then a pretty big one.

Life was good for Sam. It got even better when he noticed how attractive was one of the women who worked at one of the nightclubs. "Such smooth sleek hair and dainty little hands!" thought Sam, enchanted. But he was terrified to approach Doreen, wondering how any woman could be attracted to a man who looked so much like a mouse.

Screwing up all the courage that existed in his heart, (there was a lot more than he thought there was), and fighting the urge to hang his head, look at his paws, and mumble, one day he shyly asked, "Hey, Doreen, do you think you might want to go to a movie with me?"

"Oh, yes!" breathed Doreen, looking at Sam adoringly, love shining from her beady little eyes. Her cute little ears even turned pink. "Well, I'll be darned," thought Sam, in shock, "even a man who looks like a mouse can get a girl and find happiness. Will wonders ever cease?" Apparently not, he decided.

For months everything was wonderful. He and Doreen made a perfect pair, bounding around the city and amusing everyone they encountered. Everyone adored them. "What a lovely couple," everyone sighed. Sam made a lot of friends, and also so much money he would have no problem supporting his parents in their retirement. "Such a great son," his father told everyone. "And to think I wanted a football player!"

Then, one day, Sam and Doreen's happiness was punctured by the arrival of Toby at his door. "Oh, no!" Sam said in horror after he opened his front door and saw the grinning Toby standing there. "What are you doing here? Won't you ever leave me alone? You've been tormenting me since the day you were born!"

"I missed you," smirked Toby, still grinning as he walked uninvited into Sam's apartment. "My life's never been the same since you moved away. It's been missing something, you know? A purpose. And you were always my purpose. So I decided to move out here."

Doreen walked in from another room and squeaked when she saw Toby. "How horrible!" she gasped. "Tell him to go away, Sam!" She jumped to Sam's side and clung to his arm in terror. "He's awful!" she cried, seeing into Toby's pea-sized, wizened soul and sizing up his truly cruel nature in an instant.

"Who's the dame?" Toby leered. "Not bad-looking at all! I'll bet she's too good for a pathetic little mouse like you. A dish like that looks like something I might be interested in. Hey, hon, why don't you ditch that loser and come on over here?"

Doreen glared at Toby and wished him, if not dead, then at least folded in half, then folded again.

"Yes, Toby, I think you'd better leave," Sam said quietly.

"Sure thing, Sammy," Toby said, still grinning his cocky grin and running his eyes up and down Doreen's shapely figure. "But you're going to be seeing a lot of me. For a long time. For years. And your girlfriend, too."

Since Toby was looking at Sam as he was leaving, he didn't see Philibert standing in the doorway, and bumped into, and off of, him, or his chest, actually, which was level with Toby's head. Toby gaped at him and went, "Yow! Yow! Yow!"

"What is dis?" said Philibert, standing in the doorway, shifting his toothpick in his mouth and lifting his upper lip to show his quite large and scary teeth. He looked at Toby and his pupils, as they always did when he was annoyed, dilated to huge black dots. His heavy brows beetled and a frown turned down in his heavy, protruding jaws. Toby's eyes bugged out of his head.

"Hello, Philibert," Sam said cheerfully. "This is Toby. Remember him? I think I told you all about him. Oh, and Toby? This is Philibert, my biggest fan."

Toby was too frozen to utter a word, but Philibert said, "Yeah, I 'member youse telling me about dis guy." Philibert stared down at Toby, who stared up at the mountain of muscle, paralyzed, his hair standing on end in terror. "I got a good nose and I smelled somethin' funny over here, so I come over to check it out. Are youse bodderin' my good buddy here, buster?" He raised one huge paw and made a fist the size of a cantaloupe. Toby stared at it, mesmerized.

"I, I was just leaving," Toby wheezed. "Excuse me!" He tried to squeeze by Philibert, but Philibert, who filled the entire doorway, merely shifted a bit to prevent Toby's escape.

Philibert, who was as loyal as loyal could be, wasn't the smartest guy in the world, or even the neighborhood, but he told the truth when he said he had a good nose. A great nose, actually. And he smelled something he found very unpleasant. "Dere's somethin' funny about you I don't like at all," he told Toby. He peered at him, disapprovingly, and suddenly the scales fell from his eyes.

He found himself staring at the black fur standing straight up, the cold yellow eyes, the dreadful claws, the small sharp teeth. . .

"Dang!" he howled, "I know what youse are! A miserable, lousy, stinkin' CAT!"

Philibert was so stunned by his discovery that he missed his grab at Toby, who, hissing and tail bottled, flew between Philibert's legs and out into the hall. Philibert spun around and howling, "Pick on a little guy, willya? I'll murder you, you bum!" ran after Toby.

"Go get him, Philibert!" Sam and Doreen yelled encouragingly and simultaneously at Philibert. From the hallway came crashing sounds, interspersed with hissing and snarling, followed by chomping noises. Then came a rhythymic banging sound, much like something being swung by its tail from one side of the hallway to the other. One of their favorite pictures---that of Philibert, resplendent in black bowler hat and stogie, playing poker with his buddies---fell off of the wall.

"Philibert's my best friend," Sam said. "And I don't think Toby's ever going to bother us again, even if he survives his encounter with him."

"Thank God either way," Doreen answered. "You're my hero." She looked at Sam with love in her eyes and they held paws. Sam blushed and hung his head and looked at his feet.

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO DOESN'T HAVE A CAT OR MOUSE, BUT A PUG.

Danger! Will Robinson! Danger!

I actually have a model of this robot. I don't like him as much as Robby (and I have a model of Robby, too) but when his batteries are working he says, "Danger! Will Robinson! Danger!" Robby's not that advanced. He just sits there, next to my Betty Boop clock. The batteries aren't working in her, either. Oh, well.

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO WANTS A SHARK WITH A FRICKING LASER BEAM ON ITS HEAD.

New on DVD

Gooood Moooooorning, Commies

have a nice hot,  fresh,  steaming cup of   ...

posted by Tom Novak, who says you too can get a mug like that next time you're in Metairie and asks, "didn't the useful idiot see the links at  Babalu?"

From a Cuban-American

Now here's a guy who gets it.

Dear Bob,

Thank you for speaking out on Cuba and Hollywood, "The Evil Fidel Castro." I
live in LA, am a Cuban-American actor and don't understand how ANY American
could even tolerate a totalitarian dictatorship from either the left or the
right. Where were they during civics class? It's simply incomprehensible. We
need more people like you speaking out on this topic because no body listens to
us exiles. And that's another interesting feature. We know less than anyone
on the left about our own country. As if the horrors that got us out of
communist rule is not applicable in debate. Hello???

Thanks again,

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO KNOWS THAT LEFTISM IS MENTAL ILLNESS.

The Land of Make-Believe

Now why is it that every letter I got from a Cuban-American clearly understands what Castro is, and yet letters from Europe show that in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king?

Paul Hollander, in his book, Political Pilgrims, explains the lopsided Potemkin Village mentality of these people, who can only see the little bit of good in a very bad country like Cuba, and only the bad in a good country like the US.

Dear Bob,

I´ve just read your article on Cuba and I just returned from Cuba, a place where
I travel regularly. I know also the US. I´ve been there. I wonder how often
you´ve been to Cuba recently. Your article is just another product of lies about
other countries, a very typical product of US arrogancy.

I can assure you that for instance the medical care of the Cuban population is
far better than in your own country. On my frequent travels to Cuba, I have
never met an analphabet. I met heaps of them in the US. And many of those US
citizens who went to a school don´t have half the culture and education of
Cubans.

It is true: Cubans are normally poor. One reason: the injust and murderous
blockage of the island imposed by all of your governments since the 60s.

And please: don´t start calculations on how many people Castro might have
killed. Your country has the world record of bombings and killings of innocent
people in dozens of countries in the world. So you are nor really in a position
to give lessons of decency to the world.

So don´t write about things you have no idea about.

By the way: I am neither a communist, nor in any other way related to political
propaganda. I just can´t stand people writing cheap propaganda leaflets like you
do. Cuba is today a well respected country in most nations of this world. I you
travel and apart from that - unlike most Americans - speak a couple of languages
you find easily out about that. Thousands of Cuban doctors are working in
different parts of this world. How many US doctores do that? Oh yes, I forgot:
you send soldiers and bombs to different parts of our world. This is your
contribution. Therefore the US is so well respected everywhere and this is the
reason why US embassies are more like medieval fortresses than embassies of
"freedom".

Greetings from Spain

Uwe Hutter

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO CAN ONLY SHAKE HIS HEAD.

DeLoreans are still cool

They were very cool when they came out and they are still cool today.   

This is the actual car that John DeLorean, R.I.P., gave to Johnny Carson for his investments in DeLorean Motors. There is, of course,  a DeLorean owner/fan site or two out there.

posted by Tom Novak, who has gull-wing arms

My Hero, Spongebob Squarepants

He has strange friends, bizarre adventures, a weird pet, a pineapple for a house, a job at a burger joint, and lives in Bikini Bottom – a place with no State. Throw in just a few more things, and Spongebob would have about as close to a dream-life as is possible in this world.

I was puzzled why I – and so many others – am so enamored of this cartoon. After a little thought, here are some conclusions:

Spongebob lives at the bottom of the sea. He, and everyone else there, are safe. They have the entire sea to protect them from the outside world. Symbolically, the sea stands for a preconscious (child-like) state, and for the feminine (the womb). Think of Father Sky and Mother Earth. This makes sense, because Spongebob is in many ways an innocent child, safe in the womb of the ocean. You can say he lives in the Garden of Eden, in a womb which shelters and protects.

Spongebob lives in a world which he experiences with little fear or anxiety. His greatest worry is if he can make a krabby patty the right way. The mythological image of Spongebob is the puer aeternus – the one who is forever a child.

The sea actually has a positive and negative archetype. One is that of creation and the womb; the other is that of death and fear. Both are shown in baptism, in which both death and life are illustrated. In Spongebob Squarepants, only the positive archetype exists.

I believe the above essentially answers the question of why Spongebob is so popular. He dwells in a Garden of Eden state of innocence, in a safe, well-protected neighborhood. There is something in almost all of us which responds to such a life. The cartoon is actually about reversing the Fall.

People can live with some aspects of their personality still in this state of innocence. I believe the public reception given Spongebob Squarepants indicates that many Americans identity with this as a not-far-from-ideal life. It's safe and weird. What more can you ask for?

What true danger that exists for Spongebob and his friends comes from outside the sea. The archetype of the horror story is illustrated: something good invaded by something bad. The sea is good; the outside world is a danger.

In the episode titled "Hooky," Spongebob and his dimbulb friend Patrick play on fishermen's hooks dangled from a wharf above the sea. Both are so innocent they don't realize the danger involved, even though Patrick does say that someone who had been playing on them was no longer there. The inference is that he was hauled out of the sea, caught on a hook.

Squidward finally cures Spongebob of his foolishness by stabbing a hook through his pants, making Spongebob think he's going to be hauled up. In literature, this is called Innocence to Experience.

The complete theme of Innocence to Experience is Innocence/Unconsciousness/the Natural State versus Experience/Consciousness/the Machine State. The former are supposed to be characteristics of the Garden of Eden; the later, of the Fall. You can see these themes in H.G Well's The Time Machine, in which the Eloi stand for the innocent, unconscious dwellers in a Garden of Eden, and the Morlocks are the experienced, conscious users of machines.

You can also see these themes in the movie, The Elephant Man, which starts out with a worker severely injured by a machine. Through all of these horrors, the Elephant Man still maintains his innocence.

To a degree, these themes are a bit fraudulent, since they are opposed to technology. But since they exist in many stories and movies, it is best to be aware of them.

You can see these themes in Spongebob, since the outside world is where most of the advanced technology exists. Such as the hooks. Technology does exist in Spongebob's world, but it's not portrayed as dangerous.

In Spongebob's world, there is no State. There appears to be no government, for that matter. Everything is taken care of by Society; this is why the older and wiser Squidward has to teach Spongebob a lesson about the hooks. The older teach the younger, which is as it should be.

Again, we're back to the archetype of the horror story. Society, which is but a thin, fragile film on a bunch of sometimes very unpleasant human nature, is easily damaged by the intrusion of the State. When this happens, all the badness inherent in humanity pops up. Since there is no State in Spongebob's world, everything is Society. Everything is held together by what the British statesman Edmund Burke called "the little platoons" – the social groupings like family, friends, neighborhoods and churches that glue societies together.

Burke's idea is of course anathema to those who view as the State as a god capable of working wonders. In reality, the State is a horror.

The cartoon is in some ways a "conservative" cartoon. Everyone is imperfect. Spongebob himself suffers a bit from what appears to be Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. In the episode "Pickles," Bubble Bass lies and tells Spongebob there were no pickles on his krabby patty. Spongebob is then up all night making burgers, trying to figure out what he did wrong. In the end, Bubble Bass is exposed for a liar, and everything ends well.

Actually, you can call Spongebob Squarepants a conservative libertarian cartoon. There is no State, indeed no government, and everyone is imperfect.

I've seen this portrayal of a libertarian/conservative society in other cartoons. It exists in The Simpsons, which celebrates family and friends, and denigrates politics. The line from the program I can never forget is when Chief Wiggum says, "I didn't say the government couldn't harm you. I said it couldn't help you." Truer words have never been spoken.

There are, thank God, no politics in Spongebob Squarepants. From this you can infer that in as perfect of a world as can exist, there would be no politics or politicians. What politics that does exist in Spongebob's world would have to be outside the sea, in the world where the hooks came from. In his world, there are no wars, which are always caused by the State. There are just the usual human frailties, such as Bubble Bass' lies and Spongebob's own childishness.

Ezra Pound called artists "the antenna of the race." He was, I believe, exactly right.

Posted by Bob Wallace, WHO LIVES IN AN OCTOPUS'S GARDEN.

Pug Blogging?

Aaaarrrrrrrrghhh .....    PUG BLOGGING!!!

Say this isn't happening.  I never thought this day would come... oh well. 

This is it on the internet for doggieness. Frank's breeders.net

posted by Tom Novak, who refuses to have any pets ever again that aren't Robots or Goldfish.