Month: October 2009

50BC09: Book Number 36

~ lobablanca

siasl

You know the neighborhood restaurant that’s been around for a really long time? The one that you pass every morning on your way to the Metro and you think you should try it sometime, but “sometime” never seems to come around? Then you have a couple of friends tell you how good the place is and how it’s one of their favorite places to eat and that you’d really enjoy it, so you decide finally to go for dinner. You find that the meal is okay even though the service is a little slow and clumsy, and you start thinking halfway through that it’s a satisfactory enough place that you might come back for another meal…and then it happens.

You find a hair in your food. It’s wound up with your pasta, dangling uncomfortably close to your agape mouth, the color indicating that it could in no way be your own hair. Your stomach clenches a little and whatever enjoyment you might have found instantly drains away. You immediately put down your fork and stare at your partially finished dinner, contemplating how to best handle the situation, but knowing that there’s no way in hell you’re finishing that food.

Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land was this meal for me. Heralded as “the most famous science fiction novel ever written,” I’ve known for a while that it fits the bill of must-read literature for my sci-fi tastes. Plus, I’ve had a few people in my life say how much they love this book. Good enough for me.

I picked up the unabridged, restored version, which at 438 tiny-font-filled pages, was more like a sci-fi smorgasbord than a light repast. But I dove in, hoping to savor the flavors that so many have enjoyed before me. After a while, though, it started to feel more like a force feeding rather than enjoyment. Heinlein is WORDY.

But the story embedded in all those words was an intriguing one, about a Human, Valentine Michael Smith, born on Mars and raised by Martians, who is then brought back to Earth to learn how to be among “his kind.” It’s an interesting twist on the Mowgli tale, even if Heinlein never really explains a lot of the things that Martian Mike is able to do beyond stating that he was “raised by Martians.” You’d think, with all the words he crammed into this book, he could have explained something to the effect of the Martians taught Mike how to use portions of his brain that Humans had yet to tap into, which is why he was able to alter his appearance or make people and things disappear. To simply glaze over all of Mike’s powers with the fact that he was raised by Martians is, to quote Captain Picard, “Not good enough, dammit! Not good enough!”

Then came the discovery of the glaringly disgusting hair: Gillian Boardman, one of the main female protagonists, says to Martian Mike at one point, “Nine times out of ten, if a girl gets raped, it’s partly her fault.”

STOP.

WTF did she just say?

Up to this point (which didn’t arrive until page 304), I had been trying to view the women in this book through the eyes of the times in which this novel was published. Treatment and views of women in 1961 were still quite pandering and stereotypical all across the board. Plus, early science fiction is not a realm in which women are held in any higher regard than they were in current presentations, never mind that the stories were supposed to be taking place in the future. Heinlein is no exception here, with his women appearing in traditional caregiver roles or as strippers. There are a few women in the story who break the mold, but they are outnumbered significantly in this book…plus, two die “off-stage” as it were, while a third joins the sexy orgy party that is the end of this book (yeah, I’m spoiling, I suppose…get Jubal Harshaw to sue me).

But this line…this line was so fucking jarring that I stopped reading the book for several days and debated during this time about whether I even wanted to finish the book. Sexism aside, this was ignorance of the purest and darkest variety. I continued to read the book until the end, deciding that I wanted to find out if this statement would be revisited and corrected. It never was. But there was lots of polyamory and nekkid time to distract us later, so who cares about the discovery of this nauseating hair?

Obviously, I did. Still do.

I guess what bothers me the most (beyond the obvious) is that this is another reminder that science fiction remains a genre that, while not exclusively a boys’ club, isn’t all that amenable to female fans. I’ve already mentioned my disappointment in the female character from my first Asimov adventure (note to Tony: I swear on my Gates McFadden-signed hypospray that I am going to give him another try thanks to your generosity), but this one line from this HUGE tome of what New York Times critic Orville Prescott described as a “disastrous mishmash of science fiction, laborious humor, dreary social satire and cheap eroticism” plunges my despair even deeper regarding women’s status in the sci-fi universe. That this could be embedded among lesser but still degrading commentary toward women in what is heralded as the most famous sci-fi novel ever written disheartens me to my very marrow.

Final score: 1/5. I guess I didn’t grok this book after all.

I’ve got three more books from the library that I need to finish, and then I’m declaring a moratorium on borrowed books. This challenge was supposed to help me get through all the books that I own and have yet to read. The time to focus on those books is now!

Flashback Friday: Mysteries of the Unknown

~ lobablanca

Remember those groovy Time Life book series from the 80s and 90s? I know they had several different series, such as woodworking and DIY fix-it-all books, but my absolute favorite was the Mysteries of the Unknown series. And while I was never allowed to order them (try though I did to convince my dad that there was a supernatural conspiracy underfoot in this country that needed to be revealed!), one of my very groovy aunts did purchase several of these books.

I remember the first time I discovered the books in her collection. I picked out several titles that I simply had to read: Hauntings, Mysterious Creatures, Phantom Encounters, and Witches and Witchcraft. I read each book in one sitting. I was vaguely aware that people were around me, trying at various points throughout the evening to communicate with me. However, I was way too deep in “true” stories about vampires, succubi, hauntings, possessions, demons, and all things that were guaranteed to build within my mind and freak the crap out of me.

When I was finally finished reading all the books, my brain was so crammed with creepy stories and imagery that even walking to our car for the ride home freaked me out. Every snap, crackle, and pop made me jump. I was certain that something was waiting for us, in the night…in the dark. I’m also sure that I spent a long time that night checking closets and under beds. Behind the couch. Behind the shower curtain. In the attic. You name it, I probably checked it.

Why anyone would let a kid with an overactive imagination lay hands on these books is beyond me. What were my relatives thinking? 😉

Every now and then on visits to my aunt’s place, I would return to these books, pulling them from the shelf and perusing them yet again, reliving all those phantasmagorical stories and illustrations. Also, these books taught me actual facts, like the role of Vlad the Impaler in the Dracula legend. Who knew these books would actually teach anyone anything real?

I loved those books. So, when my aunt decided to pare down her library during a move, guess who got her Mysteries of the Unknown collection? Oh yeah, betches, it was Loba B. I still have those books. I was hoping to snap a photo of them since I am right now at my parents’ house, where the collection now resides. However, I seem to have done too good a job reorganizing all my stuff here…and now I can’t find the books. Ironically enough, while looking for them, I found the TI-99/4A computer.

Anyway, since I don’t have a decent photo, here’s the original commercial that used to air all the time on television, usually during those late, late, late horror movies playing on the syndicated channels like Fox 5 and WDCA-TV 20, before they became inundated with reality television shows.

Side note: I actually had planned on making this entry about Dario Argento’s 1987 movie Opera. The only memory that I carried around in my mind regarding this movie centered on those effing needles taped underneath Cristina Marsillach’s eyes during the murder scenes. That image still makes my eyes water just to think about it. Then I went back and watched some clips on YouTube and remembered what complete torture porn this movie was. I couldn’t in good conscience link to any of the clips showing the killings from this movie, simply because they’re so over-the-top horrible, but not in the delightfully campy style of Freddy or Jason. This was just creepy, too realistic over-the-top. So I changed my mind and went with these books, which successfully scared the Holy Trinity out of me on several occasions. However, here’s the cover art for Opera, just so you can see the needles under the eyes. Tell me that isn’t Clockwork Orange one step worse?

opera

Turning On the Goblin King

~ lobablanca

bowiejareth

Ah, look at that androgynous sexyback of Jareth the Goblin King. This, for years, was my only exposure to David Bowie. Somehow, he fell completely off my musical radar. I even missed the Ziggy Stardust years!

However, a while ago I found a David Bowie CD at our library, so I decided that it was time to fix this gap in my musical knowledge. Let me rephrase that…my musical exposure. I have no musical knowledge beyond knowing what I like (which many will argue is a truly subjective cross-section of music 😉 ).

So I burned the CD to my iPod…and subsequently proceeded to forget about it. Until today. It was another long-stretch roadtrip for Sammy and me. I listened to podcasts for a good chunk of the journey, but I needed a musical interlude along with a granola bar and some cold air to shake off the unexpected sleepiness I experienced from those lovely, lulling British accents to which I was listening. So I started searching through my music lists…and there was David Bowie. The CD from the library was his 1997 release Earthling.

I really enjoyed it! I realize that this is far enough into Bowie’s career that it’s probably not considered to be one of his great releases, but I thought it was a solid collection of music. It’s only nine songs, which I dig. So many of today’s artists release CDs with a gajillion songs on them, and only nine of them are usually worth listening to. This showed me that Bowie knew what he was capable of and stuck with that number. Good call.

The music has a sound that I very much enjoy, what some might describe as the sound of a “clanking, clattering collection of kaligenous junk.” Drums, bass, electronic enhancements…I love that stuff. I think I liked “Dead Man Walking” and “I’m Afraid of Americans” the best, but each of the songs was listenable. I have to say, though, that I was already in the mood for something heavy, so this fit the bill. Had I not been in the mood for lots of bass, this might have fallen far from the mark of enjoyability.

So, here’s my question to you: Where should I go next in Bowie’s oeuvre? I’m intrigued and would like to hear more. I trust you won’t steer me wrong…

Wesley Crusher and the Magic Banana Clip!

~ lobablanca

Holy rainbow-striped sweaters, Batman! Is Loba at all capable of refraining from her dorky sci-fi blather? Or are visitors to the den destined to have to wade through the Trek flotsam that burbles up through her clickety-clackety typing more times than the acid reflux from Neelix’s attempt at “Beefy Bean Burrito Wednesday”?

For the love of all things interstellar, I just can’t stop myself. My Angry BloggerTM days are well behind me. I realize now that I spent way too much time reading and writing about things that angered me rather than things that amused or delighted me. As I’m sure many of you can tell (especially those of you who have followed me here to my new den [yes, my tracking software has pinpointed you numerous times now]), I’m making up for lost time and I’m all about living in the garden of geeky delights. Yes, it’s now time for my Geeky BloggerTM days, biatches…so glue on your nose ridges, strap on your phasers, and let’s get to it!

What’s got me all in a frothy nerd lather today? Wil Wheaton, of course. Our Man Crusher is at it again, in the literary sense. I know I’ve raved before about his book Just a Geek. This time I’m here to rave about his latest endeavor, Memories of the Future: Volume One. The book, priced at $19.87 (oh, come on now, tell Loba that you get why this book is set at precisely this price!), is all about Wil’s take on the first season of TNG. The upcoming second volume (salaciously subtitled “Volume Two”), will be all about…the second season. the second half of the first season.

Post-Purchase Edit

Yeah, so the first volume is only about Encounter at Farpoint through Datalore. Really? Almost 20 smackers for only half the first season? These all better be damned funny, Mr. Wheaton. DAMN FUNNY.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Blogging

Gather ’round, geeklings, while Loba lays some sad truth upon your possibly non-Trekkie ears: The first two seasons of Star Trek: The Next Generation were generally quite craptastic. Seriously, they were abysmal. We TNG Trekkies know this. And, as Wil Wheaton proves through some damned fine (and HI-larious) storytelling, everyone else knew it, too. Well, he did. And that’s all that matters right now!

Yes, this book drops some spectacular stories, summaries, and silliness about all the craptacular episodes from TNG’s first season, as only our nerd hero can do. Wil takes the piss out of everyone and everything, including himself and his boy wonder alter-ego, Wesley Crusher.

I can’t say enough times how awesome I think Wil Wheaton is…he definitely growed up good, y’all. Don’t believe me? Amble on over to his blog and listen to the podcasts he’s done of excerpts from the first MotF. This link will take you to a blog post about the release of the book through Lulu as well as links to the first six podcasts he’s recorded. I dare you to listen to them and then report back that you didn’t almost wet yourself at least once. And if you do, I’ll call you a flat-out liar…or a soulless demon who must be banished from my den.

If you do like what you hear, I strongly encourage you to pony up and buy a copy of the book. I’m willing to bet there’s a goldmine of information there, even better than what Wil includes in his readings. I’m dropping the fundage for my own copy. And maybe one day, I’ll be lucky enough to get it signed by the Boy Wonder himself. And maybe he’ll even get me in to see his mom…I mean, Gates McFadden. Who played his mom. On the show. Which in no way resembles reality.

Yeah.

And if all this wasn’t enticement enough, here’s an image from Wil’s Flickr account that cracks me up each and every time I read it. Someone who really loves…and really gets Wesley Crusher put a lot of time and effort into this one. Never mind that the fonts make my eyes want to jump out of their sockets, never were truer words written about that GQ mofo, Wesley Crusher.

awesomecrusher

Bouncy Sunday

~ lobablanca

No real explanation or reason for this one, denizens. October has been a pretty Trek-less month so far, and so I thought a little Janeway bounce would do the trick. I also wouldn’t mind some of that coffee she’s bogarting…

Flashback Friday: Gage Creed

~ lobablanca

gage

Want to know what horrible secret fear I hide deep in the darkest recesses of my horror-blackened soul? I’m terrified of anyone touching the area of my leg near my Achilles tendon. Even the thought sends shivers through me and makes my tendons ache with some sort of strange phantom pain…like right now. Just typing this makes me want to wrap my hands around my Achilles heels and rock back and forth while I keen pitifully to myself.

Where does this big heap of personal crazy come from? The 1989 movie Pet Sematary. No kidding. There’s a scene in that movie that depicts a highly traumatic moment involving an Achilles tendon and little Gage Creed and his scalpel, seen in this lovely photo. I’m not saying any more than that because I’m sure you can piece that much together…and I simply can’t talk about it anymore. I’ve got this horrible ache throbbing straight up my legs right now. Not even my trusty Docs are protecting me from this panic.

Have I been toting this around with me for 20 years? I’m afraid so. Yes, the fear has dulled since I first saw this movie. It used to be that I couldn’t even get too close to a bed without jumping up onto the mattress as quickly as I could. You know, to keep away from errant scalpels being wielded by a little dead/undead boy under the bed. Rational? Oh, hell to the no. No more rational than the unshakable anxiety I felt every time I opened a closet door for several weeks after seeing the remake of The Ring. That flash image of the girl in the closet just refused to stay out of my mind whenever that happened. Stupid overactive imagination…

Gage Creed creeped me out for several other reasons, least of which was his Snoopy-like laugh, his “pimpin’ ain’t easy” costume he was in when he appeared to his mom post-resurrection, and that effing phone call he made to his dad after he finished “playing” with his mom and Jud. That child most assuredly wasn’t right. Miko Hughes, the actor who played Gage, also gets additional “creepy horror movie kid” credits for playing Heather Langenkamp’s son in Wes Craven’s New Nightmare.

Pet Sematary is one of those King book-to-movie conversions that I would consider to be a success for the most part. It’s pretty close to the original book, and while it’s quite dated by today’s standards, it’s a nice enough balance of schlocky 80s cheese-horror and good, solid fear. Gage’s moments rank high among the “solid fear” sections, as do the creepy appearances of the jacked-up sister. EEK. Shiver.

It’s also a movie that walks well the fine line between truly horrible reality-anchored events and over-the-top King-style terror (I think that’s one of King’s greatest strengths anyway…how well he can plant some of his worst tales right smack in the center of believable and benign settings and events). As much as I hate the scalpel to the Achilles tendon moment, I have to admit that I have quite the warm, fuzzy spot in my heart for this movie. It’s got some great quotable moments, most from Fred Gwynne as Jud Crandall, some good scares, a bit of a moral lesson if you look for it and, for solid geek street cred, a post-Tasha Yar Denise Crosby sporting an oozing eyeball effect toward the end. AND, its theme song was sung by the Ramones! Bonus!

Of course, Hollywood is remaking this movie, slated for a 2010 release. Yippy. Another movie I’m not going to bother seeing. But I’m all for people watching the original…it’s either going to give you a few good scares, or it’s going to make you laugh a whole hell of a lot. Who doesn’t want to watch a movie like that? And to tempt you along, here’s the Ramones video for their song, “Pet Sematary.” Enjoy!

Why Did We Ever Break Up?

~ lobablanca

Dear Amazon.com,
Hi. How have you been? I’ve been watching you on the Internet…no, wait! Not like that. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay since I left you. And it seems that you’re doing fine without me…great, even.

Me? I’m not so good. See, it’s taken me a while to realize how stupid it was for me to break up with you. We worked well together, Amazon…and I was too stupid to see that before I went and made the decision to end the best thing I had going for me. I’m slow like that. Guess that’s why people who do business with just me find that they’re stuck waiting WAY THE HELL TOO LONG for their stuff to reach them. Kind of like that whiny hater LobaBlanca, who is still waiting for an order she placed more than a week ago. I’m afraid she might do something drastic, like try to make me look bad on her blog.

Remember how quickly my orders would get out when I was with you? Because, baby, you were on top of it all back then, and I didn’t have a worry in the world. Your trusted name was getting me more play than Paris Hilton’s sex tape at a frat party. But those days are obviously over. I’m trying to do it on my own, and, baby, it’s hard! On top of my shitty shipping service, you know how overpriced my inventory is, especially in comparison with yours…

I need you, Amazon! Baby, I never should have left you two years ago. It’s taken me all this time to realize this (see? I really am slow!). I wish I could change that decision, that we could go back to the way things used to be. But it is what it is, right? I just wanted you to know that I realize now how good I had it once, when I was sailing along down the Amazon.

Take care of yourself, Babe.
Love always,
Borders Books, Music and Movies

The Psychology of Anthropomorphism

~ lobablanca

Anyone who knows me, knows Sammy. He’s my car. Yes, not only did I name my car, but I also gave him a gender. I even decided to go against the grain of “normalcy” in this instance and make him male rather than the traditional female gender, assigned most often to seafaring vessels but probably applicable across the transportation board.

I love Sammy. Not in the way that most people today love their cars, as extensions of massive yet vacuous egos. He’s not “tricked out” in any way other than floormats imprinted with my favorite cartoon canine and a radio I bought for him 8 years ago to replace the standard one that had no CD player. He’s got several dings and scratches in his paint job, and each one pains me…not because of any vanity on my part, but simply because he received them while under my care. I failed to take care of him in those instances, and now he wears the scars as reminders of my inability to be everywhere at once, much to my own personal chagrin.

Does all this sound a bit crazy? Of course it does. It’s He’s a car. But he’s a car I have owned for almost 9 years. Sammy has taken me thousands of miles in that time, but the “life distance” is measured in quite different terms. In terms of laughs, tears, confusion, heartbreak, giddiness, loss, anger…all carried within his sleek silver frame. It amazes me how much life takes place inside a car when you live in this area. They become our own little microcosm for hours at a time, conveying us and those we love to whatever destination we can reach on four wheels. I’ve conducted business and pleasure in that car, laughed and cried, sung unrepentantly off-key as miles ticked by on his odometer, sought solace in his silence when sound was just too much to bear.

Is it any wonder we ascribe human attributes to inanimate objects? Sammy is just as much a part of my life as any “real” person, has played just as important a role. This mesh of metal and mechanized motion has treated me very well, taken me places both wonderful and difficult, but has always protected me as we’ve gone along. More happiness is wrapped around him than I’d ever considered until today. And I considered all this while commuting home…in Sammy. He is my favorite location to get lost in the strangest thoughts.

Now I sit typing all this up on another inanimate object into which I have imbued a sense of anthropomorphic love: my home computer. This is the last computer that my uncle ever built for me. It was one of the last things we ever discussed on the last time I ever saw him. Every single time I turn this computer on, I think of him…of how much he loved building computers, how much he loved to talk about technology, to tell me about the latest new techie toy he had his eye on. I think of how he passed that love on to me. I think of how we would talk about things like how beautiful my latest computer case looked. I’ve had non-techie people laugh at me when I say something like that around them, but it’s true. My computer is beautiful, with its silver sheen, see-through side panel, and neon blue glow. It’s even more beautiful because my uncle built it specifically for me.

And now he’s gone while this beautiful silver machine keeps on running, because of him.

I don’t know why I’m so pensive about these things today. No, that’s not true. Yesterday would have been my grandmother’s birthday. What pains me most is that I forgot until this morning that yesterday was her birthday. It caused a bit of an existential shudder as I then began to panic that I would forget about her, about all the people I have loved and lost. Jumping to the worst case scenario is one of the exercises at which I completely excel, as I’m sure you can tell.

I know this won’t happen. I think about her all the time. I’ve gone out of my way, in fact, to surround myself with things that will serve as mnemonics for the wonderful memories of all these people whose paths I was lucky enough to share for such a short, bittersweet time.

I’m not really sure how to end this entry, so I’ll just slip away silently. Maybe I’ll go take a drive. I’m sure Sammy will be up for the adventure…

Hail to the Racists!

~ lobablanca

redskins

I’ll start right out by stating the obvious: This is not going to be an objective post. I hate professional sports. Ergo, I hate football. I find it deplorable that more people in this country can name the starting line-up of their favorite sports team than can name their senators or representatives. The latter are people who have a real and significant impact on the lives of every American, whereas the former are just people trying to make as many bucks as they can before they blow out a knee and have to go on to doing commentary or hawking projection screen TVs during Rhonda Shear’s Up All Night. Or something like that…

My hatred for football, however, is even deeper based on the fact that I live in the D.C. metropolitan area. Therefore, each football season I’m subjected to constant yammering about the Redskins. And each year I wonder if this is going to be the year that TPTB finally make a long-overdue decision. What decision? To stop calling the football team of the nation’s effing capital city one of the most racist names still in use by any sports team in any league.

Seriously, are we really living in the 21st century? Or are we still living in a time when it was cool to have Uncle Remus tell us about his syrup, “dis sho’ am good!”

I’d argue that even that is less offensive than calling D.C.’s home team a name that American Indians have repeatedly said is as offensive to them as “the N word” is to Black people. Yet the Indian groups are continuously ignored or overruled while “the N word” has been given so much power that even the implication of its use can ruin a person. Don’t believe me? Ask David Howard, one of former D.C. Mayor Anthony Williams’ top aides, who resigned his post due to community protest after a coworker heard him use the word “niggardly” in a conversation and accused him of using a racial epithet.

So why do we continue to have a team with an actual epithet for a name? I’ll give you one guess. It’s long and green and while it’s not Kermit’s finger, lots of people still get off on it. Yes! Yes! YES!! That’s right…it’s the Almighty Dollar!!

So stated Redskins attorney Bob Raskopf this past May, in response to the U.S. Court of Appeals ruling in favor of the Redskins keeping their name. Raskopf put it in clear enough terms by pointing out that “millions have been spent on the Redskins brand and the team would have suffered great economic loss if they lost the trademark registrations.”

“Great economic loss.”

I Googled “most profitable professional football teams” and I found two lists, one from 2003 and one from 2007, that listed the Redskins in the number 1 or 2 spots of the professional football teams in this country making the most profits. The 2007 report showed that the Redskins team value exceeded $1 billion that season.

Why, then, would Redskins owner Dan Snyder choose to waste any of those profits by doing something that would only appease the laments of less than one percent of the U.S. population? It’s not like American Indians have been getting the shaft by this country on anything else.

So hail to the Redskins. May they never win another Super Bowl until they fix what they should have fixed a long time ago.

Losers.