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50BC09: Book Number 41
So here is the moment in which I finally fulfill my promise to read another Isaac Asimov novel. Regular denizens may remember that I wasn’t very thrilled with my first exposure to the sci-fi god that is Asimov. One denizen in particular found my displeasure disquieting and so provided me with the opening trilogy of Asimov’s Foundation series, which in whole won the the one-time Hugo Award for “Best All-Time Series” in 1966. Thank you, Tony.
As I believe I’ve already established with my review of The Road, however, prestigious awards do not always signify something great. On the other hand, the award was given in 1966, which is the year that the original Star Trek hit the airwaves in full force.
I do have a soft spot in my heart for the number 66.
What? Oh yes, my review. First, I’d like to point out the cover. Though this isn’t the exact cover that’s on my copy, both share the fact that the primary design element is an old dude in a wheelchair. I love this fact more than I think I can properly express. The first book of the “Best All-Time Series” has chosen to showcase on its cover an old dude in a wheelchair. This is not going to be your typical “blasters at the ready” sci-fi pulp novel, is it?
So, the old dude in question is Hari Seldon. He kicks off the first Foundation novel with his psychohistorical calculations that the Empire is about to take quite the tumble, which will lead to 30,000 years of snuffy-dumplings. Don’t try to Google what that means, by the way. I just made it up. He has, however, announced that he has figured out a way of minimizing the snuffy-dumplings down to only 1,000 years. Sounds much more appealing, no?
This is quite a complex story that spans a significant time period (almost 200 years, I believe?) and introduces an array of characters along the way in addition to Mr. Seldon. Do I think everyone should read this book? No. Do I think that every science-fiction fan should read this book? Oh, very much so. I think that reading this book will determine whether you are indeed a fan of the science fiction genre…or if you are more of a “sci-fi” fan.
What in Seldon is the difference, you might be wondering. BIG difference, my friends. Such a big difference that some of the greatest minds from the genre have debated it. (Oh, and anyone interested in the Newsweek piece that Harlan Ellison references during this debate can read it here.)
What Asimov did in this first book (and I’m assuming with the entire series) is take us on a journey through the history of what has never been. And it’s brilliant. This will never be a summer blockbuster shoot-em-up (at least I hope not). And that makes it even more brilliant. It instead taps into the logical…some might say, “Vulcan” part of our minds, expects us to think, to reason, to at the very least be willing to follow along through intricacies that don’t involve phasers and quantum torpedoes. It’s instead about politics, religion, socioeconomic status, the deeper, darker machinations behind the wars…topics that expect us to think along with the story, not just lean back and watch all the pretty colors firing away on the screen.
This is the type of story that requires one to “be in the mood” for it. Admittedly, there were evenings in which my brain simply didn’t want to be stimulated by such a story. Sometimes, I want to take the easy road. This road leads you through a craggy land of intellectual climbs and tumbles. It is not a quiet stroll through the Enterprise-D’s arboretum. It was a struggle at times, but one I’m glad I endured. Because it made me better understand both what makes “science fiction” great, and what made Isaac Asimov a master of this great genre.
One of the major complaints that I had about my first exposure to Asimov’s work is how misogynistic it was. That element, though not completely absent from the first Foundation novel, was quite diminished. Of course, that’s because there were almost no appearances by female characters in this book. I’m actually grateful for that. I said it in my review of Watchmen, but it bears repeating here: “If you aren
Flashback Friday: AG Bear
This is a bit of an odd choice, since I never owned an AG Bear. I also didn’t own his competition, Teddy Ruxpin. Furry tape decks just weren’t my thing, man.
Instead, this is more of a flashback to very happy memories for me that involve an AG Bear. My grandmother received one of these bears, I believe as a Christmas present. It was the brown AG with the blue corduroy shirt, like the one in this photo, from the AG Bear Wikipedia page.
For those unfamiliar with this toy, AG Bear had a voice box inside that was programmed to respond to human voices with sing-song nonsensical vocalizations that were sort of mimics of what the person speaking to it had just said, only slightly distorted. So I guess they weren’t direct competition with Teddy Ruxpin, which actually “spoke,” its little servos making its mouth and eyes open and close in rhythm with whatever tape was playing in its player at that moment. Personally, I think AG Bears were cooler because they allowed for more imagination from the person interacting with it.
[Personal tangent: I love that AG Bears were manufactured by the company started by Nolan Bushnell, who started Chuck E. Cheese, a previous Flashback entry (and the second most popular Flashback, right behind the Crayola Caddy).]
I can still see my grandmother sitting in a chair with AG Bear on her lap, talking to it and listening to its “responses.” My grandmother was an extremely intelligent woman, but she had a strong streak of whimsy and the ability to allow herself the joy of letting that whimsy run free now and again. Plus, she had one of the most beautiful speaking voices imaginable. I wish I had a voice that pure, that wonderful to hear. I also wish I had things as eloquent to say as she did.
Sometimes I would see my grandmother sitting by the windows in my grandparents’ living room, staring out into the distance while holding AG Bear in her arms. Looking back with the hindsight of adulthood, I wonder what was going through her mind that she felt perhaps only AG Bear could understand. I know now that there was so much going on in her mind that none of us could know or understand. But as a child, I saw a woman I admired with all my heart but was too shy to tell, doing something to which I could absolutely relate…cuddling a beloved stuffed animal, sharing with it those thoughts and inklings that we thought only that toy could truly understand. I wish for only a moment I could know what that AG knew.
I’ve no idea what became of my grandmother’s AG Bear. I hope he’s somewhere safe, somewhere where he’s just as loved as he was when he was in my grandmother’s arms.
50BC09: Book Number 40
I’m actually in the process of reading another book, but last week I read on Wil Wheaton’s blog (and you didn’t think I was serious about actually reading his blog regularly) about an offer that I simply couldn’t refuse.
For one day only, author Jeff Burk was giving away electronic copies of his kooky, crazy tome to the toupee-tasty greatness that is William Shatner, Shatnerquake. All he asked was that those who accepted his 24-hour bout of generosity, read and review his book…on Amazon, on GoodReads, on our own blogs, with friends, wherever. Just that we get word out about this story.
So here I am, living up to my end of this bargain. Overall, this was a delightfully twisted premise. What would happen if a fiction bomb planted by Campbellians (worshippers of the Chin Known As Bruce) at ShatnerCon backfired, and instead of obliterating the existence of Shatner’s contributions to television and film, it brought them all to life? And the real William Shatner was the only man able to fight back against the rise of the real Captain Kirk, TJ Hooker, Denny Crane, Rescue 911 Shatner, the SNL “Get a Life” Shatner, and the rest of the Shat-tastic army?
Throw in a look-a-like Shatner fan, the intimate details of convention life, and a whole passel of stereotypical sci-fi conventioneers, and you’ve got yourself one freakin’ bizarro tale, which, at fewer than 100 pages, zips by at a crazy-fast and oftentimes furiously funny pace. Burk has a very strange sense of humor, but it is rooted in a seemingly intimate knowledge of just what goes down at these crazy things called sci-fi conventions. Perfect example comes from this line, which appeared during a fight scene between Captain Kirk and William Shatner, inside the dealers’ room:
Kirk moved toward Shatner twirling the lightsaber from side to side, the blade instantly devaluing collectibles and severing limbs.
Know what I love most about that line? That mention of the collectible damage came before the corporeal damage. Collectibles first, my friends. Each and every time. That’s how we roll in the dealers’ room, byatches.
The downside of this story is that it is in severe need of clean-up. I stand by my life mantra, “Everybody needs an editor.” Burk definitely needed one for this story. Misspellings abound. Turborlift? Dr. McKoy? WTF, man. WTF. Plus, a substantive edit would really help sharpen its satirical blade and tighten up the story to raise it from the appearance of being nothing more than hastily penned fan fiction.
Final score: 2.5/5. Yeah, this gets the same score as a Pulitzer winner. See, when I rate these books, I rate them based on the context of their existence. My last read, for example, tries to exist on a plane higher than it deserves, and thus should be rated accordingly. This, however, was a surprisingly enjoyable find from a literary arena that I have come to accept as producing severely hit-or-miss stories. This was a hit that has the potential of becoming even better with the right treatment. Of course, however, it runs the risk of losing its rough-edged whimsy if it is polished up for public consumption. So maybe it’s better to leave it just as it is, McKoy and all.
Comfort Clothing
Haven’t really been in a talkative type-ative mood as of late…although I did remember to set my Flashback Friday to publish. I was very proud of myself for that (not for knowing how to set it to publish, but for remembering to set it…I think all my time with the Captain is wrecking my memory, denizens).
[Okay, here’s a tangent for you: Why do all the alcohol Web sites make you plug in your birthdate before you can surf their site? I’m sure it’s for some ridiculous legal reason (doesn’t that sum up most legal reasons though?), but all it is is ridiculous.]
The weather has turned a bit maudlin this week, which leaves Loba feeling pensive and introspective. You know, unlike how I am most of the time. It also has left me craving comfort clothes. No, not “com-for-ta-ble” clothes. Comfort clothes. Like comfort food, only not edible. Although possible tasty.
[Tangent 2: The slow pronunciation of the word “comfortable” is the unspoken punchline of perhaps my favorite blonde joke ever. I’d be happy to tell it to you all next time we meet up at Central Perk for coffee.]
Right now, I’m wearing a comfort sweater. It’s chocolate brown and made of a material that feels like I skinned a Gund plush toy. Guess that’s why I call this my “teddy bear” sweater. I was so pleased with it when I first bought it that I went around to some coworkers and encouraged them to “pet my sweater.” Subsequently, I believe that I was the inspiration for a new “pet me” scenario in my company’s sexual harassment training.
In the evenings, I’ve been snuggling up in a gray and black Tasmanian Devil hooded shirt that I bought when I was a high school senior. It’s not a sweatshirt per se…just a long-sleeved cotton shirt to which the manufacturer added a hood. Thanks to my anal-retentive laundry skillz, it still looks pretty decent. The black has faded only minimally and the Taz logo is still intact, although it does look like it’s had the “craquelure” filter applied to it (w00t to my PhotoShop geeks on this one).
I love this shirt. It’s baggy, warm, and floppy…exactly what I want to change into after I work out and want “down time” clothes. Same with my red fleece pajama pants with the polar bears all over them. Warm, snuggly-soft, and cute to boot!
Comfort clothes, people. Comfort clothes.
Everyone’s got them. I know someone who has a pair of comfort sweatpants that are worn so thin you could watch television through the fabric (although why bother when you can just pick one of the myriad monster-truck-sized holes for your viewing pleasure?). Doesn’t matter, though. They’re comfort sweats. Anything to make the increasingly cold and dreary autumnal fade into winter a bit more tolerable.
So I’m snuggly-warm in my teddy bear sweater, counting down the hours until it’s Taz hoodie time. And, no, I don’t invite coworkers to pet me anymore. Denizens, however, are a different story…
Flashback Friday: Knight Rider
Damn that new Retro TV channel. It’s reminded me of one of my deepest and still burning television loves: Knight Rider.
How do I love thee, Knight Industries Two Thousand? Let me count the ways.
The only lunchbox that I saved from my childhood is my Knight Rider lunchbox:
Look at that sexy “mullet-fro” on Michael Knight! And Bonnie! Apparently, even with a horrible case of jaundice, Dr. Barstow was still the best mechanic to call when K.I.T.T. needed maintenance work (take that, April Curtis!). Amazingly enough, I even still have the accompanying thermos. I did not, however, have the courage to open said thermos. Prophets only know if I had the forethought to clean it before I packed this away in my geekanalia collection (and I used to always drink milk with lunch…that’s a mess of potential nasty I didn’t want to subject myself to).
I also had to have any toy replica of K.I.T.T. that I could find (and that my parents would buy for me). I’m a sucker for a shiny, sexy car (ask me about my Corvette fetish sometime). And, let’s face it, K.I.T.T. was damn sexy. Sleek, dark, and shiny, with a “come hither” sparkle in his ruby scanner that was simply irresistible.
I still have most of the K.I.T.T. cars that my parents bought me, including a Burnin’ Key Car version that I used to shoot at my dog when she was asleep. Yes, I’m sure those instances are extra bricks in the wide and twisting path to my personal circle of hell.
My prized toy, however, is the talking K.I.T.T. that was the best birthday present EVAR when I was a kid. Manufactured by Kenner, this was a large-scale model of that gorgeous black Trans Am that came with an admittedly inferior Michael Knight action figure (but, really, it wasn’t about Michael, was it?). The awesome feature of this car was the fact that, when you depressed the “KNIGHT” license plate on the back, K.I.T.T. talked to you! I wish I could remember what he said, but unfortunately my K.I.T.T.’s voice died not long after I received him. I’ve taken him apart several times through the years, trying to figure out what’s wrong with him. I’m mechanically inclined, but apparently I’m no Bonnie Barstow.
When I was a kid, I spent a disgusting amount of time polishing my K.I.T.T. With Pledge furniture polish and Q-Tips. My OCD issues have been a keystone of my personality for a very long time, thank you. As you can see in this photo, he hasn’t been polished in a while. But he’s still shiny and sleek and not bad looking at all for a nearly 30-year-old toy.
What else? The first ring tone I ever bought was the Knight Rider theme. I love this theme. It has the same wonderfully Pavlovian hold on me as those brassy, bawdy TNG tones. And, no, I’ve never bought the TNG theme for any of my phones. Only Knight Rider. Okay, and maybe the Pink Panther theme…but that’s for a completely different blog entry.
I have a remix version on my iPod that I play often while driving. Probably not the best thing to listen to while driving Sammy, but it’s probably better than listening to the soundtrack to Carmageddon 3, no? Here, though, is the theme as it appeared at the beginning of the show, including the wonderful voiceover work about “a shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist.”
Mmm. Give me a moment…
Yeah, what more can I say? I loved this show. And Retro TV is teaching me that I still love it. How do you not love a show about a car that can talk to you, has ejector seats, a turbo boost, “super pursuit mode,” bullet-proof exterior, “silent mode,” a grappling hook, oil jets, a flame thrower, scanners, scopes, a “passive laser restraint system,” and a whole bunch of other groovy additions that I know I’m forgetting? K.I.T.T. was the S.H.I.Z.N.I.T.
More evidence of this? You know you’ve made it into the lexicon of cinema cool when the Mythbusters take you on:
I didn’t watch the Knight Rider 2000 movie they made in the early 90s. I read about it later, and I’m glad I spared myself that trauma. I did try to watch the Team Knight Rider series later that decade…but I think it’s a fair assessment to say that watching clothes tumbling around in a dryer is more exciting and entertaining. Same with the recent attempt to remake the original show. As much as I love Mustangs, the newer models look a bit craptacular. And the awkward position of Val K.I.T.T.mer’s scanner made him look to me like he had light-up nostrils. NOT sexy.
I know there’s a theatrical version now in the works. I’m not really holding my breath there either. No, as long as I’ve got my classic car and the Knighty awesomeness of David Hasslehoff’s mullet-fro, I’m good as gold.
Now excuse me…I’ve got to go measure Sammy’s front bumper. Gotta make sure there’s room up there for that turbo boost component and ruby red scanner I ordered for him…
Vanity of Vanititties
No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with getting breast implants as a Christian. I think it’s a personal decision. I don’t see anywhere in the Bible where it says you shouldn’t get breast implants.
So said Miss USA contestant Carrie Prejean during a recent Q+A she did for Christianity Today.
I suppose that’s one way of interpreting the Christian’s call to stand “firm” in their convictions.
Poor Carrie. You sure do know your Bible rules when they’re spoon-fed to you. But when you’re allowed to speak based on your own knowledge of the religion you constantly profess to love, you kind of go astray, don’t you?
See, the Bible actually does say things that speak to your human vanity, your immodest apparel (I don’t think heaven has a swimsuit competition), as well as your tampering with the body you believe God gave you:
I Samuel 12:21
Stupid Is As Stupid…Forgets to Set
I didn’t forget that two days ago was Friday. Honest. I had a Flashback Friday all written and ready to go. I’d even finished it on Wednesday afternoon.
So what happened? It was a complete PEBKAC moment, denizens. “Problem Exists Between Keyboard And Chair.” I forgot to set the publish time like I decided I would do on Wednesday afternoon. So Friday came and went, and no Flashback Friday. At least none that any of you could see.
Mea culpa. I promise that won’t happen again. And hey, at least there was something to read on Friday, right? Not like most weekends in which I’m virtually non-existent…virtually 🙂 Honestly, who has a real life anymore? They’re going to take away my neck port if I keep this up…
50BC09: Book Number 39
My first warning about Cormac McCarthy’s The Road should have been the fact that Oprah raved about it. Every time I pick up a book that has one of her stupid book club stickers on it, I inevitably hate it. I’m not talking about the already established canonical favorites of literature nerds. I’m talking about new releases she latches onto with her trademark joie de Oprah.
But this book won not just her questionable praise. It also won a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. I’ve loved several novels that can also claim such a win, including Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, which I consider one of the most perfect novels ever written. So I thought this fact might help to balance out the taint of Oprah praise.
Not so.
Perhaps it is because I love a genre that has done post-apocalyptic tales in multiple (and, dare I say it, better) ways. So the idea was not new to me. The concepts were not new. The behaviors were not new. The story was not new. The style was not new. I recognize the beauty of McCarthy’s sparse, restrained prose. But it, too, is not something new or unique to him. Book nerds will recognize in his style myriad other writers from disparate genres: Kerouac. Kesey. Carver. Sarmago.
Actually, Jos
The Most…Premature Time of the Year?
Christmas decorations are already being hung here in the city where I work. Yeah, I said Christmas. I know, I know…we’re supposed to say “holiday” instead of “Christmas” to be more inclusive. Sometimes I do that. But last time I checked, Jewish people didn’t hang green and red wreaths for Hanukkah. Red and green are the Christmas gang colors, thank you.
Remember the days when the barrier for Christmas cheer was Thanksgiving? No wreaths. No tannenbaums. No fat men in crushed red velvet (well, except for Uncle Mert, who still hasn’t left the 70s leisure suit era behind him). None of this stuff ever appeared on the scene until, at the very earliest, the day after Turkey Day. The day that is now celebrated here as “Black Friday,” when we’re all supposed to stumble out of our homes at half past way-too-friggin’-early o’clock, the stink of tryptophan and pie still clogging our brains, to shuffle with the other holiday-rage zombies and beat each other senseless for the last awesome deal on the hottest piece of breakable insipidness to hit the market this season.
Obviously, I don’t do this zombie walk. But I like writing the word zombie. Some of my ImagiFriendsTM have pointed out that zombie is a very popular keyword search. ZOMBIE. ZOMBIE. ZOMBIE. BRAINS!!!
Heh.
Wait. What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Premature holiday cheer. Is it wrong to want November to be free of Christmas decorations? I don’t think so. I enjoy the oranges and browns of Thanksgiving. They’re reminiscent of the orange and black of my beloved Halloween. I like a little extra time with Halloween, mmkay?
Ah well. When have I ever tried to fight against the accepted norm? Oh yeah. Always 😉
Anyway, I ran across this Christmas ornament during a recent search for something somewhat tangentially associated. This is the most horrible UM Testudo ornament EVAR. First off, it’s the new mascot (and by “new,” I mean the mascot that they started introducing the year I graduated…an undisclosed number of years ago). I hate this mascot. I’m so glad my aunt found an ornament for me with my Testudo. That ornament rocks.
This ornament, however, in addition to bearing the ugly mascot, also looks either like Testudo has a disturbing basketball-shaped hemorrhoid or the worst case of elephantiasis of the scrotum in modern medical history. Who on earth would want this dangling off their tree?
