Out Of The Minds of Babes

When I was 5, I asked my mother: "Where does Jesus live?" And she pointed to a tree and said: "There." For years, I would walk by that tree (which happened to be outside the neighborhood pizzeria) and stare at it in wonder, trying to figure out how Jesus could fit inside such a skinny trunk. I look back now and guess my mother was trying to be funny (if not metaphysical), but it got me to thinking -- how many children are walking around at this very moment thoroughly confused by a misunderstood word or phrase, or perhaps (like me) victims of their parents' sense of humor?

I can think of many such examples from my own early childhood. Such as:

• I used to refuse to eat ham, because it sounded like "hand" to me and I would imagine someone getting their hands smashed by a giant mallet, the product of which would become sandwich meat (blame such violent shows like Tom & Jerry and Looney Tunes for this).



• I used to think baby shampoo was made from real babies being squeezed tightly into small bottles.



• I thought to "threaten" someone was to take a thread and needle and stab them with it.



• When women gave birth on television, the camera would stay on the mother's face, mouth wide open, and the sound of the newborn baby crying would take place off-screen. For this reason, I used to think babies were born out of women's mouths.



• I used to think the world was flat and that the Earth, from pictures I'd seen in books, was a celestial body that hung in the sky above us like the moon. I was shocked to discover, years later, that we actually lived *on* the Earth.



• I thought dogs were male, and cats were female. Their disdain for each other, therefore, seemed like nothing more than normal marital strife.



• I used to refuse to eat eggs because I thought they were the flesh of unborn chickadees.



• I thought dolphins were just really happy and playful sharks.



• I thought meeting someone "face-to-face" meant that one person would wash the face of the other, then vice-versa.



• I thought I could stick a straw in an orange and get Tropicana orange juice.



• I thought a staple gun was a weapon used by secretaries and teachers.



• I thought pandas were the mixed offspring of polar and grizzly bears.



• My grandmother once gave me a subway token and told me it was "for the train." I then found my toy choo-choo, slipped the token into the slot at the bottom, and wondered why the toy refused to move on its own.



• I thought the bread of the Eucharist at Mass were potato chips, and wondered why my mother wouldn't let me go up during Holy Communion to get one.

As you can see, kids can and often do misconstrue things that adults take for granted. I guess this is why education is important. In olden times I'm sure I would have grown up and gotten married before I finally learned that my wife would not, in fact, be delivering our child orally. :-)

Completed Metal Gear Solid 4 Over The Weekend

Well, just finished playing Metal Gear Solid 4 for the PlayStation 3 over the weekend. It took me 2 weeks to complete -- well in advance of my normal 2-3 months for a game these days. The quick turnaround was due to two factors:

1) This is a very short game (though that's not a bad thing in my book); and

2) I took a week off from work and pretty much spent every waking moment engrossed in this game.

The last point should tell you how I feel about the experience. Because of my work AND writing schedule, I rarely get to devote more than 5 hours a week to gaming. And that's if I'm lucky. Some weeks I don't get to game at all. So a game that takes most teenagers a week or two to beat, takes me 12 weeks off and on to do the same. But I've been gaming since I was 8, so video games will never disappear from my life completely.

With MGS4, however, I got sucked into it early and it never let up until I was done. It helped that I was between writing projects at the time, of course. And the great storyline, graphics, and gameplay made it a cinch for me to stay interested for hours on end. Which, if you know me, is a feat in itself as I can no longer stay seated for more than 2 hours to play any game these days. I always need a break. Not so this time. On my week off, it was not uncommon for me to spend 4-5 hours in one sitting playing Kojima's latest masterpiece, only to spend another 2-3 hours later the same night. Sometimes I would replay older chapters just because they were so much fun!

All this started back in June when I bought the PS3 pictured below, which came bundled with MGS4. At the time I was in the middle of playing Grand Theft Auto 4 for my Xbox 360, so beyond doing the initial install of the PS3 and watching a few blu-ray movies, I left the console alone until the end of July when I completed GTA4. But aside from performing a few software upgrades, I spent all of the month of August doing rewrites and writing a new story, among other non-gaming things.

Finally, on September 1, I returned to the world of Metal Gear and began my epic journey. And what a journey it was! While MGS4 hearkens back to the intricate, muddled and loquacious plotlines which annoyed fans in the second installment, this time around the story was a lot more manageable, if perhaps a little bit of a letdown in the end (more on that later). MGS3 had done a lot to put the series back in order, but the 60s time setting did not allow for much in the way of technological progress in terms of the look and feel of the game. That game had players traipsing mostly through Asian jungles, relying on traditional painted camouflage and good ol' fashioned hand-to-hand combat to make it through to the end.

But in MGS4, we return back to the "present," with more advanced tech goodies at Snake's disposal than a trio of James Bond films put together. Chief among these being the Octo camo suit, which allows Snake to morph and blend almost-instantly into any background just by standing next to it for more than 5 seconds. So, unlike in MGS3, you no longer have to manually change into different camo gear to match your environment, and apply the appropriate face paint before commencing taking down enemy sentries -- the computer makes the adjustments for you. And in a cool graphical changeover not unlike the Predator alien from the movies. Nice!

The levels and chapters here flow smoothly and swiftly, with Snake never tarrying in one location for too long. This is a change from the previous games which usually had the player backtracking endlessly and staying put in the same general geographical location for the entire game. Not so here. In MGS4, players start off in a Middle Eastern setting, then quickly fly off to the South American plateau, then off to central Europe, back to the Arctic for a poignant return to the current series's roots, and finally aboard a mechanized, floating fortress which I won't name for fear of giving away some key plot elements. That's a lot of scenery changes, and something I appreciated a lot. I played the game very conservatively, so in my playthrough I did virtually no backtracking. It's amazing! MGS2 killed me with all the endless backtracking I had to do, and MGS3 wasn't too much of an improvement. Backtracking, of course, is a trick programmers use to get you to play the same areas multiple times rather than burn up valuable resources trying to generate new real estate. With the advanced capabilities of the PS3, and the ample room provided by the new Blu-ray discs, I guess this is no longer an issue. Or perhaps those boys at Kojima Productions are really just *that* good. Either way, it all amounts to a pretty good romp across the globe. Just the way I like it!

One thing I have to get off my chest, tho. I was a tad disappointed with the ending. Not only did I think all the loose threads were wrapped up a little *too* neatly (i.e., not plausible), I felt the main character, Solid Snake, was given the shaft (no innuendo intended). It just seemed an ignoble end for such a great hero and soldier. And no, I am *not* implying that he dies. I'm speaking of "end" as an end to his presence in the series, as all indications from Kojima is that this will be Snake's last outing, if not the last Metal Gear game period. I don't know, but it didn't gel with me the way Snake just gets screwed over and over in this final outing. And to make matters worse, the other characters get cookie-cutter, saccharine endings. I mean it doesn't get more cheesy than having your grim, militaristic game series end with both a teary father-daughter reunion AND a wedding! I think Kojima was watching too many soap operas or something. Or maybe this in an ingredient indigent to the Japanese psyche? Whatever the case may be, the ending left a little something more to be desired.

That said, I still love this game to death. It contained the least frustrations and most fun I had with this series, although MGS1 is still my all-time favorite. That will never change. Some people might say that MGS4 was too easy. And, yes, there is some basis to this charge. While not exactly easy per se, it was the the easiest of the series. The boss battles in particular were confusingly simple. I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but it's the only way to describe these fights. I kept expecting something more to come out at me whenever I dropped one of the female heavies, only to be confused by their whimpering cries and fetal resting positions. WTF?

But despite this, the gameplay mechanics, superb graphics (best of this generation so far), and mind-blowingly deep story and cutscenes make this game impossible to rate below a 9 out of 10. What the actual decimal amount becomes is just picking hairs. Regardless of differing opinions on minor nitpicks, no one can play this game and say it is not a masterpiece. A fitting cap to an excellent series that began 10 years ago (for the current "solid" cycle).

I'm going to start the game again and play it on a higher difficulty level now.

Rating: 9.4/10

Remembering Our Cruise

So last night Lisa and I were talking about the Caribbean cruise we took last year. It was a lot of fun, definitely better than I thought it would be. For those of you who've been to my Myspace or Facebook pages, all this is old news. But I thought I'd recap the experience here once and for all. Besides, it gives me an excuse to look through some old pics!

I took the above pic of our ship, the Royal Caribbean's "Freedom of the Seas," from the private beach at Haiti. The cruise left Miami on a Sunday for a week long excursion around the western Caribbean. Besides Haiti, our other ports of call were: Jamaica, the Cayman Islands, and Cozumel (Mexico). At the time, Freedom was RC's largest ship, and we certainly believed it. The thing was like a floating city.



Here we are in our cabin, standing out on the balcony. I was so glad I insisted we pay extra for a nice balcony room. Two of the seven days was going to be spent completely out at sea, so I wanted to have something to look at during the times we were in the room (which turned out to be not often).

Lisa's best friend, Sherlene, took the photo. This was supposed to be our second anniversary celebration, but earlier in the year Lisa had asked if it was okay if a bunch of her friends came along. Since I knew them all pretty well, I didn't see the problem with it. After all, Lisa and I would always have our own private time in our cabin whenever we needed it, so it wasn't like they were taking her away from me. But, as always happens, all but one of her friends ended up having to cancel. Except for Sherlene. She felt like she was going to be the odd (wo)man out and get in the way of our anniversary. But we felt bad since she already paid for her trip and I told Lisa I had no problem with her coming along. Worked out for the best, tho, as they got to go and do girly things like go to the spa and go shopping while I lounged around on the upper deck.



This was the view from our balcony when we woke up the next morning. I believe Cuba's somewhere way over that horizon. We were able to keep track of the ship's progress by viewing a live, real-time satellite map on one of the tv channels in our cabin. So cool!



This is the main level of the ship, or the promenade. It's ginormous! In addition to a pizza shop, duty-free shop, general store, an English pub, barber shop, wine bar, and sports apparel store, there was a Ben & Jerry's ice-cream shop! Yum!!! The pizza and snacks (from the pub) were included in the room comp, so I had to exercise enormous restraint by not going piggy on the place. I still had a major oink, oink experience regardless.



Topside on the upper deck, everybody was already out and about soaking up the sun. There was a lot to do up here. In addition to three separate pools, there was a wave pool for surfing, a climbing wall, miniature golf course, full basketball court, and two jacuzzis which had glass bottoms and stuck out from the ship so that you could see down into the ocean below. These were a favorite spot at night time when the jacuzzis were lit up.



We got all gussied up for dinner. You had many choices for where to take your meals, including several swanky restaurants which were extra cost and not included on the main bill. We opted to just stick to the main mess hall where almost everyone ate. Funny thing is, the main hall was just as fancy as most restaurants!



Out table was assigned on the third level, which was fine by me. The table was for 8, but for some reason our guests never showed up the entire time we were there, so the three of us had it all to ourselves. How cool is that? Our waiters were great, and hilarious. They were always so attentive to our every need. We tipped them very generously at the end of the cruise. Oh, and the food was to die for. I swear, I've been to fancy restaurants back home in New York that were not up to this level of food quality. Unfortunately, I don't have any food shots (sorry Cindy!), because it was just so good that we scarfed it all down before I could remember to take a pic. :-)



We docked in Ocho Rios, Jamaica on our third morning. Lisa's originally from Kingston, which is way on the opposite end of the island. It would have taken 9 hours or longer to drive there, so we didn't bother. The only thing that sucked was that we had already been to Ocho Rios 8 years prior on our first overseas trip together. So most of the available activities were for things we had done before. We eventually settled on a tour of the Shaw Park Gardens, which had beautiful botanicals and waterfalls on display. Here we are standing by one such waterfall. The Jamaican guides kept giving me weird looks, then staring at Lisa. Guess they were wondering how I'd managed to steal away one of their own. (ha, ha)



When we got to Georgetown on Grand Cayman island, we took a small skiff to the middle of the harbor and waited for our submarine. Yes, we joined a submarine tour since I've always wanted to travel to the bottom of the sea. Not being able to swim, Lisa was petrified. So I pointed out that even if she could swim it wouldn't matter if something went wrong down there -- we'd all die anyway! Hmm, my logic doesn't always have the intended calming effect I wish it did. Something Lisa is often quick to point out. Eventually the ocean started to froth and bubble before us, and up popped the submarine you see above. The boat for the previous tour group onboard has pulled up aside it to load back its passengers.



Now it's our turn to board the submarine. It was quite cozy in here, definitely not for the claustrophobic. Lisa's smiling here, but don't let her fool you. She was a-scared!



We dropped to 20 ft, then 40, then 80, and finally 105 -- all the while checking out all the coral reefs and marine life. Everything came out blue-washed in these photos, so its hard to detect all the colors that were on display to us. But take my word for it, it was stunning!



When we got down to the dock in Cozumel, one of those annoying photographers managed to corral us behind a booth to take this cheezy picture. We were off to see (and swim with) the dolphins in the ocean, so I didn't feel much like tarrying in the duty-free section nearby. We hopped straight into a taxi and high-tailed it towards the private beaches.



Sherlene was even more afraid of the water than Lisa, so she opted out of this experience. Lisa, for her part, put on a brave front. With the help of a life vest, she got down into the water and got a kiss on the cheek from a dolphin as her reward. She freaked out when it was time to swim out into the middle of the lagoon, but with help from me and one of the guides, she did it!



Everyone had to wear a life vest, unfortunately. I would have been fine without one, but apprently liability lawsuits aren't just popular in the U.S. Of course, out of all the people there that day, the guides chose me to be the guinea pig and swim way out into the middle of the deep end first. I had to wait and tread water there until a dolphin, at a signal, came torpedoing through the water straight at me. It then swam under my feet, swerved around me, and then all but leaped into my arms here. That's a miffed expression I have there, but not because I was surprised (which I was), but because they had taught us not to block the dolphin's air passages, and I was worried I was doing it wrong. The dolphin looks happy, tho, no? Cute little bugger. After the photo op, I held on for dear life as it dragged me back to the dock. I felt like I was hanging on to a jet ski!



That night, the cruise threw a midnight buffet party, complete with ice sculptures. I was more interested in all the yummy fruit. Lisa was of the same mind, and so we dove at the display table you see above. I'm sure we devoured half of the table, between the three of us. :-)



After dinner on the last day, we strolled around the deck and got to enjoy our last sunset of the cruise. We were sad, but this view more than made up for it. Isn't that simply gorgeous?

All in all it was one of the best times we've had. I certainly wasn't expecting to be pampered and catered to so much by the wonderful RC crew members. When we disembarked at Miami the next morning, it didn't feel like we were heading back home to NYC . . . but, rather, leaving home behind. We're thinking of taking our next cruise around the western Mediterranean -- Spain, France, Italy. It might even be through RC, although their Mediterranean ships are a tad smaller than the Freedom of the Seas. But either way, we'll be back!

OMG, Do We Have A *GASP* Fibber In Our GOP Candidate?

For all the flak Hilary Clinton got for "sprucing up" a few of the details regarding taking sniper fire while over seas, I'm surprised more hoopla isn't being made about the number of times McCain has fibbed on air. Wow, you mean no one has called him out on this?

Watch the above video. Pretty scary.

This Matt Damon Fellow Makes A Good Point

Even though I'm getting sick of all the news Sarah Palin is generating (seriously, people, you're just feeding into the GOP's hype machine!), I have to admit Matt Damon makes some good points here.

Do you really want this woman holding the fate of the free world in her hands? I mean, really?

As usual, click on the screen above to activate the video playback of Matt's interview.

On This Day . . .

7 years ago, on this day . . .

I was walking to work from the West 4th Street subway when I saw a plane flying low over the Hudson River. My company was located on the extreme west side of lower Manhattan at the time, nearly one and a half miles north of the World Trade Center. Something in the back of my mind found the sight of the plane odd, as airliners don't usually fly over this part of Manhattan, and certainly not that low. But, as I was running late, I put the thought out of my head and rushed to get to the office.

7 years ago, on this day . . .

I was in the middle of reading through stacks of tax legislation when I got a phone call from Lisa telling me to watch the news. She said a plane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers. My immediate thought was: "Oh, what fool took a joy ride in his prop plane and got himself killed?" See, I thought it was something like the small private plane that had crashed into the Empire State Building not so long ago. Sad and tragic, but didn't do much damage. I wasn't worried. But then she said, no, it was a 747. Now that was something entirely different, I admitted. That technically shouldn't be possible, I said, unless it was deliberate. Still, I didn't want to believe it could be terrorist related. Maybe a suicidal pilot? But the news only got worse as the minutes ticked on by. Pretty soon a noticeable buzz started to build up around the office. My co-worker had her radio tuned to the live news broadcast, listening with her headphones on. She told everyone that another plane hit the other tower now. That's when folks started to really worry.

7 years ago, on this day . . .

I took a quick break and stepped outside to assess the state of the world. I was expecting people to be going about their business as normal, a reassuring reminder that the rest of the city still chugged to the usual beat despite what might be happening just a mile or so south of us. But to my surprise, the streets were a hotbed of chaotic activity. Fire engine after fire engine came roaring down Varick street, followed by motorcades of police patrol cars with their sirens blaring as well. Fire marshals and unmarked detective vehicles joined the fray, and in the air a distinct smell of something burning hung over us. People were leaving their offices and walking in the opposite direction. Surely they were overreacting? Still, I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach, so I cut my break short and rushed back upstairs. By now, the office was in an uproar, too. People wanted to go home, but the higher ups told us all--by mass e-mail, no less--to remain calm and continue working until further notice. They were keeping abreast of the situation.

7 Years ago, on this day . . .

My co-worker took off her headphones and turned to us, face streaming with tears. One of the towers had fallen, she told us. They think the other one will, too. My brain tried to process this impossible news. I had an absurd mental picture of a gigantic looming office tower toppling forward onto all the smaller office buildings around it. I went numb. The phones were ringing off the hook now; one of them was mine. Lisa was worried. She told me that people were being evacuated from the area -- were they letting us leave? No, I said. But I had heard enough. I wasn't staying around any longer, waiting for the company brass to decide my fate for me. Others were of the same mind. Finally the official order came from up high. We were to leave the premises for home, and to contact our managers over the course of the next few days to find out when it would be safe to come back in to work. That was all. So we powered down our workstations and filed out of the building at once. We didn't know it, but it would be a week before we were allowed to come back.

7 years ago, on this day . . .

I was hoofing it up 6th avenue, heading north. Around five hundred other people crammed around me, trying to do the same thing. I travelled up to West 4th street, then took a shortcut cutting through Washington Square Park and the campuses of NYU. Students and faculty were standing around the steps of the buildings, chatting calmly but obviously confused. No one yet fully understood the magnitude of what had happened. Neither did I, but at that moment I didn't care. I was in pure survival mode, just thinking how in hell I was going to walk up the full length of the island of Manhattan, cross the Harlem River, and then walk 30 more blocks to my highrise in the Bronx. The subways and buses were frozen, mass transit had come to a standstill. The entire lower half of the city was walking east and north with me. At 23rd street I had to decide: did I go east past 1st avenue and work my way up the FDR? Or head west and walk along the West Side Highway? I imagined the east side route taking me past the U.N. Having a vague knowledge that this had been a terrorist attack, I did not want to chance that the U.N. would not be a target, too. So I made a compromise, I stuck to 5th avenue and continued on north until I hit Central Park. From there I headed east to 1st avenue, and then north again to Harlem. I crossed the barricaded Willis Avenue bridge near 135 street into the Bronx. Buses and trains were not working here, either, so I continued walking home. I walked 10 miles that day in 3.5 hours. A city of dazed and eerily silent zombies had shadowed my movements almost every step of the way. Everyone else was in survival mode, too, it seemed.

7 years ago, on this day . . .

Once home at last, I sat on the couch all day long, numbly watching all the news reports on the television. Nothing seemed real. From my 10th story apartment, I could see down into the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Not far enough to see the WTC on a normal day . . . but this was not a normal day. A thick, black plume of smoke rose up from the horizon, testament to how far I had walked that morning. My feet were not as sore as the day my boy scout troop got lost and we ended up walking 15 miles along broken trails with full packs on our backs, but they were hurt nonetheless. The news reporters kept repeating themselves: A tragedy they called it. Still no word on the Pentagon. Still no word on that 4th plane. A tragedy. That word repeated over and over.

7 years later, on this day . . .

My company has since moved locations, but this time settling us directly across the street from the World Trade Center and the pit that is Ground Zero. Today is my first 9/11 memorial ceremony so close to the site. The bell just tolled here at around 8:47, filling the entire office with an eerie silence in its wake. One of the most surreal moments of my life, besides the actual event of course. A lot of folks did not come in today so as to avoid the crowds and all the security that has shut down the side streets to vehicular traffic. Later this afternoon McCain and Obama will make an appearance. I brought my lunch with me, so I doubt I'll set foot outside in that zoo until I leave to go home for the day.

They tell us never to forget. But for me, on this day, it's impossible not to remember.

1st Birthdays

I recently attended the first birthday of my nephew, Chandler -- Lisa's sister's son. It was held in her Grandmother's backyard in the northern Bronx. Of course we got there on time and were almost the only ones there. Because of, you know, BPT (Black People's Time), LOL!

So this only meant we had more time to play with Chandler by ourselves. His parents were busy trying to get things organized.

As you can see, here he is looking very tired. He was sitting listlessly until we got there, probably thinking: is anyone going to show up for my party? Aww!

So Lisa gave him some watermelon, and that pepped him right up. This boy loves to EAT!!! The minute he senses food in the vicinity, he gets happy.

Now the first guests are starting to trickle in. He's going to greet them.

A gentleman always shakes hands with his guests. He sure got around on those chubby legs -- meeting and greeting people and charming them with his smile. He was around 3 seconds from dancing to the music here.

Here he found the snacks and grabbed hold of a cheese puff, which he proceeded to play with in his mouth for like 5 minutes until it was soft enough to swallow. He was a hit with the bigger kids who came by. They all had a blast.

Eventually Chandler's mother came and got him so that the cake cutting could commence. He was stunned by all the faces staring and singing at him here. (ha, ha)

See the devilish smile on his face as the cake is cut? He doesn't know what's going on, but he can bet it tastes yummy!!!

Lisa's younger brother came by with his newborn, our second niece. Her name's Ariana. Don't you just want to pinch those cheeks? Everyone was in love with her, and I got the honor of holding her for half the night. She drooled all over me!

All in all it was a fun, though, exhausting day. I don't know how parents do it!

E.T. -- You Have A Call On Line One!

This is very cool! I was reading this article in SciAm today, about upgrading the Very Large Array (VLA) in New Mexico, a collection of 27 radio telescopes used to explore the universe. The expanded VLA is the latest breakthrough in the technology, going completely digital to be up and running by 2012. What is so impressive is the supercomputer, or correlator, that monitors and compiles all the various signals coming in from each of these antenna dishes.

You can read the entire article online by clicking here.

This is my favorite excerpt:

"Engineers also upgraded the path by which signals get from the antenna dishes to the correlator, using all-digital fiber optics that replace the old analog waveguides. The dishes are getting new, exquisitely sensitive digital receivers, providing continuous band coverage from one to 50 gigahertz. All these upgrades will pump up the VLA’s capabilities at least 10-fold, making it able, in principle, to detect a signal as weak as a cell phone call from Jupiter."

I'm simply dumbfounded by the awesomeness of the bolded statement. Science rocks, hard!

How Drowning Taught Me To Swim

In one of her latest blog entries, Cindy showed off pictures of her adorable bubs cavorting in the sickeningly blue and gorgeous sea that makes up San Diego's beach estate. In the comments section she asked me how I came to learn how to swim. And I figured it was a good enough story to tell here.

It goes without saying that this is not the preferred method for getting motivated to learn.

Back when I was 6 years old and still Catholic (another story), my mother enrolled us at a local day camp in the Bronx run by the Sisters of St. Rita of Cascia. In addition to spending all day doing arts and crafts in the back room of the church, they would take us kids on field trips to various parks and pools. On one such occasion, we all drove out to the suburbs and spent the day at a very large private pool, complete with a kiddie slide and diving board. Unfortunately, the kiddie slide lined up with the deep end of the pool. I know, wtf?

I bet you think you know where this is going, but you're wrong.

You see, I was not dumb enough to attempt sliding down that slide (though I dearly wanted to) until I could guarantee I would not end up in the deep end. I was too smart, you see. So I walked from the shallow part out into the middle of the pool until I neared the invisible line where the deep end began. Since I couldn't see it, I had to "feel" it out by sticking one foot tentatively in front of the other, all the while lining up my position with the bottom end of the slide. Like I said, I was a genius!

And just when I was perfectly lined up with it, a grin spreading on my face -- swoosh, down I went! How was a 6 year old supposed to know that the deep end of the pool was really a downward sloping hill as slippery as a ski slope? Before I knew it, I was way over on the deep side, with no way to get back to the shallow end. I sputtered and flailed my arms, then sank like a stone 8 feet down to the bottom. I remember feeling my feet touch the floor of the pool, then kicking with all my might for the surface. When I broke, I tried to gasp for air and scream for help at the same time. My body deemed it could not do both of these things simultaneously, so it picked the more important one: breathing. I slapped my hands on the surface as I felt myself going back under. Right when I made to scream, water entered my mouth and I choked on my way down. But did I see the lifeguard finally take notice and turn my way? God, I hoped so!

On the way back up for the second time, I saw the lifeguard girl diving into the water. I quickly grabbed some air, my heart pounding and legs kicking like crazy, before going down for a third time. Then suddenly I felt strong arms come up under me and hoist me to the surface. I don't remember getting carried from the pool, or unceremoniously dumped on the side. But I remember everyone staring at me.

"Are you okay?" was all the girl asked, wanting to get back to chatting with her friends.

"Yeah," I croaked, too embarrassed to admit that I almost died. She shrugged and turned around and left me there to cough out what felt like half the contents of the pool from my stomach. I guess lifeguarding standards were different back in those days. I'm sure looking back now that the girl was probably no older than 14 or 15.

I never said anything to anyone, but that incident scared the hell out of me. I could not stop thinking about how I had almost drowned. To this day, this remains my most frightening way to die. I'd take getting gored to death by an ornery rhinoceros over drowning or asphyxiating. Not that I want to get gored to death, mind you. I'm just saying.

Anyway, the next time they took us swimming, it was to a lake. I was 7 at the time, and I spent the whole day teaching myself how to swim. The camp counsellor's idea of teaching us was to throw each kid in the deep area of the lake and laugh as we spluttered and kicked and caused a big commotion. After my incident the previous summer, I wanted no part of that. So I stayed by myself in the shallow end while my friends (who knew how to swim) played around me.

Eventually I learned to just relax with my head under water, and then to imitate someone falling over flat on his face. Once I got over the initial fear of letting my feet leave the ground, the rest was just a matter of rhythm. In the shallow water I felt safe to experiment, so I alternated between kicking with just my feet, to stroking with just my arms, then finally doing both at once. Each time I panicked, I knew I just had to set my feet down and I would be fine. Before long I was swimming like a fish. It's amazing how fast kids can learn things, even in the grip of fear. Especially if your friends can do it already. Peer jealousy is perhaps the greatest motivator for a child.

Anyway, ever since that day I swam every chance I got. My family went to the beach often, and I spent one summer when I was 12 going to the local public pool every single day (even when it rained). In this manner I became quite an adept swimmer. In high school, I took swimming class just as a way to avoid boring regular gym. The coach was so impressed with what I thought was an untrained style, that he *begged* me to join the swim team. I mean, literally, he begged. He would not leave me alone. But there was nothing I hated more than being at school at that age, and the thought of having to be there even longer to participate in some extracurricular sport was anathema to me. Hell no!

Looking back I wish I had, though. It wouldn't have been so bad. Maybe I could have been the next Michael Phelps? Nah, okay, let me not get too carried away now. :-)

And this all came about because I almost slept with the chlorinated fishes one summer afternoon when I was six. The fear and humiliation of having to be rescued drove me to never allow myself to be in such a helpless position again.

I'm sure there's a metaphor for life there somewhere.

Book Review: The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

Just finished reading the 1966 Robert A. Heinlein masterpiece, The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, considered by many to be one of the finest sci-fi novels of all time. It won the Hugo award in 1967, and has been in many a top-10 sci-fi lists of must-reads almost ever since. And now it's easy for me to see why.

I'm disappointed that I did not read this book sooner. Or maybe it's a good thing I waited until I was older. Thinking back on it now, I don't think I was mature enough in high school to appreciate the social and political themes that the novel uses to great, if often heavy-handed, effect. And in fact, I put off reading the novel since purchasing it earlier this year, due to some divided opinions from other reviews I had read. Most of the novel's detractors mention that the story is convoluted and drags on for too long without much action. Others point to its obvious liberal overtones and broad political brushstrokes that leaves little room for subtle interpretation. The bad guys are bad, and the good guys unflinchingly good.

This is mostly hogwash, I'm happy to say. If anything, TMIAHM is at times embarrassingly straight-forward. It's a testament to Heinlein's supreme mastery of his craft that the narrative--taken from the first-person POV of the main protagonist--is charmingly succinct and to the point. The reader must put up with a disconcerting local pidgin as we listen in on the protagonist's thoughts, but I found myself quickly getting over this oddity after the first two pages. The plot sucked me in from the beginning, you see, so that I hardly had the time to nitpick the odd grammar and broken English of the main character.

And, surprises of surprises, when the novel jumps directly into a heated debate on lunar socio-economic platforms, I found myself thoroughly engaged. Who'd a thunk it? I guess sometime between high school political science class and my recently cultivated appetite for all things historical, this type of stuff must have become interesting for me.

The basic premise is a simple one: a caged-in society is fed up with the dictatorship rule of the local authority. On the moon, this takes on extra significance since there is literally nowhere for the lunar colonists to go. Due to a gravity pull one-sixth that of Earth, the long-term inhabitants of the moon are trapped forever in its rocky embrace, forced to eke out a harsh existence either mining ice or lending a hand at hydroponics farming. Most of the harvests of both ice and wheat are earmarked for catapult shipments down the gravity well towards Earth, where the reduced effort amounts to huge savings for the mother planet and the Lunar Authority which runs its monopoly.

The protagonist is one Manuel Garcia O'Kelly Davis, or "Mannie" as his friends and family call him. He's a one-armed technician employed by the Warden's office to, among other duties, check in on the Authority's main supercomputer, a self-aware AI called HOLMES IV (or, High Optional Logical Multi-Evaluating Supervisor). At the start of the novel, Mannie is sent to investigate a recent slew of practical jokes on the Authority's accounts payable department by the bored machine, only to discover that the AI has a severely underdeveloped sense of humor, but an eagerness to learn. In exchange for its good behavior, Mannie promises to teach the machine how to tell good jokes from bad ones. He also names the computer "Mike," short for Mycroft, the brother of fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes. Mike allows Mannie to have access to him remotely and at all times for the purpose of discussing these jokes, as well as various other topics. Mike deems Mannie "man my only friend."

Shortly after, Mannie attends a secret political rally where he runs into an old professor friend of his, Bernardo de la Paz ("Prof"), and meets a tall, beautiful blond named Wyoming Knott ("Wyoh"). The rally is a boiling point of many differing opinions by disgruntled "Loonies," but all agree on one fact: the Authority must be overthrown if the moon is to be free from tyrannical rule. Wyoh speaks before the crowd and espouses her views on how they should take control of the grain shipments and bargain with Earth for better market rates and import goods. Prof takes the podium after her and discusses his concerns that they must instead cease dependence on Earth completely, if Luna is to survive and prosper. Before the argument between these opposing schools of thought can come to a head, the Authority's police squad breaks into the meeting and clashes with the organizers, killing several men and women. A riot spills out into the causeways of the underground Luna City, during which time Mannie and Wyoh barely escape with their lives.

Together with Prof, the trio convinces Mike to join their rebellion. In fact, it is Mike who puts the idea into their heads. With his superior computing powers and genuine eagerness to help, and backed by Prof's informed knowledge of political systems and history, the group form the beginnings of a resistance. They slowly recruit others into their organization, and before long the moon has a well-organized and highly secretive revolutionary force.

What follows next is a grand libertarian revolution like something out of Tolstoy, with perhaps an added pinch of Randian Objectivism thrown in for good measure. After the Warden is overthrown and control given to the people of the moon, the novel starts to read like a historical primer for developing nations, taking major cues from the American revolution itself. Although the colonists have forgotten much of North American history, Prof has not, and he uses it to great--sometimes hilarious--ends, borrowing liberally from the Founding Fathers in drawing up Luna's first congress.

This is perhaps where TMIAHM drags the most, as what follows is endless chapters of political talk and deliberation, followed by more talk. The plot picks up again briefly when a delegation is sent to Earth to talk terms with the Authority's leaders headquartered in Agra, India. Prof and Mannie are sent, although the the heightened gravity on the home planet poses dangerous health consequences for the men, particularly Prof.

Eventually the loonies win their freedom, and in the meantime the reader comes away with a ground-up view of how revolutions can be fought and won. The last third of the book is a real page turner, with nail-biting action as the loonies defend their home against a last ditch effort by the Earthside Authority to wrest control away by force. But thanks to the quick thinking of Mannie and Mike, the moon is saved.

TMIAHM is significant not just for the deep political insight it weaves through a delightful and colorful narrative, but also by introducing a rather outré social evolution in lunar society born out of necessity. Much like Australia in its early days, the moon is a former penal colony. At one point men outnumbered women 10-to-1. But by the start of the novel, thanks to increased immigration waves from an overpopulated, underfed Earth, the ratio has widened to almost 2-to-1 odds. This still leaves far more men than women on the moon, a fact which has allowed for the development of a type of "communal" marriage, where co-ops are formed between several individuals (men and women both) for the sake of pooling labor, financial, and emotional resources together in order to raise large, closer-knit families. These co-opt marriages consists of several husbands and several wives, all living in harmony thanks to an egalitarian "airing of grievances" style of discourse that minimizes infighting, and distributes the wealth of the family (both monetary and genetic) evenly among the participants.

This is something one finds in the far-future, cutting edge sci-fi of today, and it's a testament to Heinlein's importance and foresight in the field that he was writing such progressive ideas into his fiction back in the 50s and 60s.

Ultimately, although unwieldy and long-winded at times, TMIAHM is the type of novel that is just too good to dislike. It's quite possibly one of the best, and most important, sci-fi novels I've ever read. It's a novel I can see being taught to undergrads majoring in poly-sci or history, let alone am. lit. I wish I had read this sooner!

Rating: A+

Oh Yeah, Baby!!! Who You Gonna Call?

Several months ago it was revealed that the next installment in the Ghostbusters film franchise was not going to be a film at all, but a kick-ass video game on all systems. The game was scripted and voiced by some of the original crew (sans Bill Murray) and is being developed by Terminal Reality for publisher Sierra. It's slated for a 2009 release to coincide with the 25th anniversary of the first film (has it been that long?).

Anyway, the rumor of an actual film sequel was squashed early on. Or was it? Looks like there may indeed be a third Ghostbusters after all! And better yet, they might be looking to reunite the original cast. Check out the news here.

I for one would love for this to happen. And I think it will. Of course, the original cast is a lot older now, not to mention fatter, so the rumor is that they might be training a new generation. Normally, I would say this sounds like a sucky idea. But since this is a comedy, I think it could work.

Yay!!!!

If Only This Had Really Happened At The RNC . . .

Some of you may be familiar with the Internet phenomenon of being "rickroll'd". If not, you can read all about it here.

The above video takes the idea to even loftier heights, with very funny results for John McCain and Co. Now if only this had happened for realz!

I didn't watch the speech when it aired live, but knew that them crazy left wing nutjobs had tried to sabotage it on several occasions. Just didn't know they possessed this level of hackery skillz, LOL!

How My Dreams Help Me Write (Sometimes)

A little under two years ago I had all four wisdom teeth pulled out at once. Rather than be put under, I opted for the local novocaine route and stayed awake throughout the procedure, mostly because I didn't want to trouble anyone to accompany me to the surgeon's office. Anyway, they gave me Vicodin for the pain, but I ended up only using three before calling it quits. I had too many weird dreams while on that stuff. In one such dream, colors were talking to me. I carried on a conversation with my pals blue, red, and orange. Green showed up halfway through just to say hi, but had to split.

Point is, don't do drugs kids, mmmkay?

Anyway, when I woke up I thought I had the perfect premise for a story. I ended up writing "Ascending the Sending Road," a 10k story about a planet where the native lifeforms were sentient plant life who communicated by means of color broadcasting. It was an interesting piece, to say the least.

Saturday morning I woke up laughing from another weird dream, but this one centered on a famous sci-fi movie franchise I won't mention. The dream was so strong that I immediately jumped out of bed and ran to my PC to start typing. I just finished the tale this afternoon. It's called "Galaxy Far," and came in at just under 6k. I'll probably edit it down to around the 5k mark in a week or two. But I had a lot of fun writing it.

So, yeah, sometimes my dreams help me to write. Although I doubt I'll ever resort to drugs to get my muse, as tempting as that may be. Vicodin was too scary for me to handle. :-)

Forgot My Own Birthday!

Yikes!!! It seems I do this every year now. I start thinking of my birthday coming up a month in advance, and for every week afterwards will think about it once or twice. Just last week I posted here about my upcoming b-day, in fact.

But lo and behold, I completely forgot that I turned 32 today! It took for Lisa to call me from work at the hospital (she works the night shift) to remind me -- ACK! The funny thing is, I remember what I was thinking last night about today:

Hmm, it's Sunday. That means I have to go to work on Monday. Damn. What do I need to do tomorrow before my week-long vacation's up? Let's see: finish writing up my latest short story; play some more of Metal Gear Solid 4; finally sort the laundry I did last Friday (ugh!); and, oh yeah, write out some bills from last month.

Not once in all that planning did I take into account that this day was supposed to be something special. In case you don't know it, I don't hold any special significance to my birthdays. If it had fallen on a work day, I would still go to work. Last week I promised myself I wouldn't run on this day, but now that it's here I can feel my body wanting to stick to my routinely scheduled 5-mile run later. So I'm sure I'll be doing that after all.

We're not doing anything special on my day. I insist on this. I still make dinner for the two of us the way I always do. And I specifically asked for no gifts this year, because I honestly can't think of anything I need. I'm serious. If I were to get a gift, it would be for something I forced Lisa to get for me just for the sake of gift giving. And that sucks. As of right now, there is no one thing out there on the market that I truly desire. I was briefly contemplating getting an iPhone, but can't justify the cost plus the additional charge of upgrading my existing AT&T account to cover the data fees for it. So, nah, none of that please.

I'm keeping it decidedly low-key today. It's a lazy Sunday, so I don't mind. If it were Saturday, and Lisa was not working, I would most likely go out for dinner in Union Square or perhaps even at the South Street Seaport (haven't been there in a while). But today is more the stay in and watch a movie type of deal. So that's what we'll do.

So . . . happy 32 years to me! :-)

Do Kids Today Even Know How To Use These Things?

When I was 8 years old, I asked for and received a typewriter for Christmas. How many kids you know would ask for something like that? Yes, I know, I was a geek from an early age! I can't remember why I needed one so badly, but as you can see, I was very happy to have it. I knew nothing about typewriters, but ever since the age of 6 when I learned to read books on my own, I always knew I would be a writer someday. I wanted to tell my own stories, you see. And so I guess I needed the right tools for the trade -- LOL!

It was a "starter" typewriter meant for young adults to learn the basics. I sat there and copied everything I could find -- newspapers, pamphlets, and even Sunday school bible stories. In this manner I taught myself how to type.

When we moved in with my grandmother and aunt, I graduated to using a professional typewriter -- it was a Smith Corona very much like the one pictured above, used by my aunt to type up term papers. I would sit there every Saturday afternoon and copy random Sherlock Holmes and Rudyard Kipling stories. Eventually I started typing my own created short stories, which back in those days were mostly single-paged ghost and detective stories. I even drew the illustrations, although I was a poor visual artist (that was more my younger brother's forte).

But now I wonder: what would 8 year olds think of a typewriter today? In this day and age of text messaging, iMacs, and wireless keyboards, do kids today even know how to use an old-fashioned typewriter? Would they know how to set an ink ribbon, or to hit a hard carriage return when the little bell sounded at the end of the line? Would they know how to manually set their own margins?

Ack, I feel old! Now I know how my uncle must have felt when he tried to explain 8-track music cartridges to us when we were very little. :-)

I'm A Terrible Driver (In My Dreams)

I don't know if this is one of those things everybody suffers from, or if it's just me . . . but I suck at driving in my dreams. I just had one last night where I was riding a motorcycle (a choppper, to be precise, which is a first for me). But just like every other dream where I drive a car, I could not get the breaks to work right. I don't know what this says about me, but car brakes never work in la-la land. Whenever there's a stoplight up ahead and I apply pressure to the breaks, the car keeps going for another 20 feet before coming to a gradual stop. Problem is, I'm crashing into someone else's rear bumper before those 20 feet are up.

This probably sums up the entirety of my dreamtime driving frustrations. It's always about me slamming my foot down as hard as I can on the brake pedal, over and over, trying to get the damn car to stop. But it never does. It never does.

Any dream interpreters out there? What does this mean? I used to have a similar problem with running in my dreams. Except, the problem there was not being able to run fast enough. Running in dreams is like running through mud -- no matter how hard I try, I can never run fast enough to chase down the bad guy or escape an attacker. Lately, tho, this has changed. I'm now able to run almost as fast as I can in real life. I think I've been doing a little bit of lucid dreaming on that count.

But the driving thing is still a bust for me! Go figure. Just for the record, I don't have the same issues with driving in real life. :-)

Memories . . .

Writing that last entry got me to thinking about the past, and my mother. That's her in the pic above, around the time I was six. Life had already dealt her many a cruel blow, and so sometimes she wasn't always smiling at this point in her too-brief life. Perhaps she was thinking about how to escape living the hell that was the Bronx, and her psychotic live-in boyfriend who would become the father to my little sister a year later. I'd like to think she's still a dreamer in this pic, the wistful hint of a smile revealing grand plans to gather up her boys and make a better life for herself ALONE.



She'd done it before, to escape our own father. Little did she know that that would be her final escape.




My mother got pregnant with me when she was 16 years old. She had me just two months after her 17th birthday. My brother, Jose, a year later, and my next brother, Eric, a year after that. All to my father. Something must have happened between them before the birth of my brother, Eric, for by the time he was born she was already living by herself in a six-story walk up trying to support her 3 sons while on welfare. In this photo, she took us all to the park one day. I'm 3 and a half -- that's me wearing the yellow Tweedy Bird shirt, and my brother, Jose, in front of me. As you can see, although my mother had great responsibilities at such a young age, she still liked to act like a kid sometimes and have FUN. I remember these moments the most.




My mother was not a perfect woman; she had her faults just like any mother trying to make sense of raising kids. She hit us when she couldn't bear to, cried when she thought no one was watching, and was very strict. She was also wise, compassionate, and caring. One night I had a massive headache and couldn't sleep. I was worried something was wrong with me and crawled out of bed to ask my mother. She told me not to worry, that the pain was from the fact that I was too smart, and that I had too many brains inside my head! I was only 6, but somehow that made me feel a lot better, knowing that the pain was just from being a genius or something. I went back to bed happy, and had no trouble falling asleep. She always knew the right things to say to me.

In the above picture, we're at Virginia Beach. I'm the one standing on level ground; Jose's the one trying to make himself look taller than me. My mother was happy in this pic, because she got to take her sons to the beach and play with us all day long.




This was the best birthday ever, in my estimation. My mother was great at throwing b-day parties for us, although she didn't have much money to spare. The decorations were reused from many prior b-days, the cake she made and decorated herself from out of the box, and she made sure all the kiddies in attendance had goody bags to take home and snacks to eat at the party. Oh, and why was this the best b-day ever? Because she got me a Spider-Man watch since I had turned 7 -- a big boy's birthday present! I'm showing it off here in the pic (I'm trying to stifle my excitement). My mother, forever clowning, dived into the background at the last second.




My mother's name was Carol Ann Banks. She died at the age of 26 on January 1, 1986 -- New Year's Day. I was 9 years old, and my life was never the same again. The one annoying question I get from people to this day is: why don't you smile more? Or: why are you always so serious? This is the reason why. The world stopped being a happy place for me the day the police came knocking on my grandmother's door to tell her that her daughter had been murdered. We were eating breakfast at the time, wondering why my mother had never returned home from visiting my sister's deadbeat dad. I was eating a hard-boiled egg when I overheard the policeman say "I'm sorry." I dropped the food, crossed over to my bed, and just sat down in the corner, leaning my head against the wall. Nothing seemed real. This wasn't the way it happened in the movies. They were just joking, right Grandma? She's just sick in the hospital -- we can visit her, right?

No baby, this is not Hollywood. The good guys and girls don't always win in real life.

It wasn't until later that night, when all the lights were off and I could finally be alone, that the tears came. Even to this day, there is a hollow, lonely part of me that will never feel joy. I do smile on occasion, and I'm easy to please and make happy. But deep down where it counts, there is still a little boy looking for his mom to make sense of the world for him.

My Three Dads

Okay, I know it sounds silly, but I have a confession to make: I was raised by television. Yes, yes, it's true, I admit it. While in actuality I was raised by my maternal grandmother, there was never that male adult figure in my life to teach me the things that many little boys learn from their fathers: specifically, how to be a man. I was surrounded by strong female types growing up, and while it's true that I learned a great deal from these women in my family, I had to turn to tv to get the paternal influence that was missing from my existence. I had to learn how to be an honest man, a fighter, a good husband and/or father, and how to treat a woman the way a good man should -- all from the tube!

Now, I'm only being half serious here. Because, of course, I didn't need tv to teach me right from wrong, or honesty from dishonesty. I'm my own keeper. It's been that way ever since my parents left me alone in this world. Still, I consider the following three television characters to have had the most profound influence on shaping my teenage personality, leading to the adult I am now. The essences of these three fictional characters reside within me even to this day, and those who know me really well can easily discern the part and parcel characteristics I've borrowed from these figures to make my own.

JEAN LUC PICARD




Yes, as it may be no surprise, my latching on to tv role models began at the age of 12. I'm sure there are studies out there that correlate a boy's self-identity with the time he enters puberty. So it's no surprise that my quest to find a father figure that would teach me what I needed to know to be a man would start around this time. I'd just started junior high school, and Star Trek: The Next Generation had premiered the year before. I'd grown up watching the original 60s show with William Shatner as the young, cocksure Captain Kirk. So I naturally took a disliking to this new show and its new Captain, which were nothing like the original. However, over time the show started to grow on me, to the point that it soon surpassed my love of the original. Now after all these years, ST:TNG is the quintessential Star Trek for me. Nothing before or after it tops this show. And this character was one I had a strong attachment to as a young boy.

Captain Jean Luc Picard of the U.S.S. Enterprise (NCC-1701-D) was in many ways the thinking man's captain. Unlike Kirk before him, Picard preferred to use his wits and diplomacy to defuse a dangerous situation, rather than his fists. He was a refined gentleman, well-read in various scholarly pursuits (notably music, botany, and archaeology), yet he was stern under pressure and no-nonsense when it came to saving the lives of his crew. He commanded great respect for his ability to keep his emotions in control under tense situations. All these aspects endeared me to the character, and I immediately set out to imitate Picard's demeanor.

KWAI CHANG CAINE



In Jan. 1993, a spin-off to the 70s show, Kung Fu, premiered on what was then called the: "Prime Time Entertainment Network." The show was called Kung Fu: The Legend Continues, once again starring David Carradine as Kwai Chang Caine (though now the grandson of the original Kwai Chang). This character has probably had the most profound effect on who I am to this day, as I credit this show for awakening the fire in me to learn everything I can about Chinese culture and language, as well as to cultivate my interest in the martial art of gong-fu.

Kwai Chang Caine, like Jean Luc Picard, was refined and wise. He was someone who could obviously carry himself in a fight, but who more often than not sought the peaceful solution to a conflict. This was who I wanted to be like. I was always a quiet and observant child by nature, and by 1993 I had grown into one of those intense, focused teenagers who other kids in high school didn't know whether to pick on or to leave the hell alone for fear he might come to class one day and go postal. But the values that Caine stood for were my values as well, and so it was easy to see why I would latch on to this character as my role model.

DUNCAN MACLEOD




Finally we come to the last of my three dads, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. This figure appeared in Highlander: The Series as the titular character, portrayed by Adrian Paul. While premiering before Kung Fu: The Legend Continues in the fall of 1992, I wasn't introduced to the show until shortly after I had already been addicted to KFtLC. But when my friend, T, finally convinced me to check it out, I was hooked from the get-go.

Duncan MacLeod was a 400-year old Immortal, master swordsman, and martial artist. However, I found myself more drawn to the deep pathos that arose from the character's long life. How it was that, despite never being able to die, his life was far from a happy one. For in those 400 years he had to deal with the deaths of countless loved ones and friends, all the while remaining alive and struggling to make it through another year without those he cherished. As someone who had lost his mother at an early age, this pathos resonated deeply within me. I actually *felt* the heart-wrenching pain of this character's loss. I was never the same again. Duncan MacLeod, more than any character on any other show, has defined who I am as an adult man dealing with a monstrous past. The strength to face the world and the demons it held in waiting for an unsuspecting young man was drawn from this character.

So there you have it. These are the three biggest TV influences to shape my personality in those turbulent teenage years when one struggles to find himself. I'm not any one of these characters, nor am I the sum of these men. I've taken only certain facets from all three -- aspects which, I suspect, I already contained naturally -- and made them resolutely my own.

So, do any of you have tv or film characters who have inspired you in life? Please let me know.

The LHC Is Super Duper FLY!!!

This nerd rap is probably something that will amuse only scientists and those hardcore sci-fi fans who follow serious science. I thought it was hilarious, as I've probably learned more than I'll ever need to know about the Large Hadron Collider due to my subscription to Scientific American. I've probably read three to four full-length articles on the LHC in Scientific American over the past year -- and each time it left my head spinning!

Anyway, for those who don't know, the LHC has been under construction at CERN (the European Organization for Nuclear Research) for the past decade, although plans for the collider were first realized way back in the 80s. If anyone has read Dan Brown's Angels & Demons, you may remember CERN and the particle accelerator there having an integral presence in the novel. CERN is housed near Geneva and extends underground through both Switzerland and France. It receives funding from several major nations, and gathers the best scientific minds in the world into one place for the sake of advancing mankind's knowledge of the universe. Très cool!

The LHC is set to be officially revealed next month, and when it is fully up and running will run a variety of particle physics tests, including proving the existence of the Higgs boson and uncovering the secrets behind some of the fundamental forces in the universe, such as electromagnetism. The LHC will be the linchpin of several different experiments running simultaneously, including ATLAS and CMS, among others. But the one I have the most excitement for is ALICE : or, A Large Ion Collider Experiment, which will smash lead ions together at close to the speed of light, studying the resultant debris for quarks and gluons.

Basically, once the LHC goes online, it will be the fulfillment of many a physicist's wet dreams. I'm not a physicist, or anywhere close to being one. But I'm giddy as to what this may mean for the field of speculative fiction. Some of this stuff has already been theorized before, of course. But there's nothing like getting cold, hard confirmation from the lab to get the imagination buzzing.

New HBO Series Premiering This Weekend!

I'm a huge fan of HBO's original programming. Some of the most acclaimed shows in recent memory have come out of the network -- The Sopranos, The Wire, Six Feet Under, Carnivale, Deadwood, Rome. It comes to a point where I don't think they can do me wrong. A few years from now we'll get the insanely successful fantasy book series, A Song of Ice and Fire, translated to the network, which I'm having wet dreams over just in anticipation. But in the meantime we'll get yet another series from the talented Alan Ball this Sunday (9/7 -- same day as my b-day!), called True Blood.

True Blood is about vampires getting "outed" in present day America, and seeking to have the same basic, civil rights as normal Americans. The allegory to the gay marriage issue is obvious here, but I also think Ball's intention is to take it back to the civil rights issues of the 50s and 60s as well. In any case, it's an intriguing concept that will be well worth an initial viewing at the least. I've often gone into HBO premieres fearing that this will be the one time they fail me, but so far it hasn't happened. And so I'm looking forward to more of the same quality with this new series.

Plus, as the writer and producer of both the film, American Beauty, and the exceptional series, Six Feet Under, Alan Ball has yet to fail his fans.

Is anyone else with HBO looking forward to this, too? Check out the trailer above and see what you think.