A Dream: The Usual Chase and The Ropy Arms

I am an intern at a scientific institute during the 1950s. I am up late studying in one of the rooms when "Kathleen," a senior researcher, enters with her bewildered assistant. Kathleen explains to the assistant that she's developed a formula which gives a person enormous strength. She says that it turns a person's grip into unbreakable iron, but the side-effect is that you become a murderous, sociopathic thrill-seeker.

Kathleen is aware that I'm hiding in the room behind one of the partitions so she grabs her assistant and they stumble around looking for me. Since she can't catch me without letting go of her prey -- and she prefers to be watched -- she drinks the formula and then chokes the assistant to death. I only see Kathleen's silhouette except for her arm, which is thick and pale, marbled with veins. It looks like a ropy albino tree.

Escaping the institute I'm sniffed out and followed by "'Ymann," the head scientist, who has also drunk the potion. 'Ymann says it will be fun to hunt OUTSIDE the building for a change. We go on a slow "hide and seek" around the neighbourhood and eventually I wind up meeting "Rutherford," a high school friend, and begging him to take me away in his enormous 1950s car. We temporarily escape, but eventually 'Ymann kills Rutherford with his ropy, pale arm. I'm ashamed for leaving Rutherford behind but I remember hearing that the grip was unbreakable, like a pit-bull's hold. I tell myself that I couldn't have helped Rutherford.

The chase ends in a convention center. 'Ymann has become abnormally tall and he's very fast, but I'm able to get onto a lower part of the main floor, and I know that he can't jump down to my level without being crushed under his weight. As I'm escaping through the foyer, running past reclining businessmen who are reading the morning newspaper, 'Ymann speaks through a public address system that he's hijacked from a switchboard operator. He says that the scientific institute will no longer hold conferences at the convention center due to the center's tolerance and promotion of "alternative lifestyles." This is meant to be a revenge against me, which seems foolish and impotent.

I see a newspaper report about 'Ymann's eventual death; he suffered from "rickets" due to his ever-increasing height and he died in a hospital.

Vaudeville

I'm not much of an Abbott & Costello fan but they probably didn't write this joke anyway:

Costello: I've been experimenting with shortwaves!

Abbott: When did you start experimenting with shortwaves?

Costello: Ever since I got slapped by a tall WAC!

It's a joke so clean you could tell your grandparents! And for those people who AREN'T grandparents, here's some context: a WAVE, a WAC, and for additional bonus points, a WREN.

PS: Overheard on the March 7, 1946 edition of the "Abbott and Costello Show."

"Ala Russe"

Paris Delights Herself with Gorgeous New Russian Shades of Rouge. KRASNY.

A Vogue inspired by the make-up of the Imperial Exiles of the court of Russia

When the Czar and his brilliant court and all the magnificent aristocracy of Russia went down to ruin in the Revolution, those who escaped death became exiles, homeless wanderers on the face of the earth.

Paris took them in--Paris with her flair for novelty and romance, was thrilled to welcome these magnificent women of a vanished dream--with their grand style, their infinite allure, above all their gorgeous color. Over night they were a new vogue!

Color is the Russian note--marvelously struck in the make-up of these splendid infinitely chic mondaines! Like the American women, they have vivid personality, they are not afraid of glowing, heart-arresting effects. Paris, seeing their beautiful and thrilling art of make-up, has responded as Paris always responds--she has made it her own! Krasny!

The New Yorker, May 19, 1927

As always these advertisements for Krasny rouge totally confuse me. Turning traumatic exile into a line of cosmetics seems crass, but I suppose enough time had passed to add a tinge of romance to the exodus, and people probably didn't care much about what the Russians got up to anyway. In 1927 the Soviets were too busy liquidating opposition to even bother with the "world revolution," the only thing bound to make upper-crust New Yorkers sit up and pay attention. All they knew about Paris emigres was what they saw between drinking-binges in the American-style cafes...in other words, nothing. Except maybe the odd translated poem.

I also wonder when the Czar's retinue became "brilliant" and "magnificent," as opposed to inbred, out-of-touch, and selfish? Or maybe this describes the upper-crust readers of The New Yorker as well? It's certainly true that liberal society tended to side more with the revolutionaries than with their rouge-y overseers, but The New Yorker certainly had an aloof, hedonistic snobbiness -- at least from 1925-1927 -- so maybe the readers sympatised more with the aristocrats at the time.

UPhold Update: Our Past Present (Now Then)

The split, double CD3 "Our Past Present (Now Then)" has just been released by AFE Records. The first CD is the full length version of "Unreleased Work Tapes 7/7/04" by The Infant Cycle, and the second CD contains four tracks by yours truly, one of which ("Bedwetters") was previously released on the "Bright Blue Jungle" CD (AFE really liked the song and wanted to use it).

It usually takes me months to stop being sick of songs once I've finished with them, but the "Delia" and "Dmitri" songs on "Our Past Present" make me very happy, and I think they signify a new direction for UPhold.

They might make you happy too!

The CDs can be ordered directly through AFE Records, and I've got some copies that I'm still figuring out what to do with.

Performing "They Don't Know" at Guelph's "Drag Race" Event

As I continue to pursue the St. Bernard Internet Footprint I keep finding bizarre things about myself that I never knew existed. Here's a sneaky video clip of me performing Tracy Ullmann's "They Don't Know" at a show a few months ago in Guelph (which I think was called "The Drag Race").


When I first started doing drag shows, Miss Drew said it would be a good idea to watch videos of myself, and since this clip was filmed (and posted) without my knowledge it's an even better "critical study" for me than it would be otherwise.

My first comment is "jeez, I have rocket-powered hands," thanks partly to long-ago advice from Morgan James ("When in doubt, raise your arms!") But the frantic hands have more to do with the fact that I don't know what to do with my FEET. I'm not much into audience interaction so I prefer to stay on the stage, but I can't just stand in one spot...that worked for '40s torch singers but they actually SANG.

It's hard, in a song, to avoid International Drag Sign Language (love, you, they, etc.) so you either have to be innovative or deliberately silly.

Which leads me to another good piece of advice, this one from Rasha, who told me early on to drop any pretence of being serious and "just be silly." Since there are only a few other established drag personas available -- experimental, glamorous, sexy, jaded, impersonator, and dancey-pants -- "silly" is the only one I'm really comfortable with.

Regarding this song: I started doing it during the lead up to the same-sex marriage vote here in Canada, so I dedicated it (in my head at least) to Stephen Harper, and to all the people who know more about "hate" and "fear" than they do about "love." This clip's for you!

Jane Siberry, "One More Colour"

Sure we all made fun of her at the time, but even as Jane Siberry cuts the ties with her new wave '80s past (going so far, apparently, as to give away most of her possessions and change her name to "Issa"), Siberry's beautiful "popular" songs are well worth reevaluating now.

I can't find a video for "Ingrid and the Footman," but here's a close second-best, "One More Colour." It was Siberry's really big break into mass consciousness, and I think the song and video distill that elusive "Canadianness," that is, a sort of laid-back, half playful earnestness. The shyness of an uncertain poet who really wants to be liked. Fortunately this is the version of the video without all the dated computer effects; I think this was the original one, created before the song became a hit.

I love Jane Siberry up to a point; after 1989's "Bound by the Beauty" I find her music either uninspired or poorly produced (I'm talking to YOU, Mr. Brian Eno). And she'll never beat the closing lines of this particular song, which make me smile AND give me goosebumps all at the same time:

the goatless ledge
'neath the honkless geese
in the speckless sky
the speckless sky

i hear you...

The Periodic Kingdom

The science classes I took in school never got much beyond the ones called simply "science." I did take a biology course, but the only reason I passed it was because I sat next to the girl who the teacher had a non-sexual crush on.

I suffer from a difficulty that a lot of people probably suffer from: I can't just MEMORIZE a fact, I need to know how the fact WORKS. This caused problems in highschool science, where they want to just teach you about "refraction" without explaining what light is, how visual perception works, and the exact atomic structure of the material the light is bouncing off of.

For the last ten years I've been catching up, learning (and UNDERSTANDING) all those things that previously only registered long enough for me to write the exams. And while I know I'll NEVER understand the math behind atomic-level physics, I'm finding that if I approach it in enough different ways -- and take lots of rests between each information binge -- I can begin to know what's going on.

This latest binge was inspired by Simon Singh's "The Big Bang" which -- besides reinforcing my understanding of general and special relativity -- reawakened my desire to understand SOMETHING about chemistry. Without understanding WHY the periodic table is laid out in such a quirky way, I can't begin to absorb the information IN the table.

Fortunately, this prompted me to go back and re-read "The Periodic Kingdom" by P. W. Atkins. The book presents the periodic table as though it were a physical landmass. The reader "walks" through the kingdom, discovering similarities between adjacent regions (what happens if you pour water on cesium?) and differences between the sections of the land -- atomic weight and density, ionization energies, radioactivity, etc.

Under the guise of describing the kingdom's "government and institutions," Atkins eases you into what the elements are MADE of, how their electrons form into different types of "shells," and -- ultimately -- why the periodic table IS laid out in such a quirky way.

This second time around I'm finding myself understanding it all COMPLETELY. I've had an actual epiphany. This is the first time I've gotten a "feel" for chemical elements, which is a pretty significant thing for me; it means I can hopefully take it further with "The God Particle" (Leon Lederman) and "Hydrogen" (John S. Rigden), which I just picked up on my way home.

What's my point? I have two: if you don't understand a concept and you really WANT to, try reading two (or preferably three) books about the subject...by walking repeatedly on the same ground -- but from different directions -- you can get a much fuller understanding of things than you would if you just memorized the facts. Secondly, if you really want to get a starter in chemistry, pick up "The Periodic Kingdom." I guarantee it will get you started.

The Wumpus 2000 Blip

Many of the little projects I work on end up disappearing without a trace. They're sort of like elaborate paper boats that I spend years playing with, and then I launch them down the stream, and that's it. The only person who cares about the boat ends up being me.

I get particularly gratified when somebody finds one of my boat projects to be useful. This doesn't happen often...but it DID happen this month.

Someday I'll write a series of posts about the web stats for my site, but for now I'll say that I noticed a huge uptick in downloads of my Wumpus 2000 game. I finished the game in 2004 and released it to the world, but other than a few baffled comments and a sort of ambiguous review in SPAG #41, the game disappeared without a trace. The only people liable to notice it -- fans of Interactive Fiction -- were bound to be turned off by its compulsive, repetative, largely plotless nature. Wumpus 2000 was an unapologetic "cave crawl," and cave crawls aren't considered the cream of the IF-crop...especially not the sort that I made.

But now, three years later, Wumpus 2000 has made an online blip. Somehow Anna at Dessgeega Blog picked up the game and wrote a complimentary review about it, and I think she summed up its potential appeal:

wumpus 2000 - too vast and random for memorization - asks the player to devote that bit of attention and labor - in this age of flash games designed to be played and forgotten during a lunch break - and to reclaim the rewards of mapping a virtual world by hand: the written record of a game and the ownership of an experience.

As somebody who loves MAPPING games even more than I enjoy PLAYING them, I can't help but agree. I was particularly thrilled to see a smidgeon of a Wumpus 2000 map drawn IN SOMEBODY ELSE'S HANDWRITING! Not to mention the subsequent comments from people who have actually played (and even finished) the game.

Simonc over at GameSetWatch picked up on the Dessgeega post and actually said:

[Wumpus 2000] I suspect is the kind of experimental text adventure which can influence wider game design concepts from its odd niche.

I LOVE my odd niches! And apparently Wumpus 2000 is "old skool," like, even older skool than its two close companions -- Roguelikes and IF -- because of the complex, randomly-generated map and total lack of graphics or cardinal directions.

Picking up from the Dessgeega and GameSetWatch posts, Maggie Green of Kotaku wrote "Back to the (Hand Drawn) Future? (With Wumpus 2000)," and this post got splashed all over the place on RSS feeds. She expressed what the average player probably thought: "Cartography not being my thing, I can only envision hours of frustrating game play." Somewhere around there, Vash posted an ENTIRE transcript of a Wumpus 2000 game (click here and type "prev" if you're feeling brave), and it looks like he found the game almost as annoying as I find his blog navigation system.

So here's hoping that Wumpus 2000 DOES find its niche. I don't have hopes for a new genre of W2K clones, but I suppose stranger things have happened! I mean jeez, people still collect ASCII sigs, for goodness sake.

Eeko and Iko

Considering the revived (and generally posthumous) fame that sideshow freaks achieved during the grungy Jim Rose '90s, it's surprising to run across a pair of freaks that do NOT seem to be mentioned (let alone meticulously studied) on the internet.

But in the November 5, 1927 issue of The New Yorker there are a few paragraphs about the mysterious Eeko and Iko:

Even out of season, circus freaks are a major interest with us, none more so than Eeko and Iko... The two strange twins have been billed as "ambassadors from Mars..."

We have been acquainted with the pair for several seasons, and they were good examples of contented freaks... It had been their happy fate always to wear full evening dress with a brilliant red ribbon across their shirt fronts. This alone would have sufficiently amused and contented them.

With Eeko and Iko their unusual flaxen hair was their principal distinction. It looked like cotton and grew in conical clumps. They were said to shed it from time to time, as a chicken moults. Scientists pronounced them subnormal; their reflexes were slack, and they dithered as they walked. Their eyes didn't quite focus. They appeared to be Albino negroes, although it was intimated that they were picked up on the slopes of Mount Everest, or thereabouts.

Mount Everest? Shed their hair? Yeah right. Still, I'm fascinated by the strange spot that freaks held in society during the first half of the 20th century: respected and in some ways admired as long as they stayed in their tents.

By the way, I've never heard the word "dither" used in this way. I'm familiar with it meaning a sort of indecisive wandering, and apparently it can also be a sort of shiver/shake action. Did Eeko and Iko shiver as they walked?

Update
The early morning time-crunch and a misspelled "Eko" in The New Yorker kept me from finding what Morgan James discovered today: "Eko and Iko" are by no means forgotten. The Human Marvels can tell you everything you need to know about "The Sheep-Headed Men."

Curiously, their career was temporarily ended when their long-lost mother finally tracked them down. This article in The New Yorker was prompted by that very incident (which is why they keep being referred to in the past tense). So while Eko and Iko may not be the mysteries I thought they were, this article at least is commenting on a significant moment in their careers.

The Best of "Person to Person"

I'm working my way through "The Best of Person to Person," a 3 DVD set of highlights from Edward R. Murrow's 1950s interview program. I've always admired Murrow, but this is the first time I've actually SEEN him in action. His ability to overcome technical difficulties, put his guests at ease, and keep an interview going is amazing.

I can't believe that they managed to pull this off given the technology of the day; it would be difficult even now. CBS would set up multiple cameras -- not to mention lights, sound equipment, and satellite transmission equipment -- in the homes of the interviewees, many of them in Hollywood, and Murrow would interview them live from New York City.

Watching these people casually walk throughout their homes, from camera to camera, appearing to have a relaxed conversation with a man thousands of miles away, is a surreal experience for the media-savvy viewer. They really go out of their way to make it all seem effortless and natural, often saying things like "let's see if they're home" and "come on into the kitchen." They routinely haul the kids out of bed and make them "say hi to Mr. Murrow."

Only when things go wrong -- or when Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh have to take a detour through their back yard to avoid all the stuff in their hallway -- do you realize that Murrow's physical BODY isn't really visiting them...and neither is yours. The illusion is also slightly broken by the poor quality of the transmission and the slightly out-of-control setup; the men don't suffer much, but those glamorous Hollywood starlets look much shabbier than usual.

Some interviews are more interesting than others. Danny Thomas and his family come across as insufferable fakers; it's obvious that everybody has been "coached" to death and Thomas' maudlin sincerity is disgusting. Billy Graham and Robert Kennedy are quite warm, and Eleanor Roosevelt gives the impression of a vibrant, intelligent matriarch. Norman Rockwell is as nerdy and boring as you'd imagine him to be.

It's fun to watch husbands and wives interact with each other. Ben Gage and Esther Williams spar with barely-submerged duelling egos, while Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh seem like slightly hyperactive, off-balance rodents (get a load of Curtis replaying his Brooklyn-ized Shakespeare renditions off his hi-fi). Gary Merrill and Bette Davis are pretty convincing on the surface but are very definitely "acting" the role of settled-down Maine "Yankees" (Davis shows off her lazy susan, then makes offhand mention that you can fly out of Maine at breakfast and arrive in Los Angeles in time for dinner!). Humphrey Bogart seems sincere, but Lauren Bacall -- creepy eyes almost without pupil in the poor-quality reception -- acts a bit squirrelly.

In terms of being "stiff," John F. Kennedy, Marlon Brando, and Gene Kelly take the cake. Sophia Lauren has a fascinating, sophisticated exterior that seems to float gently over a vapid soul (though this may have been a language issue).

So far the award for "most uncomfortable interview" goes to the hellish farmhouse trio of Marilyn Monroe, Milton Greene, and Amy Greene. Milton refuses to look at the camera and sullenly schlumps around the house, while Amy comes across as bossy and trashy (suddenly interrupting a question with a demand that they all sit someplace more comfortable). After five hours of makeup, Monroe looks unnatural-alien in the farmhouse kitchen, and not even Murrow can get more than a sentence or two out of her. And she sounds like a six-year-old who grew up in a fairy story. I've never made up my mind about her mental abilities, but in this interview she comes across as barely capable.

But that's nothing! I have yet to watch what I assume are the most terrifying interviews of all: Milton Berle, Carol Channing, Jerry Lewis, Sammy Davis Jr., and...brrrrrr! LIBERACE!