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Archive for March, 2008

Blog Cuss-O-Meter

Monday, March 31st, 2008

I found out about this from Rachel Lucas, so of course I had to try it.

The Blog-O-Cuss Meter - Do you cuss a lot in your blog or website?

What can I say? I was raised Southern Baptist, and you don’t overcome that sort of upbringing easily. Anyhow, Rachel swears enough for two bloggers, so it all balances out, I suppose.

Dial S for Skynet

Saturday, March 22nd, 2008

When I wrote a few days ago about how Arthur C. Clarke predicted the World Wide Web, I was not aware that he had actually inspired its creation. But since then, I have learned from multiple sources that Tim Berners-Lee cites Clarke’s 1964 short story “Dial F for Frankenstein” as a major inspiration for his invention of the Web.
I have read that story before (in fact, I just reread it; it’s only five pages long), and it has never occurred to me that it might have anything to do with the Web. It describes how the activation of new satellites unites the world’s telephone networks into a single global system that is as complex as a human brain. This global network becomes conscious, with dire consequences for humanity.
“Dial F for Frankenstein” does strike me as a prediction (or, possibly, an inspiration) of something that came decades later. But, with all due respect to Sir Tim, I don’t think it’s the Web. Anyone who has seen Terminator 2: Judgement Day will know exactly what I mean.

The Big Three

Wednesday, March 19th, 2008

After learning of Arthur C. Clarke’s death, Bruce Webster wrote: “He was the last of the Big Three — Isaac Asimov, Clarke, and Robert Heinlein — to pass away, and we shall not see their like again.” He’s right, but not in the sense that today’s science fiction writers are inferior. No, the differences are qualitative. Asimov, Clarke, and Heinlein all started their writing careers during the Golden Age of Science Fiction, the period during the late 1930s and early 1940s when legendary editor John W. Campbell was remaking the field into something more that a category of swashbuckling adventure stories. Campbell insisted on the use of real science, logical plots, and rational aliens in his stories: “Write me a creature that thinks as well as a man, or better than a man, but not like a man.”
Campbell’s role as the leading editor of science fiction waned after the 1940s, and he died in 1971 — but he continued to exert a profound influence over the field through the authors whose careers and writing styles he had shaped, especially the Big Three. Only now, with the death of Arthur C. Clarke, does the Golden Age really come to an end.
Bruce Webster is right in another sense; the Big Three will not be replaced. Writing in 1990, Isaac Asimov laid that notion to rest:

Now that Heinlein has died and Clarke and I are increasingly decrepit, one is bound to ask, ‘Who will be the next Big Three?’ The answer, I’m afraid, is that no one will ever be. In the early days, when the Big Three were chosen by general consent, the number of science fiction writers was small and it was easy to choose the outstanding examples. Nowadays, however, the number of science fiction writers, and even of good science fiction writers, is so great that it is simply impossible to pick three writers that everyone will agree on.

And because the field is so much larger than it was in the 1940s, no small group of leading authors can dominate it the way Asimov, Heinlein, and Clarke did during the Golden Age. It’s the end of an era.

Prophecies: the Web

Wednesday, March 19th, 2008

Arthur C. Clarke has died in Sri Lanka at the age of 90. To commemorate Sir Arthur’s passing, I’d like to highlight yet another of his predictions that has come true: the World Wide Web.
In his 1976 novel Imperial Earth, Clarke describes a device called the home communications console, or Comsole for short. Its elements are quite familiar: “the blank gray screen, the alphanumeric keyboard, the camera lens and speaker grille.” But what does it do? In a diary entry, main character Duncan Makenzie describes how his daily routine begins with the Comsole: “I dial the Comsole for any messages that have arrived during the night — usually there are half a dozen. . . . Then I set the news abstractor to print out anything that’s happened in my area of interest, and scan the result.”
But that’s just a small part of the Comsole’s capabilities. A later passage provides an overview:

Duncan walked to the Comsole, and the screen became alive as his finger brushed the ON pad. Now it was a miracle beyond the dreams of any poet, a charmed magic casement, opening on all seas, all lands. Through this window could flow everything that Man had ever learned about his universe, and every work of art he had saved from the dominion of Time. All the libraries and museums that had ever existed could be funneled through this screen and the millions like it scattered over the face of Earth. Even the least sensitive of men could be overwhelmed by the thought that one could operate a Comsole for a thousand lifetimes — and barely sample the knowledge stored within the memory banks that lay triplicated in their widely separated caverns, more securely guarded than any gold.

On this particular occasion, Duncan is merely trying to locate an old friend who is somewhere on Earth, so he uses the online directory to look up her contact information and then uses the Comsole to call her and have a sound-and-video conversation.
We take all of this for granted today, but when I first read Imperial Earth 32 years ago, the first home computers — the kind you had to build from a kit — had just come on the market. The idea that personal computers would connect to a global information network and provide instant audiovisual access to everything and everyone was stunning, and utterly beyond anything I had previously read. Clarke even predicted when it would happen: “The home communications console — or Comsole — had reached its technological plateau in the early twenty-first century.” We haven’t reached that plateau yet, but the Web is only a little more than a decade old, and almost all of what Clarke described is already available.
Imperial Earth begins with an incident from Duncan Makenzie’s youth, as a ten-year-old living in an underground city on Titan, the largest moon of Saturn. Attempting to use his Comsole to call his grandmother, he enters the wrong number and ends up connecting to something else:

There was no ringing tone, and no picture. . . . Duncan guessed that he had been switched into an audio-only channel, or had reached a station where the camera was disconnected. In any case, this certainly wasn’t Grandma’s number, and he reached to break the connection.
Then he noticed the sound. At first, he thought that someone was breathing quietly into the microphone at the far end, but he quickly realized his mistake. There was a random, inhuman quality about this gentle susurration; it lacked any regular rhythm, and there were long intervals of complete silence. . . . He was listening to the voice of the wind, as it sighed and whispered across the lifeless landscape a hundred meters above his head. . . .
Somewhere — perhaps in an abandoned construction project or experimental station — a live microphone had been left in circuit, exposed to the freezing, poisonous winds of the world above. It was not likely to remain undetected for long; sooner or later it would be discovered and disconnected.

When I read those words in 1976, the idea of using a computer terminal connected to a global information network to listen to the sounds of wind in the atmosphere of Titan was pure science fiction. But less than thirty years later, I did exactly that. Sir Arthur was right on the money.

Photo shoot

Thursday, March 13th, 2008

One of the things I like about community theatre is that it offers me opportunities to do things I’ve never done before — to push the outside of the envelope, you might say. Today was certainly no exception. Before leaving home, I shaved off my beard, and then shaved the upper part of my chest. Next, I drove to the theatre, where I put on a dress and started applying lipstick and mascara.
Perhaps I should back up and explain. Today’s experience was a photo shoot for the cover of a local magazine, part of the publicity for Radio Gals, the final show of the 2007-2008 season. Here’s the description from the RLT website:

Musical. From the creators of Pump Boys and Dinettes comes a lively, nostalgia-dipped musical, with old-time musical numbers and country humor. It is a warm spring day in 1928. From her parlor in Cedar Ridge, Arkansas, Hazel Hunt broadcasts her own radio station: a daily fare of inspirational and popular tunes, gossip, funnies, recipes, classified ads, sports scores, and fan mail from her mailbag. However, due to Hazel’s habit of “channel wandering,” her broadcasts are not always so local, to which listeners as far away as Montreal can testify. Enter O. B. Abbott, Federal Radio Inspector, intent on rescuing the airwaves from Hazel, claiming that workmen have been receiving the WGAL radio signal in a tunnel under the Hudson River, and accusing Hazel of being a “gypsy of the ether!”

But auditions for Radio Gals haven’t been held yet. The costumes and sets don’t yet exist (everyone is still busy putting together Peter Pan). How do you photograph characters who haven’t been cast, wearing costumes that haven’t been made, on a set that hasn’t been built?
You cheat, of course. First of all, you don’t need the whole cast; you can just photograph a couple of the characters. And in this case, even though auditions haven’t been started, we do know who will play one of the following two characters (as described in the casting call):

AZILEE SWINDLE: Elderly, well-dressed lady. Friend and associate of Hazel’s. (Usually played by a male–Voice midrange — instrument: preferably bass)
MABEL SWINDLE: Elderly, well-dressed lady. Friend and associate of Hazel’s. (Will be played by Brent Wilson, the Musical Director–voice midrange, plays piano.)

So you just have to find someone to be Azilee, and dress him and Brent in existing costumes from RLT’s inventory. You locate an actual living room with a decor that looks right for the 1920s, and you shoot the pictures there.
Actress Denise Michelle Penven-Crew volunteered her living room, so all that was needed was a man who would agree to put on a dress and pose with Brent. But who? At one point, RLT’s Technical Director, Jim Zervas, thought he would have to do it — but he really needed to spend the time working on the Peter Pan sets. So, when I crossed paths with him after rehearsal two nights ago, he said, “Hey, Pat, I need a favor.”
The next thing I knew, I was down in the costume shop trying on a dress. Fortunately, I was able to fit into the black and pink dress that Jo Brown wore in You Can’t Take It With You as Grand Duchess Olga Katrina (on the left in this photo) back in 2004. We also found a suitable wig. Obviously my beard would have to go, and I would need to eliminate any chest hair that might be visible above the V-shaped neckline.
Now you know why I was in a dressing room at RLT today, wearing a dress and applying makeup. Costume Designer Jenny found a shawl, a couple of necklaces, and a pair of earrings to complete my ensemble. Brent was already dressed, made up, and ready to go. The two of us rode across town to Denise’s house with photographer Stuart and Office Manager Wayne.
We were surprised to find a utility crew digging up the street in front of the house, installing or replacing some buried pipes. There were about half a dozen men wearing orange vests and hardhats, and Brent and I walked right past them in our dresses, wigs, and makeup to get to Denise’s front door. They didn’t give us even one whistle or catcall! I was devastated.
Inside the house, Stuart and Wayne set up the lights. Brent and I posed with some prop microphones and musical instruments while Stuart snapped the pictures. After that, it was back to RLT, where I changed into my own clothes and scrubbed off the makeup.
And that’s why, in a few weeks, I will be appearing on a magazine cover in drag — dressed as a character that I won’t be playing in a show that I am not in. I’m afraid that theatre historians in the future will be terribly confused when they find these photos in the RLT archives. But imagine my confusion if, while I was working on the props crew for You Can’t Take It With You, a visitor from my future had appeared, pointed at Jo Brown, and said, “Take a good look at that dress. In a few years, you’re going to be wearing it.”
In any event, I can now update my resume to show that I have experience as both an actor and a model. In fact, considering where one of today’s pictures will end up, I believe I can truthfully say that I was a cover girl.

Getting scoped

Tuesday, March 11th, 2008

Dave Barry doesn’t write a weekly column anymore, but he occasionally still does special articles for the Miami Herald. His latest, published a couple of weeks ago, is about how he finally had a colonoscopy after years of procrastinating.
My mother’s family has a history of colon cancer, so procrastination was never an option for me. I didn’t even wait for my 50th birthday — with my doctor’s encouragement, I went ahead and scheduled a colonoscopy when I was 44. My experience was similar to Barry’s: it was no big deal, since the actual procedure took place while I was unconscious. (At least I think so, although the anaesthetic they used also causes short-term memory loss. So it’s possible that I was aware of being scoped, but then forgot the whole thing. That’s pretty much the same thing, as far as I’m concerned.)
One difference is that I didn’t have to drink two liters of MoviPrep. My gastroenterologist prescribed a different laxative (probably Picolax or something like it) that requires considerably smaller doses. And it didn’t taste bad at all. I also found the effect to be much more gentle than what Barry describes, although the result was the same.
Like Barry, I was found to be cancer-free. And he’s certainly right in saying that it’s better to know that. The idea of having a colonoscopy certificate signed by Dave Barry appeals to me, so I’m going to take advantage of his Exclusive Limited Time Offer. If you’re over 50 or have a family history of colon cancer, you should too.
My gastroenterologist said to have another colonoscopy done after five years. That was in 2004, so I’ll need to do it again next year. As I said before, no big deal.

Tributes to Gary

Wednesday, March 5th, 2008

Wizards of the Coast posted this notice on the front page of its D&D website yesterday:

ERNEST GARY GYGAX
JULY 27, 1938 – MARCH 4, 2008

Today, Wizards of the Coast was deeply saddened to learn that Gary Gygax passed away in his home at age 69. Gygax was a co-creator of the Dungeons & Dragons game. His innovation created an entirely new type of hobby that now attracts millions of players worldwide to face-to-face and online roleplaying games. Gygax was a grand storyteller renowned for his unique style, sprawling “Gygaxian” adventures, and the fantastic World of Greyhawk. He inspired generations of players, designers, and authors, and he will be sorely missed by legions of fans. We extend our sincerest condolences to his family and friends.

Aaron Williams departed from the normal schedule for his Full Frontal Nerdity webcomic in order to post a special strip and a written tribute. John Kovalic did likewise in today’s Dork Tower cartoon. The mainstream news media covered Gygax’s passing (Ruth reports hearing a story about it on All Things Considered) and the leading geek sites (Wired, Ars Technica, CNet, GameSpy) all posted sentimental eulogies. Everyone seems to have a story about how the man and his game gave them uncountable hours of joy and adventure as they grew up.
In a 2004 interview, Gygax said, “I would like the world to remember me as the guy who really enjoyed playing games and sharing his knowledge and his fun pastimes with everybody else.” I don’t think there’s any question about it: his wish has been granted.
I think the best Gygax tribute of all is an eight-year-old episode of Futurama in which he appears (alongside Nichelle Nichols and Stephen Hawking) as a member of Al Gore’s Vice Presidential Action Rangers, charged with protecting the space-time continuum.


Sometime in the fall of this year, I will have been playing D&D for thirty years. Except that I don’t really play it anymore. Everyone in my gaming group is very busy, myself included, and in recent months finding a time when we’re all available has become virtually impossible. Thinking about this a few days ago, I found myself wondering if it wasn’t time to accept the fact that D&D was a thing of the past for me. Nothing lasts forever, and perhaps this part of my life was finally over.
Well, I’m not gonna do that. Not now. Not when Gary Gygax isn’t even cold yet. Not with the 4th Edition about to arrive in stores, and my 30-year anniversary as a D&D player mere months in the future. Hell, no! I refuse to just let it slip away. Somehow, somewhere, I will play this game again. And today, just to prove to myself that I’m still a D&D player, I’m going to buy some new dice.

UPDATE: The 4th Edition of D&D will be dedicated to Gygax.
More tributes: Penny Arcade, The Order of the Stick (comic, blog), Salon, Wil Wheaton, Steve Jackson, XKCD, New York Times

The Dungeon Master departs

Tuesday, March 4th, 2008

E. Gary Gygax, co-creator of Dungeons & Dragons and father of the role-playing game, has died.
Farewell and Godspeed, Gary. You may be gone, but the game you helped create is alive and well, with the Fourth Edition almost ready for launch. And that’s as good a legacy as anyone could ask for.