Now this is a musical worthy of winning awards
The opening to Bob Fosse's legendary All That Jazz:
Occasional quotes from blogs, news, movies, books, overheard conversations
defender of fame-whores
Hater of New Blogger--thanks for nothing, Google
Still not sure what this blog is about, but whatever it IS about it's done well - XWL
"That Bill. Subversive. Sharp. Watch out for him. Misses nothing. A dots-connector." - reader_iam
Bill -- you have just won yourself a WGA-arbitrated credit
You scored 3 out of a possible 13
"O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!"
Despondency, indeed, you poor wretch. Perhaps a case of one wee dram of the auld fire-water too many?
I must say, I liked Cryptonomicon. Not many people can carry off a style as florid as Stephenson’s, and even he doesn’t carry it off all the time. My own advice to a fiction writer would be: keep it plain and brief. Stephenson is elaborate and l — o — n — g. He can pull it off, though. The famous six-page account of a guy preparing and eating a bowl of Captain Crunch cereal didn’t work for me...
He stared down upon the world’s globe, not the globe fleshed with continents and oceans but only its skeleton: a burst of meridians, curving backwards to cage an inner dome of orange flame. Against the light of the burning oil those longitudes were thin and crisp as a draftsman’s ink-strokes. But coming closer he saw them resolve into clever works of rings and struts, hollow as a bird’s bones. As they spread away from the pole they sooner or later began to wander, or split into bent parts, or just broke off and hung in the fire oscillating like dry stalks. The perfect geometry was also mottled, here and there, by webs of cable and harnesses of electrical wiring.
The apartment only has one closet and when its door is open it appears to have been bricked shut, Cask of Amontillado-style, with very large flat red oblongs, each imprinted with the image of a venerable and yet oddly cheerful and yet somehow kind of hauntingly sad naval officer. The whole pallet load was shipped here several weeks ago by Avi, in an attempt to lift Randy’s spirits. For all Randy knows more are still sitting on a Manila dockside ringed with armed guards and dictionary-sized rat traps straining against their triggers, each baited with a single golden nugget.
Randy selects one of the bricks from this wall, creating a gap in the formation, but there is another, identical one right behind it, another picture of that same naval officer. They seem to be marching from his closet in a peppy phalanx. "Part of this complete balanced breakfast," Randy says. Then he slams the door on them and walks with a measured, forcibly calm step to the living room where he does most of his dining, usually while facing his thirty-six-inch television. He sets up his San Miguel, an empty bowl, an exceptionally large soup spoon—so large that most European cultures would identify it as a serving spoon and most Asian ones as a horticultural implement. He obtains a stack of paper napkins, not the brown recycled ones that can’t be moistened even by immersion in water, but the flagrantly environmentally unsound type, brilliant white and cotton-fluffy and desperately hygroscopic. He goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, reaches deep into the back, and finds an unopened box-bag-pod-unit of UHT milk. UHT milk need not, technically, be refrigerated, but it is pivotal, in what is to follow, that the milk be only a few microdegrees above the point of freezing. The fridge in Randy’s apartment has louvers in the back where the cold air is blown in, straight from the freon coils. Randy always stores his milk-pods directly in front of those louvers. Not too close, or else the pods will block the flow of air, and not too far away either. The cold air becomes visible as it rushes in and condenses moisture, so it is a simple matter to sit there with the fridge door open and observe its flow characteristics, like an engineer testing an experimental minivan in a River Rouge wind tunnel. What Randy would like to see, ideally, is the whole milk-pod enveloped in an even, jacketlike flow to produce better heat exchange through the multilayered plastic-and-foil skin of the milk-pod. He would like the milk to be so cold that when he reaches in and grabs it, he feels the flexible, squishy pod stiffen between his fingers as ice crystals spring into existence, summoned out of nowhere simply by the disturbance of being squished.
Today the milk is almost, but not quite, that cold. Randy goes into his living room with it. He has to wrap it in a towel because it is so cold it hurts his fingers.
Randy takes the red box and holds it securely between his knees with the handy stay-closed tab pointing away from him. Using both hands in unison he carefully works his fingertips underneath the flap, trying to achieve equal pressure on each side, paying special attention to places where too much glue was laid down by the gluing-machine. For a few long, tense moments, nothing at all happens, and an ignorant or impatient observer might suppose that Randy is getting nowhere. But then the entire flap pops open in an instant as the entire glue-front gives way. Randy hates it when the box-top gets bent or, worst of all possible worlds, torn. The lower flap is merely tacked down with a couple of small glue-spots and Randy pulls it back to reveal a translucent, inflated sac. The halogen down-light recessed in the ceiling shines through the cloudy material of the sac to reveal gold—everywhere the glint of gold. Randy rotates the box ninety degrees and holds it between his knees so its long axis is pointed at the television set, then grips the top of the sac and carefully parts its heat-sealed seam, which purrs as it gives way. Removal of the somewhat milky plastic barrier causes the individual nuggets of Cap’n Crunch to resolve, under the halogen light, with a kind of preternatural crispness and definition that makes the roof of Randy’s mouth glow and throb in trepidation.
The gold nuggets of Cap’n Crunch pelt the bottom of the bowl with a sound like glass rods being snapped in half Tiny fragments spall away from their corners and ricochet around on the white porcelain surface. World-class cereal-eating is a dance of fine compromises. The giant heaping bowl of sodden cereal, awash in milk, is the mark of the novice. Ideally one wants the bone-dry cereal nuggets and the cryogenic milk to enter the mouth with minimal contact and for the entire reaction between them to take place in the mouth. Randy has worked out a set of mental blueprints for a special cereal-eating spoon that will have a tube running down the handle and a little pump for the milk, so that you can spoon dry cereal up out of a bowl, hit a button with your thumb, and squirt milk into the bowl of the spoon even as you are introducing it into your mouth. The next best thing is to work in small increments, putting only a small amount of Cap’n Crunch in your bowl at a time and eating it all up before it becomes a pit of loathsome slime, which, in the case of Cap’n Crunch, takes about thirty seconds.
He pours the milk with one hand while jamming the spoon in with the other, not wanting to waste a single moment of the magical, golden time when cold milk and Cap’n Crunch are together but have not yet begun to pollute each other’s essential natures: two Platonic ideals separated by a boundary a molecule wide. Where the flume of milk splashes over the spoon-handle, the polished stainless steel fogs with condensation. Randy of course uses whole milk, because otherwise why bother? Anything less is indistinguishable from water, and besides he thinks that the fat in whole milk acts as some kind of a buffer that retards the dissolution-into-slime process. The giant spoon goes into his mouth before the milk in the bowl has even had time to seek its own level. A few drips come off the bottom and are caught by his freshly washed goatee (still trying to find the right balance between beardedness and vulnerability, Randy has allowed one of these to grow). Randy sets the milk-pod down, grabs a fluffy napkin, lifts it to his chin, and uses a pinching motion to sort of lift the drops of milk from his whiskers rather than smashing and smearing them down into the beard. Meanwhile all his concentration is fixed on the interior of his mouth, which naturally he cannot see, but which he can imagine in three dimensions as if zooming through it in a virtual reality display. Here is where a novice would lose his cool and simply chomp down. A few of the nuggets would explode between his molars, but then his jaw would snap shut and drive all of the unshattered nuggets straight up into his palate where their armor of razor-sharp dextrose crystals would inflict massive collateral damage, turning the rest of the meal into a sort of pain-hazed death march and rendering him Novocain mute for three days. But Randy has, over time, worked out a really fiendish Cap’n Crunch eating strategy that revolves around playing the nuggets’ most deadly features against each other. The nuggets themselves are pillow-shaped and vaguely striated to echo piratical treasure chests. Now, with a flake-type of cereal, Randy’s strategy would never work. But then, Cap’n Crunch in a flake form would be suicidal madness; it would last about as long, when immersed in milk, as snowflakes sifting down into a deep fryer. No, the cereal engineers at General Mills had to find a shape that would minimize surface area, and, as some sort of compromise between the sphere that is dictated by Euclidean geometry and whatever sunken-treasure-related shapes that the cereal-aestheticians were probably clamoring for, they came up with this hard-to-pin-down striated pillow formation. The important thing, for Randy’s purposes, is that the individual pieces of Cap’n Crunch are, to a very rough approximation, shaped kind of like molars. The strategy, then, is to make the Cap’n Crunch chew itself by grinding the nuggets together in the center of the oral cavity, like stones in a lapidary tumbler.
Telling the process
The author must not interpret. But he may tell why and how he wrote his book. so-called texts of poetics are not always useful in understanding the work that inspired them, but they help us understand how to solve the technical problem which is the production of a work.
Poe, in his "Philosophy of Composition," tells how he wrote "The Raven." He does not tell us how we should read it, but what problems he set himself in order to achieve a poetic effect. And I would define the poetic effect as the capacity that a text displays for continuing to generate different readings, without ever being completely consumed.
The writer (or painter or sculptor or composer) always knows what he is doing and how much it costs him. He knows he has to solve a problem. Perhaps the original data are obscure, pulsive, obsessive, no more than a yearning or a memory. But then the problem is solved at the writer's desk as he interrogates the material on which he is working--material that reveals natural laws of its own, but at the same time contains the recollections of the culture with which it is loaded (the echo of intertextuality).
When the author tells us he worked in a raptus of inspiration, he is lying. Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.
Talking about a famous poem of his, I forget which, Lamartine said that it had come to him in a single flash, on a stormy night, in a forest. When he died, the manuscripts were found, with revisions and variants; and the poem proved to be the most "worked out" in all of French literature.
When the writer (or the artist in general) says he has worked without giving any thought to the rules of the process, he simply means he was working without realizing he knew the rules. A child speaks his mother tongue properly, though he could never write out its grammar. But the grammarian is not the only one who knows the rules of the language; they are well known, albeit unconsciously, also t the child. The grammarian is merely the one who knows how and why the child knows language.
Telling how you wrote something does not mean proving it is "well" written. Poe said that the effect of the work is one thing and the knowledge of the process is another. When Kandinsky and Klee tell us how to paint, neither is saying he is better than the other. When Michelangelo says that sculpture amounts to freeing from the block of stone the figure already defined in it, he is not saying that the Vatican Pieta is superior to the Rondanini. Sometimes the most illuminating pages on the artistic process have been written by minor artists, who achieved modest effects but knew how to onder their own processes: Vasari, Horatio Greenough, Aaron Copland...
Spreading opportunity and hope in America also requires public schools that give children the knowledge and character they need in life. We must increase funds for students who struggle and make sure these children get the special help they need. The No Child Left Behind Act has worked for America’s children, and I ask Congress to reauthorize this good law.
And so tonight, I propose two new initiatives to help more Americans afford their own insurance. First, I propose a standard tax deduction for health insurance that will be like the standard tax deduction for dependents. Single Americans with health insurance will pay no income or payroll taxes on $7,500 of their income. States that make basic private health insurance available to all their citizens should receive federal funds to help them provide this coverage to the poor and the sick. We need to help small businesses through association health plans.
Extending hope and opportunity in our country requires an immigration system worthy of America, with laws that are fair and borders that are secure. Extending hope and opportunity depends on a stable supply of energy that keeps America’s economy running and America’s environment clean. For too long our nation has been dependent on foreign oil. Tonight, I ask Congress to join me in pursuing a great goal. From the start, America and our allies have protected our people by staying on the offense. For the terrorists, life since 9/11 has never been the same.
We broke up a Southeast Asian terrorist cell grooming operatives for attacks inside the United States. We uncovered an Al Qaeda cell developing anthrax to be used in attacks against America. By killing and terrorizing Americans, they want to force our country to retreat from the world and abandon the cause of liberty. The great question of our day is whether America will help men and women in the Middle East to build free societies and share in the rights of all humanity. In 2005, the people of Afghanistan defied the terrorists and elected a democratic legislature. We’re carrying out a new strategy in Iraq: a plan that demands more from Iraq’s elected government and gives our forces in Iraq the reinforcements they need to complete their mission. Our goal is a democratic Iraq that upholds the rule of law, respects the rights of its people, provides them security and is an ally in the war on terror.
The people of Iraq want to live in peace, and now it’s time for their government to act. Iraq’s leaders have committed themselves to a series of benchmarks to achieve reconciliation: to share oil revenues among all of Iraq’s citizens, to put the wealth of Iraq into the rebuilding of Iraq, to allow more Iraqis to re-enter their nation’s civic life, to hold local elections and to take responsibility for security in every Iraqi province. If American forces step back before Baghdad is secure, the Iraqi government would be overrun by extremists on all sides. For America, this is a nightmare scenario. We’ll show our enemies abroad that we’re united in the goal of victory.
In Iraq, multinational forces are operating under a mandate from the United Nations. We’re working with Jordan and Saudi Arabia and Egypt, and the gulf states to increase support for Iraq’s government. Julie represents the great enterprising spirit of America.
The second regards our foreign policy ¬ how we might bring the war in Iraq to a proper conclusion that will also allow us to continue to fight the war against international terrorism, and to address other strategic concerns that our country faces around the world.
When I graduated from college, the average corporate CEO made 20 times what the average worker did; today, it's nearly 400 times. Wages and salaries for our workers are at all-time lows as a percentage of national wealth, even though the productivity of American workers is the highest in the world. With respect to foreign policy, this country has patiently endured a mismanaged war for nearly four years. My son has joined the tradition, now serving as an infantry Marine in Iraq.
The President took us into this war recklessly. The war's costs to our nation have been staggering. Not one step back from the war against international terrorism. "When comes the end?" asked the General who had commanded our forces in Europe during World War Two.
Q. In a scholarly book about popular culture, the author has used several -esque word endings, usually hyphenated. According to CMOS instructions for the similar constructions of -wide, -like, and -borne, I would be inclined to remove the hyphen. But the result is unsavory. Also, in the case of open compounds, should the -esque ending acquire an en-dash? See the following: Tarantinoesque, Skeeteresque, Gandalfesque, Billy Idolesque, Sid Vicious–like, John Paul–esque, The Parallax View–esque.
A. Unsavory indeed. (Your list should appear on the book jacket—who wouldn’t want to know what the pope is doing in the middle of all the carnage?) The rule is that unless the usage is self-consciously playful, you may have two -esques per book (no hyphens), but only if they are at least a hundred pages apart. If they involve en dashes, however, you get none.
Just as feminist theory needs to be informed by vegetarian insights, animal rights theory requires an incorporation of feminist principles. Meat is a symbol for what is not seen but is always there--patriarchal control of animals
Men who decide to eschew meat eating are deemed effeminate; failure of men to eat meat announces that they are not masculine. Nutritionist Jean Mayer suggested that "the more men sit at their desks all day, the more they want to be reassured about their maleness in eating those large slabs of bleeding meat which are the last symbol of machismo." The late Marty Feldman observed, "It has to do with the function of the male within our society. Football players drink beer because it's a man's drink, and eat steak because it's a man's meal. The emphasis is on 'man-sized portions,' 'hero' sandwiches; the whole terminology of meat-eating reflects this masculine bias." Meat-and-potatoes men are our stereotypical strong and hearty, rough and ready, able males. hearty beef stews are named "Manhandlers." Chicago Bears' head football coach, Mike Ditka, operates a restaurant that features "he-man food" such as steaks and chops.
One's maleness is reassured by the food one eats.
The patriarchal structure of the absent referent that renders women and animals absent as subjects, collapses referent points, and results in overlapping opression, requires a combined challenge by feminism and vegetarianism. Yet, this oppression of women and animals, though unified by the structure of the absent referent, is experienced separately and differently by women and animals. Thus, it is an oppressive structure that, when perceived, is often perceived in fragments and attacked in fragmented wass, i.e., some women work for their liberation, other women and men challenge the oppression of animals.
Can it be that literary consciousness is paradigmatic for vegeratian consciousness? A phenomenology of vegetarianism recapitulates the phenomenology of writing: of seizing language, of identifying gaps and silences. This vegetarian phenomenology includes identification with animals or animals' fate; questions of articulation, of when to speak up or accept silence of control of food choices; and of dissenting to patriarchal myths that approve of meat eating. As opposed to the brokenness and violence characteristic of the fall into patriarchal culture, vegetarianism in women's writings signifies a different way of relating to the world. We are told that there is something metaphorically instructive about our relationship to animals. Feminist use of story telling often conveys the importance of this metaphorical relationship. This story telling suggests that as we consider the power for nuclear annihilation or for interpersonal cruelty based on rigid social mores, vegetarianism may point to a reordering of the patriarchal moral order.
She has a more fractious relationship with her 58-year-old father, whom she has described as a man who wrote songs about his children instead of raising them. At concerts she sometimes introduces her visceral anthem Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole with the words, "This is a song about my dad."
Dearest Daddy with your songs
Do you hope to right your wrongs?
You can’t undo what has been done
To all your daughters and your son
The facts are in and we have found
That basically you’re not around
Dearest Daddy try as you might
All you are is just uptight
Darling Daughter can’t you see
The guy singing the songs ain’t me
He’s someone people wish I was
What I can’t do this dude does
And if the songs seem slightly pat
I know life’s messier than that
They’re just songs and life is real
They’re just my version how I feel
I was there again 76
the wife was having a D&C
in the end she couldn't go through with it
so three left she and me
and that little girl who was born there
who escaped that scrape with fate
a months ago in Montreal I watched her graduate
The only time I've seen you was about a year ago
I was afraid to hold you but I wanted you to know
I touched your tiny perfect hand Before I went uptown
I didn't pick you up because I'd have to put you down
For reasons that don't make much sense and you won't understand
I've stayed away for your first year, it's sort of what I planned
I've been in your neighborhood, sometimes just blocks away
I didn't come to visit you because I couldn't stay
There was a baby on a plane maybe she was two
And she was smiling at me I was not sure what to do
I've kept my distance from you a year's much more than awhile
So I looked away from her too ashamed to smile.
When I saw you last year I knew that there was no mistake
Amazing things can happen why just look what life can make
But life can get so hard sometimes some feelings can't be tamed
And people get so angry frightened and ashamed
You've been a sort of secret for a year I've told but few
Although I'm sure that where you are so many must love you
I've passed by your window but haven't dared look in
Although I know I'd love you too I'm too scared to begin
I led to her a hole
A deep black well
I said make a wish
Be sure and not tell
Close your eyes and count to seven
You know your poppa loves you
good children go to heaven
You know your poppa loves you
good children go to heaven
I gave her a push
I gave her a shove
I pushed with all my might
I pushed with all my love
I threw my child into a bottomless pit
She was screaming as she fell
But I never heard her hit
we gonna take mommy for a wittle walk out on the pier
baby don't cry honey, don't get the wrong idea
mama's too sweepy to hear you screaming in her ear
that's why you can't get her to wake
but don't worry
da-da made a nice bed for mommy at the bottom of the lake
here, you wanna help da-da tie a rope around this rock
we'll tie it to her footsy, then we'll roll her off the dock
ready now, here we go, on the count of phree
1, 2, phree, weeeeeeee
there goes mama, spwashing in the water
no more fighting wit dad
no more restraining order
no more step da-da
no more brother
blow her kisses buh-bye
tell mommy you love her
now we'll go play in the sand, build a sand castle and junk
but first, just help dad with two more things out of the trunk
just. the. two. of. us...
We're wondering when you will arrive
We're wondering what you'll be
We're wondering if you'll be a her
Or if you'll be a he
Maybe you'll arrive today
Perhaps tomorrow night
We're hoping you won't be hurt too much
And that you'll be alright
Life has a few unpleasantries
We may as well confess
we suppose you'll cry a lot
And that you'll be a mess
There is one thing that you should note well
Of this there is no doubt
You cannot go inside again
Once you have come out
Even though there's trouble
Even though there's fuss
We really think you'll like it here
We hope that you'll like us
So I guess one of the points that's being made in The Diamond Age and it's kind of a sledgehammer point, is that you've got this group of people, the thetes, who have everything they need in the way of food, shelter and even information and they're still miserable wretches, just like Dickensian miserable wretches.
"Is the binding and so on what you had in mind? Hackworth said.
"Oh, yes," said Lord Finkle-McGraw. If I found it in an antiquarian bookshop, covered with dust, I shouldn't give it a second glance."
"Because if you were not happy with any detail," Hackworth said, "I could recompile it." He had come in hoping desperately that Finkle-McGraw would object to something; this might give him an opportunity to filch another copy for Fiona. But so far the Equity Lord had been uncharacteristically complacent. He kept flipping through the book, waiting for something to happen.
"It is unlikely to do anything interesting just now," Hackworth said. "It won't really activate itself until it bonds."
"As we discussed, it sees and hears everything in its vicinity," Hackworth said. "At the moment, it's looking for a small female. As soon as a little girl picks it up and opens the front cover for the first time, it will imprint that child's face and voice into its memory-"
"Bonding with her. Yes, I see."
"And thenceforth it will see all events and persons in relation to that girl, using her as a datum from which to chart a psychological terrain, as it were. Maintenance of that terrain is one of the book's primary processes. Whenever the child uses the book, then, it will perform a sort of dynamic mapping from the database onto her particular terrain."
"You mean the database of folklore."
Hackworth hesitated. "Pardon me, but not precisely, sir. Folklore consists of certain universal ideas that have been mapped onto local cultures. For example, many cultures have a Trickster figure, so the Trickster may be deemed a universal; but he appears in different guises, each appropriate to a particular culture's environment. The Indians of the American Southwest called him Coyote, those of the Pacific Coast called him Raven. Europeans called him Reynard the Fox. African-Americans called him Br'er Rabbit. In twentieth-century literature he appears first as Bugs Bunny and then as the Hacker."
Finkle-McGraw chuckled. "When I was a lad, that word had a double meaning. It could mean a trickster who broke into things– but it could also mean an especially skilled coder."
"The ambiguity is common in post-Neolithic cultures," Hackworth said. "As technology became more important, the Trickster underwent a shift in character and became the god of crafts– of technology, if you will– while retaining the underlying roguish qualities. So we have the Sumerian Enki, the Greek Prometheus and Hermes, Norse Loki, and so on.
"In any case," Hackworth continued, "Trickster/Technologist is just one of the universals. The database is full of them. It's a catalogue of the collective unconscious. In the old days, writers of children's books had to map these universals onto concrete symbols familiar to their audience– like Beatrix Potter mapping the Trickster onto Peter Rabbit. This is a reasonably effective way to do it, especially if the society is homogeneous and static, so that all children share similar experiences.
"What my team and I have done here is to abstract that process and develop systems for mapping the universals onto the unique psychological terrain of one child– even as that terrain changes over time. Hence it is important that you not allow this book to fall into the hands of any other little girl until Elizabeth has the opportunity to open it up."
"Understood," said Lord Alexander Chung-Sik Finkle-McGraw.
"I'll wrap it up myself, right now. Compiled some nice wrapping paper this morning." He opened a desk drawer and took out a roll of thick, glossy mediatronic paper bearing animated Christmas scenes: Santa sliding down the chimney, the ballistic reindeer, the three Zoroastrian sovereigns dismounting from their dromedaries in front of the stable. There was a lull while Hackworth and Finkle-McGraw watched the little scenes; one of the hazards of living in a world filled with mediatrons was that conversations were always being interrupted in this way, and that explained why Atlantans tried to keep mediatronic commodities to a minimum. Go into a thete's house, and every object had moving pictures on it, everyone sat around slackjawed, eyes jumping from the bawdy figures cavorting on the mediatronic toilet paper to the big-eyed elves playing tag in the bathroom mirror to ...
"Oh, yes," Finkle-McGraw said. "Can it be written on? I should like to inscribe it to Elizabeth."
"The paper is a subclass of both input-paper and output-paper, so it possesses all the underlying functionality of the sort of paper you would write on. For the most part these functions are not used–-beyond, of course, simply making marks where the nib of the pen has moved across it."
"You can write on it," Finkle-McGraw translated with some asperity, "but it doesn't think about what you're writing."
"Well, my answer to that question must be ambiguous," Hackworth said. "The Illustrated Primer is an extremely general and powerful system capable of more extensive self-reconfiguration than most. Remember that a fundamental part of its job is to respond to its environment. If the owner were to take up a pen and write on a blank page, this input would be thrown into the hopper along with everything else, so to speak."
"Can I inscribe it to Elizabeth or not?" Finkle-McGraw demanded.
Finkle-McGraw extracted a heavy gold fountain pen from a holder on his desk and wrote in the front of the book for a while.
"That being done, sir, there remains only for you to authorise a standing purchase order for the ractors."
"Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me," said Finkle-McGraw, not very sincerely. "I still would have thought that for all the money that went into this project--"
"That we might have solved the voice-generation problem to boot, yes sir," Hackworth said. "As you know, we took some stabs at it, but none of the results were up to the level of quality you demand. After all of our technology, the pseudo-intelligence algorithms, the vast exception matrices, the portent and content monitors, and everything else, we still can't come close to generating a human voice that sounds as good as what a real, live ractor can give us."
"Can't say I'm surprised, really," said Finkle-McGraw. "I just wish it were a completely self-contained system."
"It might as well be, sir. At any given time there are tens of millions of professional ractors in their stages all over the world, in every time zone, ready to take on this kind of work at an instant's notice. We are planning to authorise payment at a relatively high rate, which should bring in only the best talent. You won't be disappointed with the results."
...Is there something seriously wrong with the fact that the soon to be highest earning footballer in the world, by threefold (possibly) on basic wage, won't even be able to make his international team?
**Ace scored my favorite goal of all-time during the 1979 playoffs. Down by a game and a goal, the Kicks are pressing as time is running out. Awarded a corner kick with 15 seconds left, the ball curls towards the net only to be punched out by the keeper. However, the ball arches towards Ace, who--from 30 yards out--power volleys into the upper corner as time expires. Pandemonium. Unfortunately, they lost about 5 minutes into overtime when a direct kick sailed past midgety keeper Tino Lettieri. As I recall, he never moved until the ball hit net. Tino was a nice guy and a decent, if overly acrobatic, keeper, who got beat by a lot of shots he was too short to reach.
Shares of Apple rose more than 8.3 percent Tuesday to $92.57 per share on news of the iPhone. Meanwhile, competitors Palm, the Sunnyvale maker of the Treo smart phone, fell nearly 5.7 percent to $13.92 per share and Research in Motion dropped 7.85 percent to $131 per share.
Remember back in November when Palm CEO Ed Colligan was quoted saying, with regard to a then-hypothetical Apple phone, “We’ve learned and struggled for a few years here figuring out how to make a decent phone. PC guys are not going to just figure this out. They’re not going to just walk in.”
Guess what? They’re just walking in.
And certainly I stand in awe at what he endured, with great spirit, in the name of our country. But just because someone is sympathetic and funny and able to withstand torture doesn't make him presidential material, or somehow off-limits to a critical examination of his political philosophy, such as it exists.
They entered the fort-like railway station, black in the end of night; the electrics sizzling over the goods-yard where they handle the heavy Northern grain-traffic.
'This is the work of devils!' said the lama, recoiling from the hollow echoing darkness, the glimmer of rails between the masonry platforms, and the maze of girders above. He stood in a gigantic stone hall paved, it seemed, with the sheeted dead third-class passengers who had taken their tickets overnight and were sleeping in the waiting-rooms. All hours of the twenty-four are alike to Orientals, and their passenger traffic is regulated accordingly.
'This is where the fire-carriages come. One stands behind that hole' -Kim pointed to the ticket-office - 'who will give thee a paper to take thee to Umballa.'
Problem. — (1) Two travelers, starting at the same time, went opposite ways round a circular railway. Trains start each way every 15 minutes, the easterly ones going round in 3 hours, the westerly in 2. How many trains did each meet on the way, not counting trains met at the terminus itself? (2) They went round, as before, each traveler counting as “one” the train containing the other traveler. How many did each meet?
The train climbs up out of the night and into a red-brick arroyo, headed northwards out of the city. It is about three in the afternoon; that special BP train must have been carrying swing shift gals.
Waterhouse has the feeling he will not be working anything like a regular shift. His duffel bag—which was packed for him—is pregnant with sartorial possibilities: thick oiled-wool sweaters, tropical-weight Navy and Army uniforms, black ski mask, condoms.
The train slowly pulls free of the city and passes into a territory patched with small residential towns. Waterhouse feels heavy in his seat, and suspects a slight uphill tendency. They pass through a cleft that has been made across a low range of hills, like a kerf in the top of a log, and enter into a lovely territory of subtly swelling emerald green fields strewn randomly with small white capsules that he takes to be sheep.
Of course, their distribution is probably not random at all—it probably reflects local variations in soil chemistry producing grass that the sheep find more or less desirable. From aerial reconnaissance, the Germans could draw up a map of British soil chemistry based upon analysis of sheep distribution.
DONKEYE-KYNGE: Yn thys game, ye playe a peasaunt who hath yn his care a smal donkeye. Ye use the gentil beeste to dryve yower carte and to transporte donge, for which ye are payde ful litel, and yet ye muste kepe obeiant and meke to wards the bettir and mower substantiale menne of yower village. At the ende of XX minutes, a purveyor of the kinge cometh and taketh aweye the donkey, and the ye, the pesaunte, are sesed wyth despayr and do falle deed. Then ye, the playere, are rankid by how manye piles of donge ye hauen transportid and wyth howe much meekeness.
Donkey king Yen this game, ye played a peas aunt who hath yen his care a small donkey. Ye use the gentile beets to drive lower carte and to transported dongle, for which ye are payee full lintel, and yet ye muster keep obeisant and meek to wards the better and mower substantial mane of lower village. At the ended of XX minutes, a purveyor of the king cometh and teeth away the donkey, and the ye, the peasant, are sensed with despair and do fallen deed. Then ye, the player, are rancid by how many piles of dongle ye haven transported and with Howe much meekness.
Donkey king Yen this game, ye played a peas aunt who hath yen his care a small donkey.
This is a song by what may be considered a rather crass pop artist. Just my kind of person. It's kind of a classic pop song and if we just take it out of the original hands and give it a slightly different interpretation perhaps we can reveal it's splendor. Also, strangely enough, its chord sequence is reminescent of other centuries and just for a bit towards the end we'll play it in the style of the 16th century. Just to show that everything comes around again.