"You have one hundred and forty kilos of antimatter sitting around on my planet????"
"I thought it would come in handy,'" the doctor said lamely.
(General Horner and Dr. Castanuelo, in Hell's Faire by John Ringo)
Chubby, brunette Eunice Kinnison sat in a rocker, reading the Sunday papers and listening to the radio. Her husband Ralph lay sprawled upon the davenport, smoking a cigarette and reading the current issue of EXTRAORDINARY STORIES against an unheard background of music. Mentally, he was far from Tellus, flitting in his super-dreadnaught through parsec after parsec of vacuous space. E.E. "Doc" Smith, Triplanetary, Chapter 5: "1941"
G F G
There was a man we all grew up with, each in our own way.
G F G
E.E. Smith wrote stories where the hero saved the day.
C G
Space opera was a fantasy that we all understood,
G F G
And E.E. wrote the lines the way that only E.E. could.
D F G
And there were blinding flashes everywhere and deafening reports,
D F G
Coruscating energies and glib macho retorts.
G C G
Planets smashing planets and an antimatter sphere,
C G D G
With Lensmen on the warpath, bad guys tend to disappear.
Old E.E. wrote of Spacehounds and of brawny men and bold,
Of monumental intellects and fearsome biting cold,
Of Evil that for evil's sake pursued a deadly plan,
Until the good guys caught them and wiped out the entire clan.
And there were tractor beams and pressor beams and adamantine shields,
And rays of all description and gigantic battlefields.
Fleets of ships so big you couldn't fit them in a sky,
And monsters everywhere with whom we don't see eye to eye.
Well QX friends, old Doc is in that happy hunting ground,
With all his friends and heroes out there Skylarking around.
The Kinnisons and Seatons sit and talk about old times,
And swap tales of adventure with the old Galaxy Primes.
And there are galaxies colliding, but we're firing on all jets.
It looks like we're outnumbered here, and no one's taking bets.
Titanic rods of force flare out against hard driven screens,
The galaxy was just to small for Doc's colossal schemes.
No man—no human, masculine, natural man—ever sells a book. Men have been known in moments of thoughtlessness, or compelled by temporary necessity, to rob, to equivocate, to do murder, to commit what they should not, to "wince and relent and refrain" from what they should: these things, howbeit regrettable, are common to humanity, and may happen to any of us. But amateur bookselling is foul and unnatural; and it is noteworthy that our language, so capable of particularity, contains no distinctive name for the crime. Fortunately it is hardly known to exist: the face of the public being set against it as a flint—and the trade giving such wretched prices.
Worlds grow old and suns grow cold
And death we never can doubt.
Time's cold wind, wailing down the past,
Reminds us that all flesh is grass
And history's lamps blow out.
CHORUS:
But the Eagle has landed; tell your children when.
Time won't drive us down to dust again.
Cycles turn while the far stars burn,
And people and planets age.
Life's crown passes to younger lands,
Time sweeps the dust of hope from her hands
And turns another page.
CHORUS
But we who feel the weight of the wheel
When winter falls over our world
Can hope for tomorrow and raise our eyes
To a silver moon in the open skies
and a single flag unfurled.
CHORUS For the...
We know well what Life can tell:
If you would not perish, then grow.
And today our fragile flesh and steel
Has laid our hands on a vaster wheel
With all of the stars to know.
CHORUS That the...
From all who tried out of history's tide,
A salute to the team that won.
And the old Earth smiles at her children's reach,
The wave that carried us up the beach
To reach for the shining sun.
CHORUS And the...
We're off to outer space
We're leaving Mother Earth
To save the human race
Our Star Blazers
Searching for a distant star
Heading off to Iscandar
Leaving all we love behind
Who knows what danger we'll find?
We must be strong and brave
Our home we've got to save
If we don't in just one year
Mother Earth will disappear
Fighting with the Gamilons
We won't stop until we've won
Then we'll return and when we arrive
The Earth will survive
With our Star Blazers
We're off in outer space
Protecting Mother Earth
To save the human race
Our Star Blazers
Danger lurking everywhere
But we know we've got to dare
Evil men with evil schemes
They can't destroy all our dreams
We must be strong and brave
Our home we've got to save
We must make the fighting cease
So Mother Earth will be at peace
Through all the fire and the smoke
We will never give up hope
If we can win the Earth will survive
We'll keep peace alive
With our Star Blazers
"You wouldn't feel at home in anything that didn't have a navigational system and a lot of nasty firepower, Ilia."
"'Sounds like a reasonable definition of common sense to me."
"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe...attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion...I watched C-beams glittering in the dark at Tannhauser Gate...All those moments will be lost...in time...like...tears...in rain. Time to die."
About ten minutes into Blade Runner, I reeled out of the theater in complete despair over its visual brilliance and its similarity to the "look" of Neuromancer, my [then] largely unwritten first novel. Not only had I been beaten to the semiotic punch, but this damned movie looked better than the images in my head! With time, as I got over that, I started to take a certain delight in the way the film began to affect the way the world looked. Club fashions, at first, then rock videos, finally even architecture. Amazing! A science fiction movie affecting reality! Years later, I was having lunch with Ridley, and when the conversation turned to inspiration, we were both very clear about our debt to the Metal Hurlant [the original Heavy Metal magazine] school of the '70s—Moebius and the others. But it was also obvious that Scott understood the importance of information density to perceptual overload. When Blade Runner works best, it induces a lyrical sort of information sickness, that quintessentially postmodern cocktail of ecstasy and dread. It was cyberpunk was supposed to be all about.
Martian Balogny and wasted MONEY
Why do we persist in EXPLORING a DEAD Planet who's entire civilization MOVED to Earth about 25000 years ago after Nemisis moved OUT of the Earth's vicinity and BACK to Aphelion FAR beyond the 10th or 11th planet! We spent, unknown to the Majority, right at 30 years ON MARS ( Program Alternative Three) with the participation of 6 Nations and a MURDEROUS SHAMEFUL situation with many hundreds of young SLAVES that were KIDNAPPED and taken to the "RESORT" on the Moon ( just beyond the visible rim) where they were neutered and Brain Washed before the final trip to MARS aboard the G.E/Avro Saucers ( 3 each) that traveled a tad over 900,000 mph. The "colony" fally became independent and shot down surveilance Satellites sent to find out what was Going on. Eventually in 1991 they refurbed PHOBOS, an OLD SPace ship similar to our OWN Moon, and dis-appeared...no doubt with the help of the Galactic Fed'n who've been IN our skies since 1884. The CRIMES committed by the 6 participants in this charade will probably never come to light but the Fed'n are aware in SPADES.
(Another story). Early July in 2011 will see a MAJOR "Turning Point" and many who are now "tagged" will be removed from this Planet! Oddly enough they are recognizeable by certain "implants" known to those who have payed attention! MARS holds NOTHING of value except possible Mineral Deposits, but MINING them is many years away if at all?? I see it as a waste of MONEY and time. MARS is essentially a DEAD ISSUE! B-0b1
--
There is no lie more lewd
than truth misconstrued. -- B-0b1
"Who am I? I am Susan Ivanova, Commander. Daughter of Andre and Sophie Ivanova. I am the Right Hand of Vengence and the boot that is going to kick your sorry ass all the way back to Earth, sweetheart. I am Death Incarnate, and the last living thing you are ever going to see. God sent me."
"Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired (by passionate devotion to them) produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can peradventure read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity...we cherish books even if unread, their mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access, reassurance."
1. If you are choking on an ice cube, don't panic. Simply pour a cup of boiling water down your throat and presto. The blockage will be almost instantly removed.
2. Clumsy? Avoid cutting yourself while slicing vegetables by getting someone else to hold them while you chop away.
3. Avoid arguments with the women in your life about lifting the toilet seat by simply using the sink.
4. For high blood pressure sufferers: simply cut yourself and bleed for a few minutes, thus reducing the pressure in your veins. Remember to use a timer.
5. A mouse trap, placed on top of your alarm clock, will prevent you from rolling over and going back to sleep after you hit the snooze button.
6. If you have a bad cough, take a large dose of laxatives, then you will be afraid to cough.
7. Have a bad toothache? Smash your thumb with a hammer and you will forget about the toothache.
Sometimes, we just need to remember what the rules of life really are:
You only need two tools: WD-40 and Duct Tape.
If it doesn't move and should, use the WD-40.
If it shouldn't move and does, use the duct tape.
Remember:
Everyone seems normal until you get to know them.
Never pass up an opportunity to go to the bathroom.
If you woke up breathing, congratulations! You get another chance.
And finally, be really nice to your family and friends; you never know when you might need them to empty your bedpan.
From the second series of "Monty Python's Flying Circus"
Transcribed 9/17/87 from "Monty Python's Previous Record" by Jonathan Partington
Scene: A cafe. One table is occupied by a group of Vikings with horned helmets on. A man and his wife enter.
Man (Eric Idle): You sit here, dear.
Wife (Graham Chapman in drag): All right.
Man (to Waitress): Morning!
Waitress (Terry Jones, in drag as a bit of a rat-bag): Morning!
Man: Well, what've you got?
Waitress: Well, there's egg and bacon; egg sausage and bacon; egg and spam; egg bacon and spam; egg bacon sausage and spam; spam bacon sausage and spam; spam egg spam spam bacon and spam; spam sausage spam spam bacon spam tomato and spam;
Vikings (starting to chant): Spam spam spam spam...
Waitress: ...spam spam spam egg and spam; spam spam spam spam spam spam baked beans spam spam spam...
Vikings (singing): Spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam!
Waitress: ...or Lobster Thermidor a Crevette with a mornay sauce served in a Provencale manner with shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle pate, brandy and with a fried egg on top and spam.
Wife: Have you got anything without spam?
Waitress: Well, there's spam egg sausage and spam, that's not got much spam in it.
Wife: I don't want ANY spam!
Man: Why can't she have egg bacon spam and sausage?
Wife: THAT'S got spam in it!
Man: Hasn't got as much spam in it as spam egg sausage and spam, has it?
Vikings: Spam spam spam spam (crescendo through next few lines)
Wife: Could you do the egg bacon spam and sausage without the spam then?
Waitress: Eewwww!
Wife: What do you mean 'Eewwww'? I don't like spam!
Vikings: Lovely spam! Wonderful spam!
Waitress: Shut up!
Vikings: Lovely spam! Wonderful spam!
Waitress: Shut up! (Vikings stop) Bloody Vikings! You can't have egg bacon spam and sausage without the spam.
Wife (shrieks): I don't like spam!
Man: Sshh, dear, don't cause a fuss. I'll have your spam. I love it. I'm having spam spam spam spam spam spam spam baked beans spam spam spam and spam!
Vikings (singing): Spam spam spam spam. Lovely spam! Wonderful spam!
Waitress: Shut up!! Baked beans are off.
Man: Well could I have her spam instead of the baked beans then?
Waitress: You mean spam spam spam spam spam spam... (but it is too late and the Vikings drown her words)
Vikings (singing elaborately): Spam spam spam spam. Lovely spam! Wonderful spam! Spam spa-a-a-a-a-am spam spa-a-a-a-a-am spam. Lovely spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam! Spam spam spam spam!
Your financers buy you a horse.
You learn how to ride a horse and train the horse and breed it's offspring to take you to interesting places.
After a great trip on the third generation horse, your financers cut the travel budget and tell you to get into the trucking business so...
You kill the horse off and get an elephant. The security department keeps talking about how the elephant needs to be able to not only go forward but also go sideways quite a bit, so you cross-breed it with a crab.
You work the elephant to death and you can't convince the finance guys to fund more than a subsistence diet.
A new CEO comes in and says "we need to start going to interesting places again, and by the way, the finance guys are going to cut your budget.
Your animal handlers tell you that you better start trying to clone a horse. Meanwhile the elephant keeps taking more and more frequent sick days.
You have one cow.
The cow just runs around in circles in the field.
You miss your old cow.
You can't rely on any other farmers (because farming is just too hard).
You retire your cow, dig up your old cows bones and wrap it in new leather
You have fifty cow designs.
Any one of your cows would put out 50 times the milk of government cows!
If only you had money...
Or, at least, one-tenth of the cabin trunks were full of vivid and often painful and uncomfortable memories of her past life; the other nine-tenths were full of penguins, which suprised her. Insofar as she recognized at all that she was dreaming, she realized she must be exploring her own subconscious mind. She had heard it said that humans are supposed to use only about a tenth of their brains, and that no one was very clear what the other nine tenths were for, but she certainly never heard it suggested that they were used for storing penguins.
In later years it is stifled and gagged—buried deep, a green turf at the head of it, and on its heart a stone; but it lives, it breathes, it lurks, it will up and out when 'tis looked for least. That stockbroker, some brief summers gone, who was missed from his wonted place one settling-day! a goodly portly man, i' faith: and had a villa and a steam launch at Surbiton: and was versed in the esoteric humours of the House. Who could have thought that the Hunter lay hid in him? Yet, after many weeks, they found him in a wild nook of Hampshire. Ragged, sun-burnt, the nocturnal haystack calling aloud from his frayed and weather-stained duds, his trousers tucked, he was tickling trout with godless native urchins; and when they would have won him to himself with honied whispers of American Rails, he answered but with babble of green fields. He is back in his wonted corner now: quite cured, apparently, and tractable. And yet—let the sun shine too wantonly in Throgmorton Street, let an errant zephyr, quick with the warm South, fan but his cheek too wooingly on his way to the station; and will he not once more snap his chain and away? Ay, truly: and next time he will not be caught.
Take my love, take my land
Take me where I cannot stand
I don't care, I'm still free
You can't take the sky from me
Take me out to the black
Tell them I ain't comin' back
Burn the land and boil the sea
You can't take the sky from me
There's no place I can be
Since I found Serenity
But you can't take the sky from me...
I was by no means the only reader of books on board the Neversink. Several other sailors were diligent readers, though their studies did not lie in the way of belles-lettres. Their favourite authors were such as you may find at the book-stalls around Fulton Market; they were slightly physiological in their nature.
Agreed 100% on the Whiney Doomed Angstman aspect.
The other thing that boggled my mind when reading it was that the enemy ships (which were presented as Overwhelming and Unbeatable) were spacegoing fish that spat acid.
Which utterly and completely blew my suspension of disbelief out the airlock.
Only out the airlock? Mine would fly off at relativistic velocities. Does suspension of disbelief have a mass? If so, there's the ultimate operatic space drive for you. :)
"Anything that happens, happens. Anything that, in happening, causes something else to happen, causes something else to happen. Anything that, in happening, causes itself to happen again, happens again. It doesn't necessarily do it in chronological order, though."
"The author regrets that he is unable to reconcile himself to the thoughtful point of view you have expressed. However, it must be kept in mind that being raised in different cultures and different places can result in such differences of viewpoint between individuals. The author is from planet Earth."
For myself, I probably stand alone in owning to a sentimental weakness for the night-piercing whistle—judiciously remote, as some men love the skirl of the pipes. In the days when streets were less wearily familiar than now, or ever the golden cord was quite loosed that led back to relinquished fields and wider skies, I have lain awake on stifling summer nights, thinking of luckier friends by moor and stream, and listening for the whistles from certain railway stations, veritable "horns of Elf-land, faintly blowing." Then, a ghostly passenger, I have taken my seat in a phantom train, and sped up, up, through the map, rehearsing the journey bit by bit: through the furnace-lit Midlands, and on till the grey glimmer of dawn showed stone walls in place of hedges, and masses looming up on either side; till the bright sun shone upon brown leaping streams and purple heather, and the clear, sharp northern air streamed in through the windows..."We are only the children who might have been," murmured Lamb's dream babes to him; and for the sake of those dream-journeys, the journeys that might have been, I still hail with a certain affection the call of the engine in the night...
How beautiful to a genuine lover of reading are the sullied leaves and worn-out appearance, nay the very odour (beyond Russia) if we would not forget kind feelings in fastidiousness, of an old "Circulating library" Tom Jones or Vicar of Wakefield. How they speak of the thousand thumbs that have turned over their pages with delight.
"Reading stimulates the young and diverts the old, increases ones satisfaction when things are going well and when they are going badly provides refuge and solace. It is a delight in the home, it can be fitted with public life, throughout the night, on journeys and in the country, it is a companion which never lets me down."
"The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends," Ser Jorah told her. "It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace." He gave a shrug. "They never are."
Night after night they played there in the great cabin with the stern-windows open and the ship's wake flowing away and away in the darkness. Few things gave them more joy; and although they were as unlike in nationality, education, religion, appearance and habit of mind as two men could well be, they were wholly at one when it came to improvising, working out variations on a theme, handing them to and fro, conversing with violin and 'cello; though this was a language in which Jack was somewhat more articulate than his friend, wittier, more original and indeed more learned. They were alike in their musical tastes, in their reasonably high degree of amateur skill, and in their untiring relish.
[1] Grant me, O spirit of Reason, matter for Deduction, Intuition, and Analysis; plenty of three-pipe problems, that I may avoid the cowardice of seven percent cocaine, or at least substitute something a little special in white wines.
[2] Grant me newspapers, telegrams, and the grind of carriage wheels against the kerb; the meditative breakfast at morning; the unexpected client in the night-time. And, occasionally, the alerting word grotesque.
[3] Strengthen me not to astonish the good Watson merely for theatrical pleasure; yet always to be impatient of Unmitigated Bleat; and of Guessing, which rots the logical faculty.
[4] If in hours of dullness neither the Turkish bath nor mediaeval charters, nor my scrapbooks nor my fiddle avail to soothe, turn my attention to the infallible reactions of chemistry—or to that rational and edifying insect the Bee.
[5] Remind me that there is a season of forgiveness for misfortune; but never for the incredible imbecility of bunglers(from LeCoq to Lestrade).
[6] In all the joys of action let me not forget the intellectual achievements of lethargy; to wit, Mycroft; and, slightly less to wit, Moriarty.
[7] Burden me not with unrelated facts, but encourage the habit of synthetic observation, collating the distinctions between the various. As the hand of the lithotyper is to that of the cork-cutter, so are the types of the Morning Mercury to those of the Yorkshire Post.
[8] Remember, 0 spirit, to Segregate the Queen. Viz., the fair sex is Watson's department. For me, the Mind is All. But one confession in remembrance: the pistol-shot initials on the sitting-room wall were not what Watson thought. In the name of that Gracious Lady my favorite letters were the last two. I was writing not VR but IA. The Baker Street Underground shook my aim.
[9] Hold fast the doctrine: When all impossibles are eliminated, what remains, however improbable, must be the Truth.
[10] Then, O spirit, be the Game Afoot!
A clear night sky and a little instruction allows anyone to soar in mind and imagination to the farthest reaches of an enormous universe in which we are but a speck. And there is nothing more exhilarating and humbling than that.
A unified theory would put us at the doorstep of a vast universe of things that we could finally explore with precision.
As the astounding vastness of the universe becomes obscured, there is a throwback to a vision of a universe that essentially amounts to earth, or one's country, or state or city. Perspective becomes myopic.
How can a speck of a universe be physically identical to the great expanse we view in the heavens above?
I have long thought that anyone who does not regularly—or ever—gaze up and see the wonder and glory of a dark night sky filled with countless stars loses a sense of their fundamental connectedness to the universe.
I've spent something like 17 years working on a theory for which there is essentially no direct experimental support.
If the theory turns out to be right, that will be tremendously thick and tasty icing on the cake.
No matter how hard you try to teach your cat general relativity, you're going to fail.
Physicists are more like avant-garde composers, willing to bend traditional rules...Mathematicians are more like classical composers.
Science proceeds along a zig-zag path toward what we hope will be ultimate truth, a path that began with humanity's earliest attempts to fathom the cosmos and whose end we cannot predict.
Sometimes attaining the deepest familiarity with a question is our best substitute for actually having the answer.
The boldness of asking deep questions may require unforeseen flexibility if we are to accept the answers.
We can certainly go further than cats, but why should it be that our brains are somehow so suited to the universe that our brains will be able to understand the deepest workings?
We might be the holographic image of a two-dimensional structure.
When I give this talk to a physics audience, I remove the quotes from my "Theorem".