On terror conspiracy theorists - definitely not the final word
Another tragedy...this (reference to latest one) is even more horrific than the one from (reference to previous one) with a death toll larger than the (reference one which happened prior to previous one).
Calm down. Because of population growth, these events just appear larger than their predecessors. When you factor in world-wide technological advances and media over-saturation the world is no more evil than it was. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was, same as it ever was. Same. As. It. Ever. WAS.
While you hum the rest of the Mr Byrne's tune, let me deviate.
If I measure from the year of my birth and non-objectively assume there was only one person occupying my fair share of this wondrous planet at that time, today—my portion has been halved. From my grandmother's perspective there are now four bodies occupying her plot. To be fair, only half the world's population are born from morons, are raised to be idiots, and die imbeciles...which brings me to the theorists mentioned in my title.
Last week: two bombs + two criminals + Boston marathon = a handful dead/many injured. The result has been conspiracy theorists outdoing themselves; ridiculously farfetched claims abound.
Yet—strangely—almost the same day (an "anniversary week" which is significant for loons and those who follow conspiracies): one fire + massive explosion + near Waco, Texas = death and destruction many times worse than that of Boston. But...no conspiracies (or very little).
I always doubt "coincidences". I suspect the explosion in West, Texas was arson. Intentional.
Today, another large fire/explosion near Mobile, Alabama. All the normal conspiracy nuts are still silent (I've checked). I find it curiouser and curiouser that no one has posited any connections.
But... why are conspiracies on my mind lately?
True story: A short while ago a friend of my fiancee's came over to visit us. A conversation starter was asked of her, "What have you been up to lately?"
She replied, "I was sitting out in my yard this morning watching a whole bunch of chem-trails being sprayed overhead."
Pause. Longer pause. Still no talking.
I glance sideways at her. No body language hint that she's joking around. I glance at my fiancee to gauge her reaction (she never told me of any mental impairment, so maybe this is new for her too).
My fiancee asks, with a smile in her voice, "Is that something you do a lot?" (I thought that was a very smooth way to determine if she was a full-on whackjob or if she just goofed around every other weekend with being mentally unstable).
And whackjob said without a hitch, "Oh yeah. They're up there spraying us all the time. A couple weeks ago my neighbors and I watched...must have been...over two dozen chem-trails being sprayed inside of less than a half hour.
I got that cringe in the nerves running between the back of my brain and my diaphragm, which cause me to twitch my shoulders inward a little bit. I tightened my lips slightly. And...
Here is what I'd have said if she wasn't a friend of my fiancee's: "Don't you live in Longview, Washington? Under a major flight corridor, with all of the north-south traffic to and from Sea-Tac? And since there's no mystery behind what happens when hot exhaust meets the cold atmosphere, you must be bananna-shit crazy if you believe millions of conspirators are spraying the air with poisons."
I didn't say any of that. I smirked, shook my head, and (politely) bit my tongue.
So... my fiancee is still acquainted with a crazy woman from Longview.
Calm down. Because of population growth, these events just appear larger than their predecessors. When you factor in world-wide technological advances and media over-saturation the world is no more evil than it was. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was, same as it ever was. Same. As. It. Ever. WAS.
While you hum the rest of the Mr Byrne's tune, let me deviate.
If I measure from the year of my birth and non-objectively assume there was only one person occupying my fair share of this wondrous planet at that time, today—my portion has been halved. From my grandmother's perspective there are now four bodies occupying her plot. To be fair, only half the world's population are born from morons, are raised to be idiots, and die imbeciles...which brings me to the theorists mentioned in my title.
Last week: two bombs + two criminals + Boston marathon = a handful dead/many injured. The result has been conspiracy theorists outdoing themselves; ridiculously farfetched claims abound.
Yet—strangely—almost the same day (an "anniversary week" which is significant for loons and those who follow conspiracies): one fire + massive explosion + near Waco, Texas = death and destruction many times worse than that of Boston. But...no conspiracies (or very little).
I always doubt "coincidences". I suspect the explosion in West, Texas was arson. Intentional.
Today, another large fire/explosion near Mobile, Alabama. All the normal conspiracy nuts are still silent (I've checked). I find it curiouser and curiouser that no one has posited any connections.
But... why are conspiracies on my mind lately?
True story: A short while ago a friend of my fiancee's came over to visit us. A conversation starter was asked of her, "What have you been up to lately?"
She replied, "I was sitting out in my yard this morning watching a whole bunch of chem-trails being sprayed overhead."
Pause. Longer pause. Still no talking.
I glance sideways at her. No body language hint that she's joking around. I glance at my fiancee to gauge her reaction (she never told me of any mental impairment, so maybe this is new for her too).
My fiancee asks, with a smile in her voice, "Is that something you do a lot?" (I thought that was a very smooth way to determine if she was a full-on whackjob or if she just goofed around every other weekend with being mentally unstable).
And whackjob said without a hitch, "Oh yeah. They're up there spraying us all the time. A couple weeks ago my neighbors and I watched...must have been...over two dozen chem-trails being sprayed inside of less than a half hour.
I got that cringe in the nerves running between the back of my brain and my diaphragm, which cause me to twitch my shoulders inward a little bit. I tightened my lips slightly. And...
Here is what I'd have said if she wasn't a friend of my fiancee's: "Don't you live in Longview, Washington? Under a major flight corridor, with all of the north-south traffic to and from Sea-Tac? And since there's no mystery behind what happens when hot exhaust meets the cold atmosphere, you must be bananna-shit crazy if you believe millions of conspirators are spraying the air with poisons."
I didn't say any of that. I smirked, shook my head, and (politely) bit my tongue.
So... my fiancee is still acquainted with a crazy woman from Longview.
other conspiracy related stuff:
Killer Joe - review (☆☆☆☆)
Although I don't think everything William Friedkin has directed is worthy of a standing ovation (or even your applause in some cases) Killer Joe combines the Grit he captured in The French Connection with nearly the same quality of Visceral he achieved in The Exorcist.
The script, written by Tracy Letts, is tight and near-perfect. The actors (all five of them) could not have been better. In fact, until I saw this performance, I thought Matthew McConaughey was a bland movie actor playing the same dude in different clothes.
This film wasn't seen in many theaters because of its NC17 rating (which still scares the distributors away) but is now available on red envelope slash box slash download. Find it.
Post script for blood-relatives: If you accidentally read this and decide to follow my advice and find this film - stop. If you're someone I talk to and I haven't personally told you about this film? That's because I know you won't like it. You'll be revolted by the violence, sickened by the sex and nudity, and disgusted by the raw and ugly story. My second paragraph was supposed to point that out. "But" you might say, "I liked The Exorcist and French Connection"; and then I might reply, "those films were edgy forty years ago; this film is edgy today".
Every subsequent Y in the road is affected by those who preceded
I think a lot. I ruminate. Ponder. Plan for contingencies. Meditate about the me of today who's composing this beginning sentence of a beginning paragraph which I've just begun with only the title above as my stanchion and which is, at the moment, only based on a couple-to-three ephemeral ideas without a solid bridge betwixt them.
Today, I think I should list these ideas because that'll make it easier to see where to begin to build bridge-abutments and also will—I hope—help me to remember them before they, like most of my mental messages-in-a-bottle, drift out of reach.
When thinking about the me of yesteryear, I recall the major decisions which had the most geographical, emotional, financial, and intellectual effect on the me-outcome (more specifically, the where, who, how's, and why's that comprise the me that is today-me). I realize that I made some of the more drastic course corrections in my life because of the few women I loved in yesteryear and the one I'm currently in love with.
Bridge.
Human sexuality is a very complex amalgam of thoughts, emotions, suppositions, hormones, taboos, and facts. Tens of billions of humans have simplified all that, in order to make it easier to understand, relate to, and explain to others (which begins with their children). I too, simplified it to understand it.
Not very long ago, I considered everyone who wasn't heterosexual to be homosexual. When someone claimed to be bisexual—as far as I was concerned—they were homosexual. I (erroneously) thought this way because I viewed all sexual attraction relative to my own and, for me, there's no choice involved. I love breasts (especially, the pert variety); the shape of the female buttock is wondrous; and I can't get enough pudenda. Conversely, the penis and scrotum are ugly; testosterone-packed male physiques are as attractive, to me, as inanimate objects, and androgyny is a blah.
I formed my early simplistic left-handed/right-handed understanding of human sexuality by talking with hetero schoolmates. The boys I talked with said they also didn't choose. The girls talked about their unflinching attraction to hard muscles and body hair with the same tone I use when adoring all that's smooth, svelte, and hairless. I also talked with a few gay guys (who I knew well enough to talk specifics) and they assured me their sexuality had been formed in adolescence and couldn't choose any more than I could—one said he considered bisexuals "straights and breeders at heart and said they'd never be fully accepted by the gay community".
Bridge.
In high school, I was informed that approximately ten percent of the population was left-handed and almost everyone in the world was right-handed, like me. At the same time (probably in the same class) I learned there existed a small number of exceptional people who were ambidextrous.
The textbook went on to explain these gifted people were capable of doing everything equally well with either hand. I remember a story about a dead-before-I-was-born president who was innately left-handed but taught as a child (I think the book used the word forced) to become right-handed. It said he occasionally would show-off his talent by writing simultaneously with both hands and may even have related that he could write in two different languages at the same time (but that might be confabulation on my part). I also recall something about tutors and nannies being involved in forcing/re-training him to be right handed. And I recall feeling scorn for the reason he had been was forced to stop writing with his left hand: some fucktard in his family believed the left hand was the devil's hand. It's possible the school book encouraged my scorn by its choice of phrasing (although I'm sure it didn't use the word fucktard, that's all me). A quick search would turn up this president's name but since I don't recall it off-the-top of my gulliver I'm disinclined to embellish poor memory with moot facts.
In college, I was told that about ten percent of the population were homosexual, that almost everyone in the world was heterosexual like me. At the same time (probably in the same dorm-room bullshitting session) I was informed of the existence of a small number of people who were attracted to both sexes.
Specifically, one bullshit session attendee alleged, some bisexuals (more of whom, he said, were female than male) were not turned-off by the body, physique, or genitals of their own sex, which garnered nods of understanding from that roomful of hetero-men. We could get our brains around how a hetero-woman might be capable of seeing beauty in the female form—what was confusing, to us, was how a hetero-man could be attracted to another man. A joke was re-told (which originated from an unfunny comedian who I can't recall the name of) which said the upside of being bisexual was doubling one's chances of a date on Friday night. Another bullshitter related a story (which probably began with: my junior high school neighbor's cousin's best-friend once told us...) about how this nameless boy he knew was groomed over a period of years by one of his older relatives to first receive and then give blowjobs and then, later, to give and eventually receive anal sex (his story never contained the word forced). It was the first time I'd heard the word 'groomed' in that context (and I wasn't alone, because someone went off on a 'bridegroom/groom' tangent). The nameless boy's story concluded with the allegation that before, during, and after the years of abuse, he was innately attracted only to girls. The bullshitter telling the story surmised that because the nameless boy had been intimate with a member of the same sex for such a prolonged period of time that he might, now, be able to choose. At this point the bullshit session switched its focus to the sexual proclivities of Greek philosophers (someone had a philosophy class) and the term "conditioned bisexuality" was thrown around the room.
Bridge.
I have grown into the knowledge that gender and human sexuality is a very complex spectrum. I picture a two dimensional xy Cartesian graph. The horizontal line depicting the genitalia one is innately sexually attracted to. On the left is the female pudenda (the minus 5 position); on the right is the male penis (the plus 5 position). Someone who is equally attracted to both sexes and who chooses his or her next partner based solely on the fickle winds of chance mutual attraction is a 0.
I think of the top of the vertical line as a measure of how strong one's attraction feels, or how often one thinks about sex, or how often one has the urge to engage in their preferred sexual act (it's subjective and doesn't matter if one plots one's strength point for a given moment in time or for the average over a period of time). At the top, the plus 5 position, is sexual addicts and those incapable of controlling their constant sexual urges. Where the vertical meets the horizontal (the zero point) is those who are asexual and incapable of any attraction. Just above the zero point, the plus 1 position, is those who exclusively pleasure themselves (which would include iDollators).
The bottom of the vertical line is for all the paranormal innate attractions. At the bottom, the minus 5 position, is for necrophiliacs. All of the minus positions cover the range of attractions which society considers abnormal from sexual attractions to inanimate objects, BDSM, and rape.
To be accurate and complete, this graph now needs to become an xyz three-dimensional graph in order to measure fantasy versus reality. What one thinks about when one is engaging in the sexual act is important because it's the brain that's sexual, not the body. The further along the plus z line the more fantastic one's mental images are from what's currently happening to one's body (within societal "norms"). 100% focus on the sex one's body is experiencing—no fantasy—is 0; the further along the minus z line the more disparate the brain's focus is from what is currently being experienced by one's body (outside of societal "norms").
Bridge.
Mental moving snapshots with sound: My first significant other is berating me for my unwillingness to attend catholic mass. Her sharp words are intended to make me feel guilty for my lack of materialism and lack of concern for our toddler's spiritual upbringing, which is my final straw (Snap.) My second so insouciance is unbearable. No words becomes no love (Snap.) Which drives me to find my third who works toward attaining "marital tenure" and I decide, while she is on a relationship-sabbatical to locate my current love (Snap.) Now we are ten years together. Everything is as wonderful as I imagined it could be. Better, having chosen not to tolerate the bad behavior of her predecessors, who taught me what type of woman to look for and what, who, and where not to be.
Bridge.
So hey. I've stopped saying "people don't choose" because some people do. Maybe a lot of people do (maybe the world is equally divided in thirds: 1/3 hetero and can't choose otherwise; 1/3 homo and can't choose otherwise; and 1/3 are attracted to both, can choose, and do...or let their government/church choose for them).
There seems to be a large quantity of fundamentalists and conservatives who use the word "choose and choice" with an definite air of certainty...maybe that's because every one of them are near the 0 point, in the middle of the horizontal axis and they've all decided to let their religious and political leaders tell them what choice to make.
The most important point is everyone should be happy with what they've got (between their ears). If you haven't yet found what makes you happy (between the sheets)...keep looking. If you aren't yet as happy as you could be (because you see others who have chosen wisely and found their happy) stop attempting to make them as unhappy as you are; misery doesn't really love company.
Today, I think I should list these ideas because that'll make it easier to see where to begin to build bridge-abutments and also will—I hope—help me to remember them before they, like most of my mental messages-in-a-bottle, drift out of reach.
When thinking about the me of yesteryear, I recall the major decisions which had the most geographical, emotional, financial, and intellectual effect on the me-outcome (more specifically, the where, who, how's, and why's that comprise the me that is today-me). I realize that I made some of the more drastic course corrections in my life because of the few women I loved in yesteryear and the one I'm currently in love with.
Bridge.
Human sexuality is a very complex amalgam of thoughts, emotions, suppositions, hormones, taboos, and facts. Tens of billions of humans have simplified all that, in order to make it easier to understand, relate to, and explain to others (which begins with their children). I too, simplified it to understand it.
Not very long ago, I considered everyone who wasn't heterosexual to be homosexual. When someone claimed to be bisexual—as far as I was concerned—they were homosexual. I (erroneously) thought this way because I viewed all sexual attraction relative to my own and, for me, there's no choice involved. I love breasts (especially, the pert variety); the shape of the female buttock is wondrous; and I can't get enough pudenda. Conversely, the penis and scrotum are ugly; testosterone-packed male physiques are as attractive, to me, as inanimate objects, and androgyny is a blah.
I formed my early simplistic left-handed/right-handed understanding of human sexuality by talking with hetero schoolmates. The boys I talked with said they also didn't choose. The girls talked about their unflinching attraction to hard muscles and body hair with the same tone I use when adoring all that's smooth, svelte, and hairless. I also talked with a few gay guys (who I knew well enough to talk specifics) and they assured me their sexuality had been formed in adolescence and couldn't choose any more than I could—one said he considered bisexuals "straights and breeders at heart and said they'd never be fully accepted by the gay community".
Bridge.
In high school, I was informed that approximately ten percent of the population was left-handed and almost everyone in the world was right-handed, like me. At the same time (probably in the same class) I learned there existed a small number of exceptional people who were ambidextrous.
The textbook went on to explain these gifted people were capable of doing everything equally well with either hand. I remember a story about a dead-before-I-was-born president who was innately left-handed but taught as a child (I think the book used the word forced) to become right-handed. It said he occasionally would show-off his talent by writing simultaneously with both hands and may even have related that he could write in two different languages at the same time (but that might be confabulation on my part). I also recall something about tutors and nannies being involved in forcing/re-training him to be right handed. And I recall feeling scorn for the reason he had been was forced to stop writing with his left hand: some fucktard in his family believed the left hand was the devil's hand. It's possible the school book encouraged my scorn by its choice of phrasing (although I'm sure it didn't use the word fucktard, that's all me). A quick search would turn up this president's name but since I don't recall it off-the-top of my gulliver I'm disinclined to embellish poor memory with moot facts.
In college, I was told that about ten percent of the population were homosexual, that almost everyone in the world was heterosexual like me. At the same time (probably in the same dorm-room bullshitting session) I was informed of the existence of a small number of people who were attracted to both sexes.
Specifically, one bullshit session attendee alleged, some bisexuals (more of whom, he said, were female than male) were not turned-off by the body, physique, or genitals of their own sex, which garnered nods of understanding from that roomful of hetero-men. We could get our brains around how a hetero-woman might be capable of seeing beauty in the female form—what was confusing, to us, was how a hetero-man could be attracted to another man. A joke was re-told (which originated from an unfunny comedian who I can't recall the name of) which said the upside of being bisexual was doubling one's chances of a date on Friday night. Another bullshitter related a story (which probably began with: my junior high school neighbor's cousin's best-friend once told us...) about how this nameless boy he knew was groomed over a period of years by one of his older relatives to first receive and then give blowjobs and then, later, to give and eventually receive anal sex (his story never contained the word forced). It was the first time I'd heard the word 'groomed' in that context (and I wasn't alone, because someone went off on a 'bridegroom/groom' tangent). The nameless boy's story concluded with the allegation that before, during, and after the years of abuse, he was innately attracted only to girls. The bullshitter telling the story surmised that because the nameless boy had been intimate with a member of the same sex for such a prolonged period of time that he might, now, be able to choose. At this point the bullshit session switched its focus to the sexual proclivities of Greek philosophers (someone had a philosophy class) and the term "conditioned bisexuality" was thrown around the room.
Bridge.I have grown into the knowledge that gender and human sexuality is a very complex spectrum. I picture a two dimensional xy Cartesian graph. The horizontal line depicting the genitalia one is innately sexually attracted to. On the left is the female pudenda (the minus 5 position); on the right is the male penis (the plus 5 position). Someone who is equally attracted to both sexes and who chooses his or her next partner based solely on the fickle winds of chance mutual attraction is a 0.
I think of the top of the vertical line as a measure of how strong one's attraction feels, or how often one thinks about sex, or how often one has the urge to engage in their preferred sexual act (it's subjective and doesn't matter if one plots one's strength point for a given moment in time or for the average over a period of time). At the top, the plus 5 position, is sexual addicts and those incapable of controlling their constant sexual urges. Where the vertical meets the horizontal (the zero point) is those who are asexual and incapable of any attraction. Just above the zero point, the plus 1 position, is those who exclusively pleasure themselves (which would include iDollators).
The bottom of the vertical line is for all the paranormal innate attractions. At the bottom, the minus 5 position, is for necrophiliacs. All of the minus positions cover the range of attractions which society considers abnormal from sexual attractions to inanimate objects, BDSM, and rape.
To be accurate and complete, this graph now needs to become an xyz three-dimensional graph in order to measure fantasy versus reality. What one thinks about when one is engaging in the sexual act is important because it's the brain that's sexual, not the body. The further along the plus z line the more fantastic one's mental images are from what's currently happening to one's body (within societal "norms"). 100% focus on the sex one's body is experiencing—no fantasy—is 0; the further along the minus z line the more disparate the brain's focus is from what is currently being experienced by one's body (outside of societal "norms").
Bridge.
Mental moving snapshots with sound: My first significant other is berating me for my unwillingness to attend catholic mass. Her sharp words are intended to make me feel guilty for my lack of materialism and lack of concern for our toddler's spiritual upbringing, which is my final straw (Snap.) My second so insouciance is unbearable. No words becomes no love (Snap.) Which drives me to find my third who works toward attaining "marital tenure" and I decide, while she is on a relationship-sabbatical to locate my current love (Snap.) Now we are ten years together. Everything is as wonderful as I imagined it could be. Better, having chosen not to tolerate the bad behavior of her predecessors, who taught me what type of woman to look for and what, who, and where not to be. Bridge.
So hey. I've stopped saying "people don't choose" because some people do. Maybe a lot of people do (maybe the world is equally divided in thirds: 1/3 hetero and can't choose otherwise; 1/3 homo and can't choose otherwise; and 1/3 are attracted to both, can choose, and do...or let their government/church choose for them).
There seems to be a large quantity of fundamentalists and conservatives who use the word "choose and choice" with an definite air of certainty...maybe that's because every one of them are near the 0 point, in the middle of the horizontal axis and they've all decided to let their religious and political leaders tell them what choice to make.
The most important point is everyone should be happy with what they've got (between their ears). If you haven't yet found what makes you happy (between the sheets)...keep looking. If you aren't yet as happy as you could be (because you see others who have chosen wisely and found their happy) stop attempting to make them as unhappy as you are; misery doesn't really love company.
Today is Someday: Book 6 - The Princess Bride
This book is only like A Clockwork Orange (the second in this series of books I'd been putting off indefinitely until today) because I also postponed reading The Princess Bride because I'd already seen the movie.
It's a pretty reliable rule of thumb that if a novel spawns a really good film, said book must be equally as good. No so, I have now learned; not so at all.
William Goldman wrote this overstuffed and bloated story within a story within a story (yes, that's right three layers...and I may have miss-counted, it could be four layers, I think that is more accurate - four. Yup. Four. Four or five.)
Goldman's running joke is he abridged an obtuse novel originally read to him as a child by his father and after he fawns over his own celebrity for a while he relates that story with constant interruption by both himself and by the (fictitious) author of the (fictitious) original. And in this, the 25th Anniversary Edition, he has added another layer by beginning with a new introduction which continues the gag and ends with a new epilogue which continues the gag. Dead horse kicked = too many times.
The best thing of all was when Rob Reiner hired Goldman to write the screenplay. He does a wonderful job of abridging his abridgement. All the good parts are in the film, all the unfunny parts got left in his book, which shouldn't be on any best-of-the-best, bucket list, desert island, top 100, must read book list. The film - yes - it's fantastic. This book? No.
I hope Goldman is dead before the 35th Anniversary Edition because it will just have another layer of unfunny self-congratulatory bullshit wrapped around it.
Christopher Hitchens is 98% dead-on*
Occasionally still—albeit less and less—strangers and friends of family members ask me to explain my hatred of religion. I've never been able to be verbally succinct (I'm prone to verbose rants and tangents). And especially so when the topic is morality, religious thuggery, and the discussion turns to: there is no creator, is nothingness upon death, and (most importantly) why those facts are more comforting than any of the superstitions others claim to believe in.
Rather than debate, I'd prefer everyone watch this 90 minutes as Christopher Hitchens explains.
My largest regret: the few people I love and care for who aren't aware or self-actualized enough to grasp this simple logic and who not-only prefer their fantasies, but who say they'd be more full of bliss if only I were as deluded as they.
[I don't think further explanation is necessary...but just in case my last paragraph confuses one or more of those who it's aimed at—I don't regret any of my loved ones, nor do I regret their hatred-and-miracle-based belief systems. I do regret sharing past, present, and future oxygen with ignoble hypocrites who only interrupt their vitriol with proselytizing and feigned empathy for my soul when I'm within hand-grenade range.]
*Too soon? Why? It's waaay more than a year since he successfully committed slow suicide with alcohol and nicotine.
Rather than debate, I'd prefer everyone watch this 90 minutes as Christopher Hitchens explains.
My largest regret: the few people I love and care for who aren't aware or self-actualized enough to grasp this simple logic and who not-only prefer their fantasies, but who say they'd be more full of bliss if only I were as deluded as they.
[I don't think further explanation is necessary...but just in case my last paragraph confuses one or more of those who it's aimed at—I don't regret any of my loved ones, nor do I regret their hatred-and-miracle-based belief systems. I do regret sharing past, present, and future oxygen with ignoble hypocrites who only interrupt their vitriol with proselytizing and feigned empathy for my soul when I'm within hand-grenade range.]
Today is Someday: Book 5 — The Stranger
How does an unimportant someone like me, like anyone, describe or attempt to criticize a work of art which won the highest award by one of—if not the—most famous critic?
The same way one evaluates anything: with honesty.
This parable is about the emotionless everyman who moves through his everydays without really pondering the brevity, meaning, reasons, or value of the existence he's found himself inhabiting.
The tale begins slow, choppy, and dry (the only thing keeping the reader turning pages is the knowledge that there aren't all that many to turn and the 1957 Nobel Prize in Literature on the cover sparking a strong interest in learning how and why).
Halfway through the book, we understand the sad and simple motivations of the main character as we recognize that the supporting cast and bit-players are performing their roles in much the same way our neighbors and coworkers are performing theirs (albeit—or maybe because—there aren't any whom we empathize with...not even the mangy dog or abuse victim...everyone just deserves).
And, as the last pages approach, we learn what makes this story great.
You and I and everyone who has, is, or will ever breathe oxygen are The Stranger(s) and in this tale Camus has rather succinctly answered the most important question that has, is, or will ever be asked:
What's the meaning of life.
Today is Someday: Book 4 - A Naked Singularity
An amalgam of (as well as on) perfection—this philosophical compendium of prose, poetry, recipes for thinking, viewing, and living (as well as eating) captured my intellect and gorged it for about six-hundred pages (which would, obviously, be more-wonderful if it encompassed the entire 678 page book). The fact that the author lost me in a few places doesn't shine a shadow on the enormity of how De La Pava cleverly informs the reader through this fiction. Fiction? This is the truest creative non-fiction I've ever read! If Jonathan Carroll and Gene Wolf decided to use The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (TAAoCaC) as a template to write a story about how wonderful, crazy, terrible, and perfect any and every individual's life can be...and is...it would maybe be half as good as A Naked Singularity.
In order to fully enjoy this book (just as an interest in comic books helps one's appreciation of TAAoCaC, which won 2008's Pulitzer) readers should enjoy: a good heist; should be intrigued by—and already more than a little knowledgeable of—philosophy, theology, and science; and should be cozy with how a procedural is written (legal as well as police) . . . think: Dashiell Hammett meets Descartes on their way down the rabbit hole.
I've only had this book on my 'read someday' list for about four years. It came out in 2008. I began to see it on must-read lists sometime in 09 or 10. And I didn't just postpone reading because of its size, but - mostly - because it was, initially, self-published.
I believed (and still believe) that editors and publishers perform a valuable gatekeeper-type service. They insure my money is exchanged for polished-to-perfection sentences, grammar, punctuation, and spelling, as well as a great story, deep character development, and thrilling plot exposition. The Chicago Press may not have edited A Naked Singularity as much as they could have (or at all) but once I got past the first dozen pages, I fell into the authors voice and didn't mind the run-on sentences or the occasional failed grammar.
This is a five-star book.
Even with all its miniscule flaws, it's a head and torso better than the book that won last year's (2012) Nebula and Hugo Award, and at least half-a-head better than 2008's Pulitzer (which I couldn't finish because it bored me beyond measure).
Today is Someday: Book 3 - Franny and Zooey
This. Goddamn it. THIS was what I was hoping for.
There seems to be a growing and yet infinite amount of "Best Book" lists (one maybe might want to use the term innumerable). An aggregate collection of those best-of-the-bests now contains hundreds of books—thousands when they are spread-grouped by genre/decade/language. J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey is on almost all of them and near the top of many.
When I walk into my favorite bookstore on the planet I head straight for the Gold Room where I begin browsing the Fantasy/Science Fiction shelves and then the Action/Suspense/Thriller sections before I cross the isle to take a gander at the Mysteries; if I'ven't (is a double contraction too many?) found enough to sate my brain for the coming weeks, I try the coffee shop and scan the graphic novels before walking down a few steps to the Blue Room in order to peruse the Small Press/Literature areas. Still not carrying enough? Green Room for New Release/Non-Fiction and then Sale Books.
The first reason I've avoided reading F&Z for so long is because it was in the Red Room (World Religion) or the Blue Room (Classic Literature). Also, I have a clear economic aversion against small books because I want my entertainment money to stretch and F&Z is only a four-hour book at best.
I've avoided reading F&Z for so long because when I was but twenty-one years old Mark Chapman became, overnight and forevermore, Mark David Chapman (one maybe might want to use the term with a bullet...but should immediately suppress that urge). Chapman caused me to read my first J.D. Salinger: Catcher in the Rye. At the time and in hindsight, I recognize my own scorn at my least common denominator pandering and (for more than the obvious reason) I wish I could, instead, say that I learned the metaphor of Holden Caulfield's dream after a smoky-eyed Yugoslavian college girlfriend recommended it. The truth is rarely so. But. I didn't identify with Caulfield, or his surroundings, or life, or outlook. Even a little bit. And I was a full-time art college student at the time.
Franny and Zooey is non-abstract, photo-realistic, character based, and the most tightly descriptive successful balancing...nay juggling act I have ever read. With the complete human condition rendered perfectly in the center, unchallengeable objective knowledge solidly detailed on one end of the fulcrum, and spiritual belief critically explained on the other. It gets my highest recommendation. I'm really happy today was someday.
There seems to be a growing and yet infinite amount of "Best Book" lists (one maybe might want to use the term innumerable). An aggregate collection of those best-of-the-bests now contains hundreds of books—thousands when they are spread-grouped by genre/decade/language. J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey is on almost all of them and near the top of many.
When I walk into my favorite bookstore on the planet I head straight for the Gold Room where I begin browsing the Fantasy/Science Fiction shelves and then the Action/Suspense/Thriller sections before I cross the isle to take a gander at the Mysteries; if I'ven't (is a double contraction too many?) found enough to sate my brain for the coming weeks, I try the coffee shop and scan the graphic novels before walking down a few steps to the Blue Room in order to peruse the Small Press/Literature areas. Still not carrying enough? Green Room for New Release/Non-Fiction and then Sale Books.
The first reason I've avoided reading F&Z for so long is because it was in the Red Room (World Religion) or the Blue Room (Classic Literature). Also, I have a clear economic aversion against small books because I want my entertainment money to stretch and F&Z is only a four-hour book at best.
I've avoided reading F&Z for so long because when I was but twenty-one years old Mark Chapman became, overnight and forevermore, Mark David Chapman (one maybe might want to use the term with a bullet...but should immediately suppress that urge). Chapman caused me to read my first J.D. Salinger: Catcher in the Rye. At the time and in hindsight, I recognize my own scorn at my least common denominator pandering and (for more than the obvious reason) I wish I could, instead, say that I learned the metaphor of Holden Caulfield's dream after a smoky-eyed Yugoslavian college girlfriend recommended it. The truth is rarely so. But. I didn't identify with Caulfield, or his surroundings, or life, or outlook. Even a little bit. And I was a full-time art college student at the time.
Franny and Zooey is non-abstract, photo-realistic, character based, and the most tightly descriptive successful balancing...nay juggling act I have ever read. With the complete human condition rendered perfectly in the center, unchallengeable objective knowledge solidly detailed on one end of the fulcrum, and spiritual belief critically explained on the other. It gets my highest recommendation. I'm really happy today was someday.
Today is Someday: Book 2 - A Clockwork Orange
Today is Someday: Book 1 - Watership Down
Today is Someday - Book 2 A Clockwork Orange
I'm pleased with the 50th anniversary edition of Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange (2012, Nolton & Co) not only because it includes the original last chapter which has been omitted from earlier US editions, but—more importantly—because it contains the 17-page nonfiction article, The Clockwork Condition, written after the Kubrick film catapulted Burgess onto the international stage in 1973.Burgess's nadsat 'teen-language' caused me to quit reading this book when I, myself, first attempted it as a teenager and, later, after I saw the film, I chose not to re-attempt reading it.
I'm glad I (finally) chose to read it. Reading nadsat seemed to speed my reading rather than slow it. It entered my brain in this manner:
My nouns and I were verbing at the adjective bar when an adjective noun, who'd previously been sitting with a group of rather odd adjective nouns across the bar from us, stood, and began to sing in the most adverbially adjective way imaginable. Her voice sounded like it came from the adjective noun. My friend Dim made a adjectively-noun noise with his noun, which displeased me in an extreme way.Rather quickly I began to intuit (without a glossary) that what I was reading was:
My friends and I were getting stoned at the local bar when a beautiful woman, who'd previously been sitting with a group of rather odd older men across the bar from us, stood, and began to sing in the most amagingly wonderful way imaginable. Her voice sounded like it came from the topmost heavens. My friend Dim made a rude-raspberry noise with his lips, which displeased me in an extreme way.While the book's story adheres to the film's plotline reasonably close, there are a few important points where the film failed and those failures affect the intent of the author and deserve comment:
1 - Burgess's teenage gangs are all between the ages of thirteen and fifteen. Burgess's main character is in High School and the two girls he picks up at the music store are 11-year old tweens. Kubrick's gangs are all young adults and so are the women he has sex with.
2 - Burgess's main character spends several years in prison, but is still only about 17-years old when he's released from prison. Kubrick's character seems to be incarcerated a very short time and when he is released we wonder why a 24-year old is bitching at his parents for renting out his room.
There is nothing to see or hear except what is not here to see
Sometimes it's more important to note the absences, what's missing, than to focus on what is visibly present.
In 2002, within a few short months of each other, I stopped investigating and stopped husbanding after twenty years and ten years of service, respectfully. That was the year I let my hair down for the first time in my life (literally as well as figuratively).
Before I retired, my latter years as a military investigator was spent supervising (an essential element of which was inspecting case files). One way to review closed criminal cases is to look for what the first-echelon investigators and supervisors overlooked.
Example criminal case: accident or suicide - after ingesting a relatively large quantity of intoxicants (legal and illegal) the victim apparently disrobed, placed his folded clothes on the hallway floor outside his hotel room, opened the window and stepped out (or fell, or was pushed). The scene (in Amsterdam, Holland, The Netherlands) was described, sketched and photographed in detail. Witnesses were interviewed thoroughly. Autopsy, check. Toxicology, check.
The only important thing I discovered missing: the height fallen. Nowhere in the file was there a distance from the second floor windowsill to the sidewalk. Added confusion: the European second floor is the third floor in the US (the ground floor in Amsterdam is 0). The investigators and their immediate supervisors failed to determine how far the victim/subject fell. [Based on examination of crime scene photographs, I estimated it was over thirty feet—because "ground floor" was, maybe, half a flight of steps above "street level" and ceiling-heights appeared almost three meters high—but, guessing is not investigating. I directed the investigators to go back and measure/document the exact distance.]
"Why drive three hours to measure that distance, Chief, seems like a extreme waste of time and money for a closed accidental fatality case."
I looked sternly at the investigator while I "air typed" with my fingers, "Dear Senator Helpmeout, my son's death is listed under 'accidental means' and the file, which I obtained under a FOIA request, says he 'stepped or jumped' out of a 'second-story window'. My son was a good boy and I do not think that he would have voluntarily taken all the drugs listed in the toxicology report, but even if he did, how is it possible for him to have died falling from a second story window? I could jump out of my bedroom window - on the second story of our house - and the worse thing that would happen is I might sprain my ankle."
Non-sequitur:
Most people let their hair down when they first move out of their parent's house. I didn't. With never a pause, I morphed from overly responsible teenager putting himself through college to young soldier taking care of an unplanned family to adult with two cats in the yard and we'll get-together then, son, you know we'll have a good time then. So...when I found myself retired and single in Prescott, Arizona at the age of 42...I dove head-first into a auto-didactic double major of meditative self-awareness and immersion in nature. During which, I experimented with—among other things; some foolish, others less-so—automatic writing.
With my eyes closed, in a light meditative state, I spoke questions aloud and my hand scribbled answers on a large sheet of paper. After a large much of nothing memorable the following happened:
Me: How old will I be when I die?
My right hand (eyes still closed): Fifty three.
Me: What day of the year will I die?
My right hand (eyes still closed): 31 December.
Even at the time I never paid much heed to it. Over the past decade, I mentioned it, jokingly, a few times when a conversation topic turned to "weird experiences."
Around 2007, when the 21 December 2012 Myan-apocalypse began to hit fringe people's radar, I - again - recalled my own faux-ominous date o' death based on nothing but my own foolishness. One which was, then, supposed to be 31 Dec 2012.
That was a week ago, and all of our heads, including my own, are still snapping.
I'm fine.
How you doin?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I am attempting to point out that we all rarely pay attention to the obvious, staring-us-in-the-face, always present thing-on-our-mind, which is (may be) not thought about very often.
We would-maybe-kinda like to know when we are going to die.
We always consider it will happen sometime in the future. And not just the future. Distant future. Ten years from now. At least. We assume that it will happen when we are old. And we never think we are old. Not old enough to die of old age.
We all always assume: 'tomorrow will be another day'.
We rarely consider that tomorrow could be the last day. And we don't focus on the idea that when our last day arrives, just like yesterday arrived—that it will almost always be unknown that it is the last day. Period. The end of the world, from our perspective, is the end. Full stop.
Even as we are falling thirty-five feet to our seconds-away demise, hope I don't sprain my ankle from this second floor window is our minds last.
Open Letter to Senator Wyden
Dear Senator Wyden,
My suggestion is for a new national law which would immediately employ over a million people in 48 states. Because this suggested new law wouldn't effect our state or the state of New Jersey, I think this bill should be co-sponored by someone like Senator Menendez (D, NJ).
Using the Emergency Highway Energy Conservation Act of 1974 as a template, and incorporating sunset provisions (for no shorter than five years) I suggest a bill which would duplicate ORS480.315 making self-service gas stations illegal nation-wide.
Additional suggested requirements which should be included in the bill (which would affect Oregon and NJ):
- Require a dispensing license (which will have a fee which is similar to an alcohol certification or a food preparation license). This training can be made available online, but could only be issued in person (by a licensed gasoline retailer) to US citizens who are at least 18 years old. (The purpose of the law is to employ out-of-work adults, not high school students and illegal immigrants.)
- Require each State Fire Marshal to employ additional Inspectors, funded by the additional fees and fines.
There are many safety and equality justifications cited as to why full-service may be better than self, but I suggest this new national law only be proposed in order to quickly employ a large quantity of Americans. I estimate this law would employ between 1.2 and 1.8 million people.
Obviously, all—or almost all—of these employees would be minimum-wage, less-than-full-time, non-benefit, employees. And, also obviously, the fuel distribution companies would raise the cost of gas and pass the added cost to the end-consumer (I estimate that the cost of gas would increase between 10 and 15 cents a gallon). None the less, the added jobs would definitely spur spending and grow our economy at a time when it is most needed.
My quick calculations indicate there would be about 240,000 gas stations affected.
I've been wondering, for some years now, about the incessant "job creation speechifying." I think if this new law were proposed by an Oregon Senator, he would be seen as proposing a fix which (because it would have no direct benefit in his state and was only an attempt to improve the national economy) would quickly employ millions of Americans.
I hope my suggestion is of some use.
Veach Glines
My suggestion is for a new national law which would immediately employ over a million people in 48 states. Because this suggested new law wouldn't effect our state or the state of New Jersey, I think this bill should be co-sponored by someone like Senator Menendez (D, NJ).
Using the Emergency Highway Energy Conservation Act of 1974 as a template, and incorporating sunset provisions (for no shorter than five years) I suggest a bill which would duplicate ORS480.315 making self-service gas stations illegal nation-wide.
Additional suggested requirements which should be included in the bill (which would affect Oregon and NJ):
- Require a dispensing license (which will have a fee which is similar to an alcohol certification or a food preparation license). This training can be made available online, but could only be issued in person (by a licensed gasoline retailer) to US citizens who are at least 18 years old. (The purpose of the law is to employ out-of-work adults, not high school students and illegal immigrants.)
- Require each State Fire Marshal to employ additional Inspectors, funded by the additional fees and fines.
There are many safety and equality justifications cited as to why full-service may be better than self, but I suggest this new national law only be proposed in order to quickly employ a large quantity of Americans. I estimate this law would employ between 1.2 and 1.8 million people.
Obviously, all—or almost all—of these employees would be minimum-wage, less-than-full-time, non-benefit, employees. And, also obviously, the fuel distribution companies would raise the cost of gas and pass the added cost to the end-consumer (I estimate that the cost of gas would increase between 10 and 15 cents a gallon). None the less, the added jobs would definitely spur spending and grow our economy at a time when it is most needed.
My quick calculations indicate there would be about 240,000 gas stations affected.
I've been wondering, for some years now, about the incessant "job creation speechifying." I think if this new law were proposed by an Oregon Senator, he would be seen as proposing a fix which (because it would have no direct benefit in his state and was only an attempt to improve the national economy) would quickly employ millions of Americans.
I hope my suggestion is of some use.
Veach Glines
Dangerous Artists?
Although this banner is riddled with wrong on many levels, it is that very fact which explains why people are drawn to it.This is not an actual poster from the McCarthy-era (a claim made by the type of individuals who also choose to think that contrails are chemtrails and be-damned with hot exhaust/cold atmosphere physics).
Artists don't mix. They certainly are a part of all of human society no matter how one decides to pigeonhole or categorize, but—mostly—creative types don't mix very well. We try, dammit, but we don't often succeed.
Creative people want to be perceived as out-beyond-the-edge and as non-conformists. And those who are driven to create would absolutely love to wear the label: most dangerous. However, every artist I've ever known is no more threatening than a drifting cloud of condensed water vapor.
Today is Someday: Book 1 - Watership Down
This is the first book in my Today is Someday series. I'd hoped
to like this more than I did and I hope the next should-already-have-read-classic is better. A few more like this one and my list will quickly relapse back into I'm Fine With Tomorrow Being Someday.I first failed to read Watership Down in High School (at that time it had been around for only a few years and was assigned reading). I could only get through a few chapters back then and wrote a paper from the cliff notes...as I occasionally did when I was fifteen.
Now, I can truthfully say I've read it. I've lied to myself and others for almost forty years.
The plot was interesting. The suspense was deftly handled. The characters are wonderfully solid. But...the author was not able to always keep me in the story (as I believe is the job of good authors).
Violations of proper grammar abound. Odd, clunky, and irritating changes in tone and point of view continually throw the reader off the page. First person becomes third person singular switches to third person dual which slides into omniscient and then quickly shifts to detached. It feels like two dozen short stories instead of a 24-chapter book (which made more sense to me after I read the introduction, which I did after reading the book because whenever a forty year old book contains a 'new introduction' it most-probably contains spoilers).
Then there is this type of constant foolishness:
"I need to clearly explain my dissatisfaction," Veach thought. "But I wonder what would be a good way to do that?"
"There are some problems which could easily have been fixed with a good editor," Veach said. "Because. Of all the many ways to smoothly mix a character's thoughts and dialogue this, dear reader, is definitely not one of them."
Jesus Henry Christ - review (☆☆☆☆)
Although Wes Anderson had no part in the production of this film, the director—Dennis Lee—is to Wes Anderson as Blind Melon is to Led Zeppelin.Jesus Henry Christ is one of those 'hidden gem' feel-good films that (unfortunate for those who enjoy intelligently scripted, well-acted, films on the big screen) slipped in-to and out-of theaters almost a year ago without notice...mine, yours, or anyone else's. It's now available on all home-viewing formats. To miss it now is nobody's downloadable fault but your own.
It's not as whack-a-doodle as a Wes Anderson, but in many places it looks, feels, and sounds so much like a Royal... Aquatic... duck... (named Rush) that one may desire to pause the film and check IMDB to determine if, maybe, Mr Anderson was some kind of Producer (He was not, Julia Roberts was).
also don't continue to avoid:
Stop blowing smoke up my ass!
The first time I heard 'Are you trying to blow smoke up my ass?' was in this context:
Drill Sergeant: What's wrong with you private? You failed to accomplish a simple task! Why?!
Private: I thought you said, "place all open liquids in the trash can," Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: (holding a green plastic bottle at eye level) What is this, Private?
Private: Shampoo, Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: Is it a half-empty bottle of shampoo, Private?
Private: Yes sir.Drill Sergeant: WHAT?
Private: Yes... Drill Sergeant!
Drill Sergeant: Why is it not in the can, Private?
Private: Because it's... I didn't think it was... liquid.
Drill Sergeant: Is it a gas?
Private: (starts to shake his head) N...
Drill Sergeant: Is it SOLID?
Private: (still shaking his head) no...
Drill Sergeant: Then what?!
Private: A.. a.. gel. Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: Are you trying to blow smoke up my ass?
Private: n... No, Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: (twisting the top off of the bottle) cup your hands in front of you, Private.
(At this point the Private placed his cupped palms together in front of his belt.)
Drill Sergeant: (peering closely at the side and front of the Private's face as if he were looking for the smallest flaw, or eye movement, or shift from the position of attention) PALMS UP! Are you an idiot, Private?
Private: No, Drill Sergeant!
Drill Sergeant: (tipping the bottle over the Private's hands) We. Will. See. Private. We will see.
(At this point the shampoo began to ooze out of the bottle and coat the Private's hands.)
Drill Sergeant: Does this feel like a glob of gel has fallen into your hands? Or. Does this feel like a liquid is pouring into your hands?
Private: A.. a liquid. Drill Sergeant. Sorry, Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: So you were trying to blow smoke up my ass, weren't you?
Private: No Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: (pointing) Go in that latrine. Wash the liquid soap off your hands. And get back in my formation. You have thirty seconds. GO!
(At this point the Drill Sergeant handed the bottle and cap to another Private in our formation and directed him to dispose of the bottle and return to the formation.)
Drill Sergeant: It appears that my instructions were unclear. ALL liquids are prohibited in my barracks. All medications OF ANY KIND are prohibited in my barracks. I asked if there were questions, got none, and - yet - I still found a liquid. On the command of move, you all will have another FULL MINUTE to search your belongings for liquids and medicines, dispose of them in the center trash bin, and return to the position of attention in formation. MOVE!!
(At this point some soldiers began to scramble again and more bottles of various types were thrown away. The Private returned from the latrine and the Drill Sergeant began to holler at him about the mess he made by dripping shampoo on the floor and the latrine door. The private then wiped up the drips with paper towels.)
Drill Sergeant: (over the sound of the Private counting off his push-ups) You ALL better be back in my formation by NOW! If I find ONE more liquid, or ANY medicine of ANY kind, that means you're ALL blowing smoke up my ASS!
(Three duffle bags later he found a small bottle of saline solution for soft contacts. We all began to do push ups, until it was time to do squat-thrusts, until it was time to do wish-bones, until it was time to do more push-ups.)
It is nice to know the (supposedly true) origin of the phrase. I must admit I find it difficult to take this explanation 100% seriously; even after seeing the actual device and seeing the old drawings. It's too easy to fabricate an item and fake the explanation for me to swallow anything this far fetched hook-line-and-sinker (as it were).
I have used the phrase in it's bastardized form of either "I-think-you-are-being-less-than-truthful" as well as "Stop-using-foolishly-overt-flattery-because-it-isn't-working".
Until today, if someone were to tell me about an old British custom of reviving drowned people by blowing smoke up their ass...I would have replied: "Do you believe it was a real custom? If so, I think you are blowing smoke up my ass."
But—ever willing to play devil's advocate—why be so positive it doesn't work? Just because it sounds like a bag of leeches?
I've heard about butt-chugging. I've read how Marlyn Monroe insured her last suicide attempt was successful. Is it possible that a gust of nicotine absorbed through the rectum will cause someone who just inhaled a few cups of water to violently cough?
WOOL by Hugh Howey - review (☆☆☆☆)
This is a first for me: a 540 page, self-published SF book that's
can't-put-it-down good. I plan to immediately hunt for more Hugh Howey
books.To accurately review this book I need to explain why it was not 5-star 'amazing' and only 4-star 'really liked it'. Simply put: for a novel to get my highest rating it needs to stir emotions and my intelligence. The first current-day author who comes to mind (who always does both) is Patrick Rothfuss.
PROS: The milieu in WOOL is expertly described and imaginatively revealed. Every character is rendered with finesse; we quickly care about these characters. The story unfolds at the right speed...the reader figures out what will come next just a bit before the characters do. The grammar is flawless. The plot exposition is perfect with a great beginning, an informative middle, and an explosive third act.
CONS: Even with a large variety of death on display, WOOL isn't gory, gritty, or dark and it is barbie-and-ken asexual. The target audience is pre-teens and teens; adults will like this book as much as they liked Harry Potter, but they'll quickly recognize that—other than the thrill of suspense—it doesn't make you laugh or cry or shudder or...you get the gist. Also, at no point did I learn a new way of thinking about an old idea, let alone anything novel. In fact, there's a massive flaw in the physics around page 400. If the author did any research on scuba diving he could have fixed it with a few added sentences (and, thus, proof that editors and first-draft readers are valuable).
KIND OF A SPOILER: Note to Mr Howey - Air, trapped in a flexible container under water, is compressed by the weight of the water. As that container rises to the surface the air expands. Under hundreds of feet of water the air will expand exponentially when surfacing. (Juliette's suit would have exploded as she surfaced quickly and if she weren't continually exhaling her lungs would have exploded too).
For me, the Pros massively outweigh the Cons. This would make a great holiday gift for any young fan of Speculative Fiction (and especially those who like post-apocalyptic SF).
Dishonored Review (☆☆☆+)
I completed all of this game's nine-levels in 25 hours. My style of gameplay was stealthy and I enjoy searching for—and finding—hidden treasures. I suspect an aggressive gamer might complete the game in less than 15 hours.
This game is only worth about $15. For a new sixty dollar game to be considered good-to-great (four or five stars) it should take someone like me no less than one hundred hours to complete and an aggressive gamer no less than sixty hours start-to-finish.
Also, unfortunately, there are no mini-games or puzzles in DISHONORED. It isn't a bad game. I enjoyed playing it. It's just not worth the price.
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