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Sunlight Through The Shadows
Volume II, Issue 8 August 1st, 1994
Welcome........................................Joe DeRouen
Editorial: Love and Rockets.................L. Shawn Aiken
Staff of STTS.............................................
Special Survey for STTS Readers - Now offering prizes!....
Monthly Prize Giveaway Details............................
Special News Regarding STTS and the Internet..............
>> --------------- Monthly Columns ---------------------<<
STTS Mailbag..............................................
The Question & Answers Session............................
My View: Baseball..........................Thomas Van Hook
????????????? Advertisement-Channel 1 BBS
>> --------------- Feature Articles --------------------<<
Confusion in the Courts.....................L. Shawn Aiken
STTS Survey Results............................Joe DeRouen
? Advertisement-Exec-PC BBS
>> ------------------- Reviews -------------------------<<
(Software) CD-ROM Selector................Louis Turbeville
(Movie) The Mask.............................Bruce Diamond
(Movie) The Client...........................Bruce Diamond
(Movie) Capsule Movie Reviews................Bruce Diamond
(Music) Under the Pink/Tori Amos.............Andee SoRelle
(Music) Speak of the Devil/O. Osbourne.....Thomas Van Hook
(Book) From the Teeth of Angels/J. Carroll....Joe DeRouen
? Advertisement-T&J Software
>> ------------------- Fiction -------------------------<<
Bubbles.....................................Franchot Lewis
Oldest Man on Planet..............................Ed Davis
If I Could Talk to the Aliens................Bruce Diamond
? Advertisement-Chrysalis BBS
>> ------------------- Poetry --------------------------<<
The Splendid Mosque of St. Sophia..........Daniel Sendecki
Untitled............................................Tamara
Forgive Me.....................................J. Guenther
Aegean.....................................Mark L. Denslow
? Advertisement-Texas Talk BBS
>> ------------------- Humour --------------------------<<
Top Ten List...................................Joe DeRouen
The Write Stuff..............................Bruce Diamond
The New Bill of Rights......................Author Unknown
>> --------------- Advertisements ----------------------<<
Channel 1 BBS
Exec-PC BBS
T&J Software
Chrysalis BBS
Texas Talk
>> ----------------- Information -----------------------<<
How to get STTS Magazine..................................
** SPECIAL OFFER!! **.....................................
Submission Information & Pay Rates........................
Advertiser Information (Businesses & Personal)............
Contact Points............................................
Distribution Sites........................................
Distribution Via Networks.................................
End Notes......................................Joe DeRouen
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??????????????????????????????????????? Fiction, Humour, Features,
??????????????????????????????????????? Poetry, and Reviews
???????????????????????????????????????
??????????????????????????????????????? Each and every month!
???????????????????????????????????????
??????????????????????????????????????? ????????????????????????????
??????????????????????????????????????? ? Joe DeRouen, Publisher ?
??????????????????????????????????????? ? L. Shawn Aiken, Asst. Ed ?
? ??? ? ? ?
? ??? ? ? Heather DeRouen ?
? ? ? Bruce Diamond ?
? ? ? Tamara ?
??????????????????????????????????????? ????????????????????????????
Welcome
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Welcome to Sunlight Through The Shadows magazine! In this issue, as well
as in the future, STTS will strive to bring you the best in fiction,
poetry, reviews, article, and other assorted reading material.
STTS Magazine has no general "theme" aside from good writing, innovative
concepts, and the unique execution of those concepts.
STTS wouldn't have been possible without the aid, support, and guidance
of three women:
Inez Harrison, publisher of Poetry In Motion newsletter. Her's was the
first electronic magazine I ever laid eyes upon, and also the first such
magazine to publish my work. She's given me advice, and, more
importantly, inspiration.
Lucia Chambers, publisher of Smoke & Mirrors Elec. Magazine and head of
Pen & Brush Network. She gave me advice on running a magazine,
encouragement, and hints as to the kind of people to look for in
writers.
Heather DeRouen, my wife. Listed last here, but always first in my
heart. She's proofread manuscripts, inspired me, listened to me, and,
most importantly, loved me. Never could I find a better woman to live
life by my side, nor a better friend.
Now that that's said and done... Again, welcome to Sunlight Through The
Shadows Magazine! I hope you enjoy it.
Joe DeRouen
Editorial Introduction
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
With this issue, STTS welcome regularly contributing writer and staff
member L. Shawn Aiken to the position of Assistant Editor. As you'll
note when you read Shawn's editorial (below) we haven't quite hammered
out exactly what it is he'll do as asst. ed, but I'm sure STTS will be
all the better for having him control a bit of it's destiny.
This month, I'll turn over the editorial space to him. In months to
come, this space will alternate as situation and time permit.
Love and Rockets
Copyright (c) 1994, L. Shawn Aiken
All rights reserved
Love and Rockets
by
L. Shawn Aiken
I suppose I should introduce myself. L. Shawn Aiken here, but you
can call me Shawn. I'm the new Assistant Editor for STTS. I don't even
know where the ropes are around here, much less learn them, but I suppose
Joe will eventually get around to telling me.
The real reason for me writing this isn't to introduce myself. I
just had a shock. Suddenly I realized that STTS didn't really mention
something important in the July issue - the anniversary of the Apollo moon
landing on the twentieth of the month. Okay, perhaps you don't understand
my vehemence. Let me explain.
I recently read an article about the anniversary. The writer said
that he was at the Cape reporting on the launch back in '69, and he was
sitting next to Arthur C. Clarke, author of 2001: A Space Odyssey. The
rocket lifted off and he looked over to Mr. Clarke and was flabbergasted to
see tears rolling down his cheeks. YES! I screamed. That's it!
Perhaps normal people don't understand. You see a rocket on the pad.
The countdown comes to a close. It ignites. Red hot fire spews out the back
and tons of metal race off into the sky. And the tears come.
It could be any rocket. Heck, it doesn't even have to be carrying
people. It's just got to go up. It's weird. Of course, the more important
the payload, the more tears. You try to hold them in around people.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
The feeling - it's like "OH GOD YES! IT'S UP! JESUS, IT'S UP!"
It's like we are suppose to be up there. We NEED to be up there. It
doesn't matter if it's the Russians, or the Chinese, or hey, even the French.
It's like a overwhelming, indescribable joy mixed with something bittersweet
that I still can't actually identify.
Perhaps it's understandable with people like Arthur C. Clarke. He's
been writing science fiction for ages. He invented the communication
satellite. His insights into space were so profound that Skylab astronauts
even jury-rigged a centrifugal running track that he envisioned in 2001.
Mr. Clarke waited all of his life to see that rocket go up. The tears were
justifiable.
But me, hey, I wasn't even born when they rode the first rocket to
the moon. Three months later I finally arrived on the scene. But I look
back on that old footage and it hits like a sledgehammer, and always the
same. It's overwhelming.
My first space memory was the Apollo-Solyuz rendezvous. I'm not
sure when that was, but it was pretty early in my life. And it had a
profound effect. We were doing things in space. Interesting things. But I
never really wanted to be an astronaut. I'm sure I could never keep my mind
on work up there. Sure, I wanted to go up there and visit, and hey, maybe
live if I had the chance. But until NASA learns to sell itself to the
public, I don't see it really happening in my lifetime.
That doesn't really bother me personally. I'm just happy that we
maintain a presence up there. Although, I'd be a lot happier if we
maintained an even bigger presence.
It all seems like a dream now, doesn't it? Within ten years of
deciding to go to the moon, we were there. Think about what it was like
back then. When we decided, we hadn't even sent anyone into space. We
didn't know anything about it. Our society had only recently entered the
atomic age. They didn't even have computers back then. Real computers, I
mean. Think about it. The lunar lander's computer had 16K. The computer
I'm writing this on is pretty primitive - only 640K of RAM. That's 40 times
what old Neil had in the Eagle! The barbaric, primitive dark ages of the 60s
somehow sent three men 250,000 miles to a distant planet and back again. A
half million mile trip. And only 67 years before we had just learned to fly.
Of course we can't go back now. The bulk of our space industry is
wrapped up in keeping the shuttle fleet aloft. And we are going to strain
ourselves getting the space station built. We can't afford such things
anymore. The whole world is going to help having to get Freedom up. And
perhaps that's how it should be. Us working together instead of fighting.
Freedom will be another tear-jerker too. All of those shuttles going up
with the parts. And that last shuttle loaded with the finishing touches.
Oh dear.
I never really wondered if there were other people like me. I
just figured it was a fluke. But now that I hear of Mr. Clarke's tearful
episode, I wonder. I suppose there must be. We wouldn't be up there if
there weren't.
The Staff and Contributing Writers of Sunlight Through The Shadows
------------------------------------------------------------------
The Staff
---------
Joe DeRouen............................Publisher and Editor
L. Shawn Aiken.........................Assistant Editor
Heather DeRouen........................Book Reviews
Bruce Diamond..........................Movie Reviews
Tamara.................................House Poet
Joe DeRouen publishes, edits, and writes for STTS magazine. He's had
poetry and fiction published in several on-line magazines and a few
paper publications as well. He's written exactly 1.5 novels, none of
which, alas, have seen the light of publication. He attends college
part-time in search of that always-elusive english degree. In his
spare time, he enjoys reading, running his BBS, collecting music,
playing with his five cats, singing opera, hunting pseudopods, and
most importantly spending time with his beautiful wife Heather.
L. Shawn Aiken dropped out of college when he realized that they
couldn't teach him the two things he wanted to do; live successfully,
and write. He had to find out these things all by himself on the
road. Thus he became a road scholar. After spending his life hopping
country to country, state to state, he now feels confident in his
abilities and is working on his literary career. His main endevour is
to become successful in the speculative fiction area, but he enjoys
writing all forms of literary art.
Heather DeRouen writes software for the healthcare industry, CoSysOps
Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS, enjoys playing with her five cats,
cross-stitching, and reading. Most of all, she enjoys spending time
with her dapper, charming, witty, and handsome (not to mention modest)
husband Joe. Heather's help towards editing and proofreading this
magazine has been immeasurable.
Bruce Diamond, part-time pseudopod and ruler of a small island chain
off the coast of Chil?, spends his time imitating desk lamps when he
isn't watching and critiquing movies for LIGHTS OUT, his BBS movie
review publication (now syndicated to over 20 boards). Recently,
Bruce became the monthly movie critic for VALLEY REVIEW MAGAZINE,
published out of Pennsylvania. LIGHTS OUT, now two years old, is
available through the Rime or P&B Networks by dropping a note to
Joe DeRouen, courtesy of Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS. The
magazine will soon be available through Fido file request and
Internet FTP. In the Dallas area, Bruce's distributor is Jay
Gaines' BBS AMERICA (214-994-0093). Bruce is a freelance writer
and video producer in the Dallas/Fort Worth area.
There is very little known about Tamara, and she prefers to let it
remain that way. She's a woman of mystery and prefers to remain hidden
in the shadows of the BBS world. (Enigmatic, don't you think?)
Contributing Writers
--------------------
Ed Davis...............................Fiction
Mark L. Denslow........................Poetry
J. Guenther............................Poetry
Daniel Sendecki........................Fiction, Poetry
Andee SoRelle..........................Music Review
Louis Turbeville.......................Software Reviews
Thomas Van Hook........................My View, Music Review
Ed Davis has been scribbling seriously or has at least enjoyed the
electronic equivalent, since 1981. Prior to that, his literary efforts
were confined to whatever scrap paper he could find on a work bench at
break or lunch time, since he was spending his working hours making
chips and money in the guise of a Journeyman Machinist. Married to
the same lady for 26 years and with two children still hovering
uncomfortably close to the nest, Ed continues to write down his
thoughts electronically. Check out the file NEWBOOK.ZIP, available
from STTS BBS, for more of his work.
Mark Denslow is a student at Saint Chrles Borromeo Seminary in the
Religious Studies Division in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is
working toward his Cerificate in Religious Studies and Roman
Chatechetical Diploma. He hopes to be admitted to their Master of Arts
Degree Program after completing the Cerificate and Diploma. He enjoys
Poetry, Genealogy, Computing, and Religion.
Grant Guenther, sometimes known as J. Guenther, confesses to be from a
long-lost Martian colony, but in-depth investigations reveals that he
was born and raised in a small but well-to-do community called
Hartland in Wisconsin. A senior, he has written several collections
of poems, and won many awards from his high school literary magazine,
including 1st place for poetry and short-short fiction. He is the
editor-in-chief of the school newspaper and writes as a humor
columnist (or at least he thinks so).
Daniel Sendecki is a young, emerging, Canadian writer who lives
in Burlington, Ontario. Currently, Daniel is pursuing his writing
interests at home but intends to study literature at McGill
University, in Montreal, Quebec.
Andee SoRelle is a visual artist working in both paint and clay.
She lives in the Dallas, Texas area and enjoys BBSing, (of course!)
music, film, and kvetching about her day job.
Louis Turbeville currently works as a computer analyst for the Air
Force. He's originally from Hawaii (about an 1/8 Hawaiian <everyone
seems to ask>) and has a BBA in Management Information Systems from the
University of Hawaii. Louis is married and has a two year old son who
keeps him busy, especially when he wants to sit at the computer and
write. His interest in writing was nurtured by his wife, a journalism
and english major who's yet to be published and holds this very much
against Louis. <G> He's had a couple of reviews published on
WindowsOnLine Review Magazine and hopes to broaden his base of published
media in the near future.
Author Unknown (oddly enough, his real name) has had several stories,
poems, novels, plays, and pieces of artwork published throughout the
world dating back to the dawn of man. So far, he hasn't received one
red cent in royalties.
Thomas D. Van Hook, sargeant in the USAF and part time demigod, is
stationed somewhere in northern Europe. Due to the many warrants out
for his arrest and psychotic acquaintances, he has asked that his
precise location be kept anonymous. He and his wife Kathy spend much
of their free time investing in the diaper industry due to a tiny
Elfling that was laid upon their doorstep....recently dubbed Corey.
In an effort to escape such bondage, Tommy has taken to haunting
various castle- ruins, playing tag-you're it with certain ugly porcine
creatures, reading SF and gracing his friends with poetry. His poetic
style is marked with a characteristic honesty and directness that
ranges from the dark and brooding to startling reflections of life.
STTS Survey
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Please fill out the following survey. This article is duplicated in the
ZIP archive as SURVEY.TXT. If you're reading this on-line and haven't
access to that file, please do a screen capture of this article and
fill it out that way. If all else fails, just write your answers down
(on paper or in an ASCII file) and include the question's number beside
your answer.
Everyone who answers the survey will have their name placed in a hat
and, at the start of the following month, we'll draw a name to receive a
special prize. Check out the Monthly Prize Giveaway article (from the
main menu) for more details.
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1. Name: _____________________________________________________________
2. Mailing address: __________________________________________________
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3. Date of birth: (Mm/Dd/YYyy) _______________________________________
4. Sex: ______________________________________________________________
5. Where did you read/download this copy of STTS Magazine? (Include BBS
and BBS number, please)
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6. Do you prefer to read STTS while on-line or download it to read
at your own convenience? ( ) On-Line ( ) Download
7. Are you a SysOp? ( ) Yes ( ) No (if "No", skip to 10)
8. If so, what is your BBS name, number, baud rate?
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9. Do you currently carry STTS Mag?
( ) Yes ( ) No ( ) I don't carry it, but I want to
I carry STTS: ( ) On-Line, ( ) For Download, ( ) or Both
10. What do you enjoy the MOST about STTS Mag?
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11. What do you enjoy LEAST about STTS Mag?
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12. Please rate the following parts of STTS on a scale of 1-10, 10 being
excellent and 1 being awful. (if no opinion, X)
Fiction ___ Poetry ___ Movie reviews ___
Book reviews ___ CD Reviews ___ Feature Articles ___
Software reviews --- Humour --- Top Ten List ---
Question&Answers ___ Editorial ___ ANSI Coverart ___
MonsterBBSReview --- My View --- STTS BBS News ---
RIP Coverart ___ Misc. Info ---
13. What would you like to see (or see more of) in future issues
of STTS Mag?
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Return the survey to me via any of the following options:
A) Pen & Brush Net - A PRIVATE, ROUTED message to JOE DEROUEN at site
->5320, in any conference.
B) RIME Net - A PRIVATE, ROUTED message to JOE DEROUEN at site ->5320,
in either the COMMON or SUNLIGHT THROUGH THE SHADOWS MAGAZINE
conference.
C) WME Net - A PRIVATE message to JOE DEROUEN in the NET CHAT
conference.
D) Internet - Send a message containing your complete survey to
Joe.DeRouen@Chrysalis.org
E) My BBS - (214) 629-8793 24 hrs. a day 1200-14,000 baud. Upload the
file SURVEY.TXT (change the name first! Change it to something like
the first eight digits of your last name (or less, if your name
doesn't have eight digits) and the ext of .SUR) Immediate access is
gained to my system via filling out the new user questionnaire.
F) U.S. Postal Service - Send the survey either printed out or on a disk
to: Joe DeRouen
3910 Farmville Dr. # 144
Dallas, Tx. 75244
Sunlight Through The Shadows Monthly Prize Giveaway
Each month, STTS magazine will be giving away a prize. The prizes will
range from registered versions of popular shareware packages to Compact
Discs, to a year subscription (via a disk mailed to you) to STTS
On-Line! In other words, you never know what we'll be giving away next!
If the prize is shareware/software, unless otherwise noted, the
versions available will be IBM compatible only. If another version
is available, we'll make a note of that and ask you to let us know what
system you have.
To enter, please answer the survey located elsewhere in this issue.
If you're reading it offline, edit the file SURVEY.TXT with an ASCII
word processor, fill it out, and send it in one of the many ways
listed. If you're reading it online, do a screen capture of the STTS
Magazine Survey (available from the main menu), fill it out, and send
it in.
To be eligible for the contest every month, you just have to fill out
the survey once. Everyone who answer's name will go into a hat and
a winner will be drawn out each and every month.
PRIZE FOR SEPTEMBER
August's prize (to be sent out sometime shortly after Sept. 1st) is
Cineplay's VGA/Soundblaster commercial game FREE DC!
FREE DC!
In this Cineplay adventure, you'll battle dangerous robots, laugh at
the antics of your sidekick Wattson and comb the jungle for a
mysterious gadget that holds the key to the survival of the last
eight humans on Earth.
FREE DC! features lifelike cinematic images and origial stereo
soundtrack, action packed story by a professional screenwriter,
live actors and claymation characters from the creator of the
California Raisins, Point-and-click control, and much more!
Internet Report
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Great News!! We've switched our Internet connection around and you can
now directly subscribe to STTS via the internet!
INTERNET
To get on the STTS mailing list, do the following:
Send internet mail message to:
STTS-REQUEST%textalk@egsner.cirr.com
With either the following in the body:
ADD SUBSCRIBE JOIN
To be added to the list or:
UNSUBSCRIBE DELETE REMOVE
To be removed from the list.
If you're a SysOp *Please* be sure to send me a note telling me your
BBS's name, your name, your state and city, the BBS's phone number(s)
and it's baud rate(s) so I can include you in the list issue's
distribution list.
Send the note to: Joe.DeRouen@Chryalis.ORG
If you wish to FTPMAIL request the magazine, please send mail to:
FTPMAIL%textalk@egsner.cirr.com
With the following in the body:
GET <filename.ext>
Where <filename.ext> would be SUN9408.ZIP or whatever issue you're
wanting to retrieve. The current issue available will correspond to
whatever month you're in. Septemeber 1994 would be SUN9409.ZIP, etc.
Many thanks to Texas Talk BBS (ad elsewhere in this issue) for the
gracious use of their system for STTS's Internet needs.
STTS Mailbag
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
========================================================================
<PUBLIC><ECHO>
Number : 1344 of 1370 Date: 07/10/94 07:33
Confer : Poetry & Prose <WME>
From : Allyssa Lathan
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : July
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm happy, I'm happy, I'm happy... :)
After months of seeing your posts about each issue coming out,
the BBS I'm on now has STTS. I've been reading back issues a lot,
but I think I can catch up pretty quickly... <G>
'Lyssa, now a devoted STTS-reader
Some really good poetry and fiction in STTS, but you'd know
that, wouldn't you. (:
---
? TriNet: * Viking's Domain * Brownsville, MD * (301)432-5922 * 14.4 USR
========================================================================
========================================================================
Msg#: 8783 *Internet*
07-11-94 19:47:12
From: ARTHUR.ECKARD@THE-SPA.COM
To: JOE DEROUEN (Rcvd)
Subj: AUTHOR ADDRESS
To: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org
Hi Joe,
Just DLd SUN9407.ZIP and found myself stunned.
I really don't know what to say - I've only tried to write this note a
dozen times.
First place in Fiction.
Thank you very much. I'm honored. This is the first piece of work I've
ever been paid for. I'm really overwhelmed and I don't know what else to
say.
Thank you very much. You have no idea what this means to me. I hope
you're not too big for me the next time I have something to submit.
A.M.Eckard | arthur.eckard@the-spa.com
* RM 1.3 00253 * In the land of the trogdolytes the erudite man is food.
========================================================================
========================================================================
The Question and Answers Session
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
The Question and Answers Session will be back next month. This feature
is on hiatus until then.
My View: Baseball
Copyright (c) 1994, Thomas Van Hook
All rights reserved
[Each month, a reader/writer is offered the opportunity to give his or
her viewpoint on a particular topic dear to them. If you'd like the
chance to air *Your* views in this forum, please contact Joe DeRouen
via one of the many ways listed in CONTACT POINTS elsewhere in this
issue]
As of this writing, Major League Baseball is poised on the edge of it's
most exciting "second-half" in quite some time. The realignment that
took place during the winter has added to the excitement of the
potential division races. Not one single team is running away with
their division at this point in the season.
In the meantime, Ken Griffey Jr., Frank Thomas and Matt Williams have
very good chances of breaking Roger Maris' single-season home-run
record. Frank Thomas also has a real chance to become the first
Triple-Crown winner in quite some time. Attendance at most major league
parks is on pace to break last year's marks. Yes indeed, MLB is looking
at a summer that could be talked about for years to come.
Despite all the excitement of record-runs, increased attendance and
potential playoff races, baseball fans see the dark cloud of the
players' strike on the horizon for this season. It's really nothing
new. Strikes have been fairly common place since the late 70s within
baseball ('72, '73, '76, '80, '81, '85 and '90).
The Players' Union, which has made quite a few advances in how players
have been treated since the inception of the game, has basically come to
"loggerheads" with the owners over the issue of a salary-cap.
This salary cap is designed to keep to keep the owners within a set
level of spending concerning player's salaries. If this is agreed to,
the current system of arbitration will be obsolete. The players will no
longer be able to have their salaries raised to the astronomical levels
we have witnessed since the 1990 free agent signings.
The basic point here is that the owners stand to lose very little under
this proposed system, while the players stand to lose billions of
potential dollars. The game, however, stands to gain a lot through this
system.
Under the newest round of expansion, the current talent pool of players
has been dilued even further. The teams that can afford the "big" stars
are loading their teams up with such "gate-drawing" superstars. Teams
located in the smaller markets can't gain these superstars to effect
their turnstile counts.
Under the new system that is proposed by the owners, these smaller teams
will have a better chance to afford and obtain these stars for their
lineups. This should provide boosts for their turnstile counts and for
their team's on-field play.
A strike will hurt quite a few people. For instance, some cities depend
heavily on the revenue and taxes that the stadiums bring into their
budgets. Average citizens employed for the season by the stadiums as
vendors, merchandisers and the such, will see their pocketbooks
experience a drought in times where everyone is feeling the financial
"pinch."
The owners will be slightly hurt since the revenue of their team won't
be coming in on a regular basis, but most of the owners are financially
independent through other means. The players are working from guarenteed
contracts, and will make most of their contractual monies where they
play or not.
The young fans will experience a let-down as their idols (most notably
the three mentioned above that are chasing basbeball history) are sent
packing before the season draws to a close. And lastly, MLB itself will
be hurt as scores of fans (most who remember the strikes of the past)
leave MLB for other sports such as Football and Basketball.
Fans believe that they are powerless to influence players and owners in
such issues as salaries and the such. But they are wrong. Fans have a
lot of influence on the game. Fans pay the sharply escalating prices of
tickets. Fans are the ones that drop the dollar into the pockets' of
the players and owners. In today's game of baseball, the ALMIGHTY
dollar speaks very loudly.
If fans would refuse to pay the high prices at the games, the players
and owners might be able to see what ails baseball. If the Owners and
the Players' Union can resolve their differences and avert a strike,
remains to be seen. However, if a strike takes place, the long-term
effects on MLB could possibly be as devastating as the 1919 Black Sox
scandal.
That scandal almost sunk baseball, except that a savior named Herman
"The Babe" Ruth arrived on the scene and brought back the excitement
missing from the game. I'm not too sure that the greed of the players
and owners is going to find such a savior this time around.
???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
? 110 Nodes * 4000 Conferences * 30.0 Gigabytes * 100,000+ Archives ?
???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
???????? ?? ?? ???????? ????? ?? ????? ?? ???????? ?? ??? (R)
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Confusion in the Courts
Copyright (c) 1994, L. Shawn Aiken
All rights reserved
Confusion in the Courts
by L. Shawn Aiken
There is something wrong with the American judiciary system, isn't
there? You hear people on the news complain about it all the time.
Murderers spend a few months in jail, then are let go to continue their
rampage. A mere accident made by an over enthusiastic police officer can
cause a rapist to go free on a technicality. We see the symptoms, but what
is the underlying cause of them?
The bottom of it is that some people are criminals. Flat out. I'm
sure no one came into this existence planning murder sprees. But somewhere
along the way they decided to become criminals. There were probably quite a
few factors in coming to this decision. It probably was the only was they
thought they could successfully survive. The roots of these problems can
probably be reached and handled, but frankly, our mental health scientists
aren't very good at it. They try, Lord, they try, but there are few real
successes.
So, we have criminals, and for the foreseeable future, this country
has no foolproof way of evolving them into upstanding members of the
community. This is were the justice system comes in.
Long ago, humanity realized that they were more successful in groups.
Group members could specialize in survival related functions. Some could
gather food, others could raise children, etc. Eventually, someone noticed
that doing certain things were good for group survival, and others were bad.
Forgetting to tend the fire could lead to it becoming extinguished. Very
bad. So someone decided it was a crime for the fire tender to ignore the
fire. A crime that could be punished. The Vestal Virgins were a long
standing remnant of this philosophy.
Soon humanity learned that there were many things that were bad for
group survival. Certain members of the group were given the job to remember
the rules. These became the wise men, the magicians, and the priests. When
writing was developed, these rules were codified so that no one would forget
the knowledge of the ages. Most people were used to following the rules.
They were the customs of the people. They formed the basis of the community.
But some people could not, for some reason or the other, follow the
rules. The easiest way to get these people into line was to inflict horrific
punishments on the evil-doers. Steal, and you get a hand lopped off. Quite
an incentive plan.
Our Founding Fathers felt that it wasn't necessary to be so horrific
in the act of punishment, telling us in the constitution that there should be
"no cruel or unusual punishment." They were reacting to the fact that
European forms of justice usually came in the form of torture and starvation.
So our judicial system's only real form of punishment is jail time
or execution. No more lopping off of people's toes for kicking the butcher.
Of course, there are fines and public service and such, but these are
difficult to levy in their fullest extent, being nebulous at the best of
times. It's a very narrow band of possibilities, not impossible to work
with, but it takes a good deal of effort to handle.
Justice is defined as "the impartial administration of the laws of
the land." Our system is based on the English common law system. In that
system their are few actual written laws. Law is based on what has been done
before. If it was the custom in the shire to burn petty thieves, convicted
petty thieves would be burned. This contradicts the Napoleonic system of law
in which every single law is written down into thick books. Both systems
require an immense amount of paperwork, but the English system is flexible
and responsive, and herein lies the crux of the situation.
The way our judicial system is set up is just fine. The judge, the
jury, even the vociferous lawyers, all perform vital functions for fairness,
truth seeking, and justice. It may not be the best way of doing it, but it
does work - when it is allowed to.
What prevents the justice system from working are the laws and the
legislatures that enact them. When you put a law in effect that contravenes
societies customs, mores, and tradition, it is doomed to failure. It is
unenforceable unless people agree to it.
Take Prohibition. Millions of men were sent off to war. They came
back to find that the tee-totaler minority had taken over and outlawed
alcohol. This was against the customs of American society. You always
could go down to the bar and swig some grog. But now it was illegal. No
government on Earth could have enforced that law.
And what did it bring about? America was dying for a drink. And
if there is demand, there will be suppliers. The criminal element developed
and immense organization to transport alcohol to the public. Elliot Ness,
with all of his vehemence, could not stop it. And then Prohibition was
lifted. But the highly organized criminal element remained with their
immense organization and highly developed transportation network.
I have heard the argument to legalize narcotics linked with the
Prohibition conundrum. This is faulty reasoning. Smoking dope is not a
long standing cultural tradition. It is an aberration. Legalizing drugs is
just as wrong as prohibiting the sale of alcohol. It contravene existing
societal values.
Anger and violence have always plagued humanity. But societies had
a way of dealing with them. Dueling was a way of handling it. It may not
have been the smartest thing to do. It may not have been at all pretty.
But it was a way for people to deal with their problems. The Federal
government outlawed dueling almost two hundred years ago. Well, it was a
nasty business. But the government did nothing to replace it. So there was
no outlet for anger and violence. So people walk around, pent up with anger,
until they pop and climb up a tower and shoot nurses. I am not saying
dueling was the answer, but it was an organized, socially accepted way of
handling it.
Slavery is an interesting institution to look at in this light. The
Southern aristocracy had been using slaves for years to handle their crop
production. It was their culture. It was way the southern society was
established. But was it right?
No. The Africans had no tradition of being snatched up and enslaved,
beaten, and forced to work in the cotton fields. Once upon a time they had
their own laws, their own traditions, their own judicial system. But the
slave traders stripped that away. Their masters could get them to do nothing
without brute force or threat of it.
The Jews, when scattered through Europe fleeing persecution, kept
their traditions in the form of their religious writings. They could always
refer back to see how things were supposed to be. The slaves, even after
freed, remembered little of their culture. They had no unity. They did
remember a bit, though, but were not allowed to practice it, instead being
forced to live in the pre-existing judicial system that had originally
enslaved them. They had nothing in common with the 'whites', were forced to
live under their rules, but could take no part in their society. In is no
wonder the Black culture is in the chaos that it is in today. And it is
also no wonder that we see so many Blacks floating about in the judicial
system.
Simply writing an amendment granting them equality is not enough.
Our constitution states that 'all men are created equal'. We have strived
to make that a part of our culture. It is our guiding philosophy. We aren't
really good at it, but we try. It is our custom. An eventually, our custom
will not only be to 'try', but to 'do'.
So we see that the outlawing of dueling, the instigation of slavery,
and the enactment of prohibition ran contrary to social customs, so they all
ultimately created problems. There are many laws on the books that
contravene existing values. The preponderance of these law confuses juries
and ties the hands of judges from doing what he or she feels is right. They
provide loopholes in which evil men can be released into society with no
question. I doubt that in ANY culture it is okay for evil men to wander the
streets raping little girls. Certainly it is not okay in our society. Yet,
it happens, and it happens due to screwy laws and an ignorance of tradition.
When we hold the rights of the criminal above the rights of good people, we
are going back on millennia of tradition. Some hairy chieftain figured out
perhaps tens of thousands of years ago that criminals shouldn't be allowed to
run free in the society. It's a good tradition. I hope our legislatures
rediscover that fact soon. And since we vote them in, perhaps we should let
them know. For their sake as well as ours.
Survey Results
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Beginning next month, everyone who answers the survey will have thier
name thrown into a hat for a random drawing. Each month we'll give away
a prize of some great (or not-so-great) worth by drawing a name out of
the hat.
Sept. 1st will be the first such drawing, and everyone who's sent in a
survey from one of the past issues will be entered into the drawing as
well as the people that answer before Sept. 1st. After that, the
drawing will only include surveys sent in after the date of the last
drawing and before the date of the next drawing.
The Sept. 1st prize will be Cimemark's claymation VGA/Soundblaster game
FREE DC! Check out the MONTHLY PRIZE GIVEAWAY articles from the main
menu for more details.
# # #
The results are in from the survey in the July issue of STTS, and
tabulated below for a median score.
So far, the response rate has been tremendous. We've received responses
from all over the USA and several other countries including Canada,
South America, and France!
For those of you who've yet to respond, please do so now. Your response
will be greatly appreciated, and help shape the look, feel, and content
of the magazine in the months to come.
I'd like to thank everyone who responded. Each and every one of your
comments were read and taken into consideration.
In the survey, I asked the readers to rate the sections of the magazine
on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the best and one being the worst. Here's
the averages, taken by adding all the scores for an indiviual section
(eg: fiction) and dividing it by the number of survey's received that
scored that section with something other than an "X" for no comment.
Magazine sections are ranked in order of scores, from highest to lowest:
SCORES
??????
Fiction: 9.6
Poetry: 9.2
Book Reviews: 8.0
Editorial: 8.6
Feature Articles: 8.6
Humour: 8.7
Movie Reviews: 8.6
Software Reviews: 8.9
ANSI Coverart: 7.3
CD Reviews: 7.1
Question & Answers: 7.1
Summary: Fiction and poetry seemed to prove the most popular, as I was
sure it would. Nothing really received *bad* scores, though,
which is promising. Of the reviews, the software reviews seem
to be ahead, the book and movie reviews seemed to be neck and
neck, and the CD reviews place a somewhat distant fourth.
What the above scores really *don't* tell is that the surveys
seemed to be divided into camps. There were several people that
read STTS mainly for fiction and poetry, and almost as many
people who read it exclusively for the reviews. Both groups
scored their interest group high while X'ing a "No Comment"
on the other sections.
Again, many thanks to those of you who took the time to fill out and
send in your surveys. If you haven't yet filled out the survey, you
still have time to do so.
Thanks for reading and, if you haven't already, please fill out the
survey! <G>
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Computer Software Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Louis Turbeville
All rights reserved
CD-ROM Selector - 1st Edition
Requires: CD-ROM Drive
Commercial Program, DOS or Windows 3.1
Save The Planet Software
Cost $32.00
Where do you turn if you need a particular CD-Rom disk, but can't find it in
any local software store or it is not carried by any mail order software
companies? The CD-ROM Selector would be a great place to start. This CD
offers a directory listing of over 1600 titles, in any easy to find manner.
There are many things to praise about this new and unique software endevour.
First of all, the information on this CD is very complete and informative.
There are other CD directory listing programs which list more CD titles, but
none with the detail and organization of this program. For each CD you will
find a decription of the CD, the publisher, contact phone numbers and adresses,
and system requirements needed to run the program. All of this information is
located on one helpful screen. With some of the other programs, like CD ROM of
CD-ROMS you must navigate multiple screens to find the same amount of
information.
There are also several other little nuances that make this disk a pleasure to
use. The most notable is that the program will run right from the disk, no
files are copied over to your precious hard disk space. This is how a CD
should run, why buy a CD-Rom and have it put 14+ megabytes of information on
your hard disk. Another nice feature is that the program has all the necessary
files to run with the MS-DOS interface or with a Windows interface program.
Finding CD titles are fairly easy with the menu driven system. You choose a
subject and follow the menu choices until you are given a display of CD titles.
You can scroll up and down the titles as you please and when you want more
information about a title you highlight it and press Enter. This is the
screen where all the vital information is displayed.
In addition to getting a brief description of the program, there are also over
230 screen shots of some of various CD-Rom programs. This allows you to get a
feel as to what the programs interface and graphics will be like.
There is also a demo of this program available on most BBS's and major online
services. The latest demo I saw was called CDROMG11.ZIP, CD-ROM Guide version
1.1. This will allow you see what this program is like without actually buying
it. While the demo is fully functional, it does not have nearly as much
information on file for you to look at. For that you need to by the CD-Rom.
If you are looking for some hard to find titles and want to be able to get all
of the information on one easy to read screen, then this program is definitely
worth considering.
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
? THE MASK: Charles Russell, director. Mike Werb, ?
? screenplay. Michael Fallon and Mark Verheiden, story. ?
? Starring Jim Carrey, Peter Riegert, Peter Greene, Amy ?
? Yasbeck, Richard Jeni, and Cameron Diaz. New Line ?
? Cinema. Dark Horse Entertainment. Rated PG-13. ?
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Fans of THE MASK comic book will be disappointed at the lack
of horrific aspects in the movie version; fans of ACE VENTURA
will be disappointed that Jim Carrey doesn't act like a lunatic in
every single scene; fans of comedy flicks will be disappointed at
the lack of plot or substantial characters, and at the surfeit of
silly sight gags in lieu of a smart script or clever dialogue.
But . . . but . . . fans of slapstick, of Tex Avery cartoons,
and of Industrial Light & Magic's special effects wizardry will
be celebrating like it's Christmas in August. THE MASK is a
tremendous hoot, and then some.
Previous attempts at making a larger-than-life human cartoon
(e.g., THE VILLAIN, 1979, starring Kirk Douglas, Ann-Margret and
Arnold Schwarzenegger; or any of John Hughes' bad-guys-as-movie-
props pictures) have met with mixed success. But those movies
didn't have the madcap energy and sheer *joie de vivre* of THE
MASK, which has as much to do with Carrey's talent (yes, talent)
as it does with the literally eye-popping effects.
The trailer and the commercials for the movie have revealed
the plot, such as it is, to everyone by now, so I'll briefly run
down the numbers here. Mild-mannered bank employee Stanley Ip-
kiss (Carrey), a professional doormat if there ever was one,
discovers a mysterious mask one night. The mask, as he
discovers, releases his inhibitions and leaves him free to
revenge himself against the people who have used him. It also
frees him to pursue a romance with the drop-dead gorgeous singer
at the Coco Bongo Club, Tina Carlyle (Cameron Diaz). Unfortu-
nately, Tina is hooked up with a mobster (Peter Greene), and The
Mask's antics cause them to cross paths, as well as bringing the
police hot on the green-faced prankster's tail. The mask manages
to get Ipkiss out of as many situations as it manages to get him
*into*.
As mentioned before, the script is not particularly clever,
containing the tired, clich?d dialogue and situations of a
secondhand comic book script. Lines like "Let's have a chat
downtown" and "I'm keeping my eye on you" (both delivered by
Peter Riegert as the stereotyped police lieutenant who's trailing
The Mask) pepper the script, dragging the picture down under
their leaden weight. Carrey, however, aided by wackily inven-
tive computer graphics, saves the project, running on what seems
to be an endless supply of adrenaline. Watch Carrey closely,
though -- he's as inventive and energetic as ever, but the four-
hour makeup jobs and rigorous shooting schedule look like they've
taken their toll on him. He looks tired and worn-out, even as
he's stealing a kiss from Diaz or playing with Max, his pooch. I
just hope that Carrey isn't headed for major career burnout with
his new-found popularity in Hollywood. He's dazzling as The
Mask, exhibiting some surprising talents -- I knew he could
dance, kinda sorta, based on an amusing scene in ONCE BITTEN
(1985), an otherwise tepid vampire spoof. But I had no idea he
could sing, after a fashion, and when he exhibits both talents in
a show-stopping rumba number, leading a group of cops in a dance
scene, he's amazing. The cartoony feel of the scene would have
come screeching to a halt without Carrey's special brand of
lunacy.
While I maintain THE MASK has numerous problems, the
effects, including Jim Carrey as the best human special effect
around, are good enough to rate a full-price recommendation.
RATING: 7 out of 10
Movie Review, "The Client"
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
Reprinted with permission
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
? THE CLIENT: Joel Schumacher, director. Akiva Goldsman ?
? and Robert Getchell, screenplay. Based on the novel by ?
? John Grisham. Starring Susan Sarandon, Tommy Lee Jones, ?
? Mary-Louise Parker, Anthony LaPaglia, J.T. Walsh, ?
? Anthony Edwards, Brad Renfro, Will Patton, Bradley ?
? Whitford, and Anthony Heald. Warner Bros. Rated PG-13. ?
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
THE CLIENT starts out peacefully enough: two boys playing
by the riverside, smokin' cigarettes they filched from mama's
handbag. Hold onto that moment, because you won't get another
one like it until the film ends -- in between the two scenes is
some of director Joel Schumacher's best work, finally landing him
in the realm of film directors who work with people, rather than
with sets and cameras. That may sound harsh, but in Schumacher's
previous work (THE LOST BOYS, 1987; FLATLINERS, 1990; FALLING
DOWN, 1993), he's shown more of an affinity for the look of a
movie than for the soul.
Of course, Schumacher receives help from a very talented
cast, headed by acting powerhouses Susan Sarandon and Tommy Lee
Jones as opposing counsel. Young Brad Renfro holds his own as
the titular client, a young boy who witnesses a suicide after
receiving information he wasn't meant to have. The information
implicates Barry "the Blade" Moldano (Anthony LaPaglia), a
swaggering Italian mafioso wanna-be whose passions run towards
shiny disco suits, hunting knives, and dead Senators. "Reverend"
Roy Foltrigg (Jones), a federal prosecutor who wants to put
Moldano away for the murder, needs the dead body as evidence, and
since Moldano's attorney blew his own head off, eleven-year-old
Mark Sway (Renfro) is his only lead. Knowing that he's in
trouble, Mark hires inexperienced Memphis lawyer Reggie Love
(Sarandon) as his attorney. What Love lacks in experience,
though, she more than makes up for with guts. She has to,
because she's fighting a less-than-perfect background herself.
THE CLIENT, when compared with John Grisham's other two
novels that have been adapted for film (THE FIRM and THE PELICAN
BRIEF, both 1993), is more personal and touching. We aren't
side-tracked by high-power political stakes, despite Foltrigg's
aspirations for office. The story follows Mark as he wrestles
with his brother's post-traumatic stress disorder (brought on by
the witnessed suicide), his mother's near-hysteria, and his own
crumbling self-image as a tough street punk. Despite
Schumacher's occasional references to Foltrigg's investigation
and his love for publicity, and the director's penchant for
reducing characters and motivation to a chess game, the human
element of Grisham's novel shines through as the core of this
movie. Reggie Love wins back respect for herself even as she
wins Foltrigg's respect, and hammers out a satisfying agreement
for her client and his family. The ending may be too "happily
ever after," and the villains not quite menacing enough (I am
getting tired of the Mob becoming the default fall guy for
every hidden body and every unexplained insidious plot), but THE
CLIENT shines when it tells Mark's simple tale of a boy caught up
in forces over which he has no control.
RATING: $$
Capsule Movie Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
Reprinted with permission
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
? TRUE LIES: Written & directed by James Cameron. Based ?
? on a screenplay by Claude Zidi, Simon Michael, and ?
? Didier Kaminka. Starring Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jamie ?
? Lee Curtis, Tom Arnold, Bill Paxton, Art Malik, Tia ?
? Carrere, Eliza Dushku, Grant Heslov, and Charlton ?
? Heston. Fox. Rated R. ?
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Too much of a good thing, TRUE LIES is action director James
Cameron's latest over-budgeted and over-produced slam-dunk
starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. Think "American James Bond" and
you're on the right track. Ahnold plays secret agent Harry
Renquist who has been married to Jamie Lee Curtis for 15 years as
mild-mannered computer salesman Harry Tasker. Hot on the trail
of a Middle Eastern terrorist, Tasker unexpectedly interrupts the
case to put a tail on his wife, whom he suspects of having an
affair. The whole movie side-tracks from the main action and
offers Cameron a chance to degrade Curtis as she performs a strip
tease supposedly for a man she doesn't know, all as "part of a
case" that Tasker sends her on for punishment. The action
sequences are some of Cameron's best (even including both
TERMINATOR pictures), but the woman-bashing script leaves a bad
taste in the movie-goer's mouth.
RATING: 5 out of 10
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
? ANGELS IN THE OUTFIELD: William Dear, director. ?
? Dorothy Kingsley & George Wells and Holly Goldberg ?
? Sloan, screenplay. Starring Danny Glover, Christo- ?
? pher Lloyd, Tony Danza, Brenda Fricker, Ben Johnson, ?
? Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Jay O. Saunders, Taylor Negron, ?
? and Milton Davis, Jr. Disney. Rated PG. ?
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
"We're always watching," says Angel Al (Christopher Lloyd)
throughout ANGELS IN THE OUTFIELD, and if you buy into it (just
like with FORREST GUMP, now playing), you'll think this is a cute
picture and great summer fun. If you don't buy into it, the film
becomes a bore, looking like a clone of ROOKIE OF THE YEAR (1993)
or LITTLE BIG LEAGUE (now playing), with some neat special
effects. All Roger (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) wants is to have his
father back, but Dad says it won't happen "unless the Angels win
the pennant." When Roger prays for that very thing to happen, by
golly, angels do appear in the ballpark, helping the league's
last-place team climb up the rankings. Gruff Angels manager
George Knox (Danny Glover) adopts Roger as the team's mascot, not
believing in the angels because he can't see them. Wondrous
things begin to happen, aided by some great special effects, and
Knox finds himself believing, too. ANGELS IN THE OUTFIELD is a
good summer family film, but be wary of the too-sweet script --
it could cause cavities.
RATING: 6 out of 10
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
? FORREST GUMP: Robert Zemeckis, director. Eric Roth, ?
? screenplay. Based on the novel by Winston Groom. ?
? Starring Tom Hanks, Robin Wright, Gary Sinise, Mykelti ?
? Williamson, Sally Field, Michael Humphreys, and Hanna ?
? Hall. Paramount. Rated PG-13. ?
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
"My mama always said, 'Life is like a box of chocolates.
You never know what you're gonna get.'" Sally Field's simple
advice to her son, Forrest Gump (Tom Hanks), can also be said of
Robert Zemeckis, the director behind this human and technological
FORREST GUMP follows the titled character through three decades
of American history, seamlessly blending Hanks into actual his-
torical footage, while telling the tale of a simple Alabama boy
who does some incredible things. Gump does what he does more out
of dogged determination and his sense of the right thing to do
than he does out of any lofty motivation or self-important
agenda. Because he's so open and easy to read, he becomes the
perfect Everyman for today's movie audience. Hanks is sure to
receive another Oscar nomination for his wonderful work here, and
supporting actor Gary Sinise, as Gump's Army sergeant and friend
in later life, should also receive the nod. Zemeckis, responsi-
ble for the BACK TO THE FUTURE series and WHO FRAMED ROGER
RABBIT?, has finally matured as a story-teller, letting the
characters, rather than the technical wizardry, drive the story.
RATING: 10 out of 10
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
? THE LION KING: Roger Allers & Rob Minkoff, directors. ?
? Irene Mecchi and Jonathan Roberts and Linda Woolverton, ?
? screenplay. Starring the voices of Rowan Atkinson, ?
? Matthew Broderick, Niketa Calame, Jim Cummings, Whoopi ?
? Goldberg, Robert Guillaume, Jeremy Irons, James Earl ?
? Jones, Moira Kelly, Nathan Lane, Cheech Marin, Ernie ?
? Sabella, Madge Sinclair, and Jonathan Taylor Thomas. ?
? Disney. Rated G. ?
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Disney assembles the most impressive voice cast in recent
memory and sets it loose on a Hamlet-inspired story set in Africa
in THE LION KING, the studio's 32nd full-length animated feature.
James Earl Jones lends voice to Mufasa, father to the next king,
Simba, a playful cub who ends up exiled from the pride after his
father's death. Jeremy Irons is the stand-out voice in this
film, though, playing Mufasa's evil brother, Scar, who usurps the
kingship in Simba's absence. The adult Simba, voiced by Matthew
Broderick, and his childhood friend, Nala, played by Moira Kelly
as an adult, are rather bland and uninspiring, a fault I've found
with most of recent Disney output. This blandness is thankfully
countered with the Abbott and Costello of the jungle, Timon and
Pumbaa, given uproarious life by Broadway stars Nathan Lane and
Ernie Sabella. They introduce the cub to their philosophy in
life through the song "Hakuna Matata (No Worries)," but it's the
opening anthem, "The Circle of Life," that'll be best remembered,
especially for next year's Oscar nominations. The other Elton
John/Tim Rice melodies are as bland as Simba and Nala, but Hans
Zimmer's African-flavored score adds a richness they lack. A
warning to parents: younger children may have a problem with
Mufasa's death during a wildebeest stampede, and with Simba's
violent confrontation with his evil uncle.
RATING: 9 out of 10
Music Review
Copyright (c) 1994, Andee SoRelle
All rights reserved
UNDER THE PINK
Tori Amos
Atlantic Recording Corp.
1994
This newest album from Tori Amos is a strange tray of hors
d'oerves. From the small surprise of a bacon-wrapped date to
the exotic bite of pate on belgian endive, the songs present
difficult choices. What treat should we taste first?
I am the first to admit that I rarely understand Ms. Amos'
lyrics. I sense mystery and the mystical in those words but
they could just as easily be nonsense. My lack of
comprehension does not lessen my enjoyment of these songs.
The music on this CD is beautiful, with ghostly rhythm and
sometimes bone-chilling harmonies. The album was recorded at
a Hacienda in New Mexico and I can almost hear the desert
sand blowing outside the door.
The treats are rich here. Tori's world is one of a god who is
like a selfish, macho boyfriend; mud pies cementing the bonds
of friendship; and a waitress that others wish to kill. As
was found in her previous work, Amos continues her theme of
disgust with organized religion. She demonstrates this very
obviously in "God" and in "Icicle" tries to shock us by
choosing masturbation over prayer for self-fulfillment. God's
ignorance of our real needs is also hinted at in "Pretty Good
Year" and "Cloud on my Tongue."
Other songs talk of failed or failing relationships, the
abusing quality of men and the leftovers of childhood dreams
and fears. In "Space Dog" Amos, in her enigmatic lyrics,
hints at the world of children with its own language and
landmarks.
If you were a fan of Tori Amos' work before, this album will
seem like a continuation of the rolling melodies, haunting
vocals and unique musical landscape. In the liner notes, Tori
thanks the manufacturers of her piano and this seems appropos
as that piano flows through these songs tying them up and
binding them harmoniously.
If you are not familiar with Ms. Amos' songs then these
treats may be too rich. I have a taste for exotic foods but
know that I acquired that fondness slowly and the flavor of
UNDER THE PINK can be as overwhelming as the best curried
lamb. Take tiny bites. Perhaps you will want to eat something
from that tray of appetizers and expand your palate.
My score, on a scale of one to ten: 8
Music Review
Copyright (c) 1994, Thomas Van Hook
All rights reserved
Speak of the Devil - Ozzy Osbourne
(c) 1982 EPIC Records
Track Listing: Symptom of the Universe; Snowblind; Black Sabbath;
Fairies Wear Boots; War Pigs; The Wizard; N.I.B.; Never Say Die;
Sabbath, Bloody Sabbath; Iron Man/Children of the Grave; Paranoid.
Members: Ozzy Osbourne (Vocals); Brad Gillis (Guitars); Rudy Sarzo
(Bass); Tommy Aldridge (Percussion)
After leaving the group Black Sabbath, Ozzy Osbourne formed his own band
and released two studio albums, "The Blizzard of Ozz" and Diary of a
Madman," featuring the talents of guitar-whiz Randy Rhoads.
Osbourne was under contract to release a "live" album, which was being
culled from the performances during the "Diary of a Madman" tour.
Tragically, with the tour half completed, a freak plane accident in
Florida killed Randy Rhoads before the recordings could be completed for
the new album.
Osbourne, not wanting to have the public think that he was prostituting
Rhoads' death, shelved all the recordings from the tour and booked a
concert in New York City for the recording of the "live" album that CBS
Records wanted. Hiring on guitarist Brad Gillis (of the now defunct
group Night Ranger) and bassist Rudy Sarzo (ex-Quiet Riot, ironically
Rhoads' former band also), Osbourne recorded "Speak of the Devil."
The strain on Osbourne is evident on this album, especially during the
segments between songs where he is addressing the crowd. At this point
in his career, with the death of Rhoads fresh in his memory, Osbourne
was drinking heavily. Before one of the songs on the album, he toasts
the crowd with a loud "cheers." In other places, he rambles on during
his interaction with the crowd, sounding quite drunk at one point.
Gillis does a wonderful job of imitating Tony Iommi, the lead guitarist
for Black Sabbath, note-for-note on several songs, but stands out quite
a bit on "Iron Man/Children of the Grave" where he makes some
improvisations on the solo that sound quite inventive. Of course,
Ozzy's favorite stand-by "Iron Man" is on this CD, but so are some very
obscure Black Sabbath songs, such as "Fairies Wear Boots", "Symptom of
the Universe" and "The Wizard."
Even though Osbourne released this album in place of the Rhoads tracks,
it's a very solid effort. Osbourne succumbed to the fans that wanted
the live Rhoads tracks released, but he waited almost eight years to do
so. That album is entitled "Tribute." This album may not have the
luster that the later "live" album does, but it still proves that only
Osbourne can give life to the old Sabbath classics.
My rating on a scale of one to ten: 6.5
Book Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
FROM THE TEETH OF ANGELS
Jonathan Carroll
Doubleday
$22.00 US, $26.95 Canada
The book jacket blurb on Jonathan Carroll's latest novel, FROM THE TEETH
OF ANGELS, calls this his "most daring and provocative novel". It
claims to "ask - and answer - the ultimate question: What is Death?"
The novel never really succeeds in asking, much less answering, what the
blurb promises. Stylistically, Carroll's newest effort meets or
succeeds all of his other novels. His staccato style has in the past
been compared to german impressionist films and that holds true for this
novel as well, but that's where comparison to his past novels end.
FROM THE TEETH OF ANGELS is essentially the story of two people facing
Death. Arlen Ford, a retired successful film actress who flees
Hollywood for the gothic streets of Vienna. And Wyatt Leonard (AKA
Finky Linky), former children's television star and terminally ill
leukemia patient. Wyatt also finds himself in Vienna at the bequest of
a friend who's brother (also living in Vienna) has disappeared. Several
other characters weave in and out of the story, all having their own
brief (and sometimes not brief enough) encounter with Death.
Both Arlen and Finky Linky have wound their way through previous Carroll
novels and finally have their chance to shine here.
Unfortunately, their flames are snuffed out before they get the chance.
FROM THE TEETH OF ANGELS seems much more like an outline than an actual
novel. Topping out at a mere 212 pages, the story leaves the reader's
appetite barely whet and certainly not sated. It poses many time more
questions than it even attempts to answer, and oft times promising
threads in the novel are merely forgotten or cut far short of their
potential.
FROM THE TEETH OF ANGELS is a decent read for a true Carroll fan, but
probably not worth it in hardback. If you've yet to read any of
Carroll's books and are wanting to pick up something to give it a read,
stay away from this one. Instead, check out AFTER SILENCE, SLEEPING IN
FLAME, or OUTSIDE THE DOG MUSEUM. Any of the three will leave you
enchanted by the true nightmare magic, sensuality, and chilling
storytelling that's become Carroll's trademark.
Hopefully, FROM THE TEETH OF ANGELS is only a pause in an otherwise
provocative and engaging career.
My Rating: (out of 10 points) 5
Other books by Jonathan Carroll:
THE LAND OF LAUGHS
VOICE OF OUR SHADOW
BONES OF THE MOON
SLEEPING IN FLAME
A CHILD ACROSS THE SKY
BLACK COCKTAIL
DIE PANISCHE HAND
OUTSIDE THE DOG MUSEUM
AFTER SILENCE
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Bubbles
Copyright (c) 1994, Franchot Lewis
All rights reserved
BUBBLES
by Franchot Lewis
It is not bad for the young with no memory of the past. Those
who were born before ... are the lucky ones. Their consciousness
are clear of the dreams of freedom. The young have the holo-grams
and the virtual reality apparatus that make their fantasies seem
better than real. Damn, how those of us who are old enough to
remember suffer!
The good old days: back when people were able to move about
freely - I miss those days too much. We could go naked - unthinkable
to many now. We could walk outside and follow the naked breeze, and
touch and be touched by the air and the ground, and by the plants, and
by people - By Other Real Live People. When I felt lonely I could
reach out and touch people and other natural and living things.
Nowadays, there is no touching. We are sheltered in individual hard,
reinforced plastic bubbles, protected, kept safe, without direct
contact to the world.
Yes. You would ask. I miss sex. I had a wife and she was great.
Before I met her I had, had sex and sex was great. Sex was a great
thing. Sex actually kept my head clear. Sex was a great physical and
spiritual thing. I live for the day when we will be free from these
bubbles. The government says there is hope: someday a cure shall be
found for the virus that keeps mankind in individual quarantine. The
old ones like myself get to watch the porno video channel, pipped
directly to our individual quarters. We are encouraged to masturbate.
The porno hour is my favorite time. It is my worst time too.
Watching naked couples coupling floods my memory with pleasant and
agitating thoughts. My sexual system longs to end the abstinence.
I curse. Ejaculation, yes. The cursing, the forceful ejection of
strong expletives, is a release. I curse the virus and the bubble
and the government that keeps mankind in individual cells in a
barrier stronger than the iron bars of any ancient gullah.
Playing with myself, cursing, becoming irritated and not fully
relieved sets the electronic monitoring devices, sensors, in my
bubble jumping. This brings one of mankind's watchful keepers, the
tin-looking-alloyed droid. The thing has come to investigate a
possible malfunction of the machine that serves to shield me from
the virus, or possibly, the iron-acting creature has come to halt a
malfunction of my mind that could help me to escape into lunacy.
The droid gages the situation quickly; as it does, it begins to
try to give verbal comfort. It is bullshit that comes from its
program.
"Everything's okay?" it asks. "Did you enjoy the show? It will
be repeated at 1400 hours."
I do not answer. I never answer this bull.
The droid continues, "You are looking especially nice today.
Your weight is down. You look fit and trim. It's good to see that
the diet program is working. Will you work out on the running track
today?"
I snap, "I can't start that damn thing!" Yes, it is easy to find
ones self yelling at a machine.
One thing about machines is that you can be upfront with them.
You need not make excuses for yelling. You can say anything to them.
You don't have to grand stand, pretend to be in control of the
situation, or of your self, because you and it knows that the reason
why it is here is because it is in control.
Now, the droid nags, "You are doing well, but I must suggest that
you must eat more of your vegetables. Your stool wasn't a good color,
and we feel you are not eating enough of your vegetables."
I do not answer. I have no intention of making excuses for the
color of my stool to a machine. In all of my life before the virus,
and the bubbles, and the machines, and the government and these nanny
droids, I have never had to make excuses for the color of my stool,
not to my doctor or to my own mother when I was a child.
The droid is not deterred. You can't deter a droid. "If you
prefer some other selection of vegetables just let us know. We will
provide what ever you ask. What shall we serve you this evening?"
"What I want," I reply.
"Yes?"
"What I want is very simple. Actually -"
The droid cuts me short like it knows what I am about to say.
"We are looking for a request for something we can give."
"You can give it. It's what I've wanted these many years: My
freedom."
The droid makes a big, unusual noise that sounds a little like
a cry of astonishment. "You want the virus to kill you?"
"Go away," I shout.
I turn away, hang my head. I feel a little smaller than usual. I
have long surmised the uselessness of conversing with a droid. I
promise myself I shall never do so again.
Later: A few minutes pass 1400 hour. I stop watching the porno
video. I turn off the viewer in my cell, so that I won't be tempted
to peep. Suddenly, I have a visitor. I am introduced to the
government's newest machine, a female whore droid.
There has never been anything that has turned me off more than a
female acting like a whore. A droid acting like a whore is a big
nasty stinking cruel joke. This droid slinks in like a tart, and
covered in practically nothing, so to accent its human-looking
features. Its face is layered with rouge, and its body shows lots of
bare human-looking skin, the more to make me want to puke.
"Hello, darling," it gives a toothy smile.
I shout at it, "Good bye."
It smiles again, "To me nothing is more purely sensational than
a forceful, masculine dude."
"Quit," I shout. "I was never into rubber dolls."
It answers," "I am a fully functional companion, and I do
mean, fully functional."
I have to ask. "What do you do? A Strip tease?"
"If you would like. Also, I can enter your bubble through the
air lock. I am free of the virus, of all viruses, so we can
touch."
"Go away," I shout.
"You really don't mean that? Do you know why? I am for you. You
have been obsessed with the need for unrestricted physical touching
ever since you were a kid in high school."
I growl, "So what?"
It grins.
"A woman, a person, not a machine, " I snarl.
It answers softly, "I am an android, your droid, designed just
for you, from your thoughts, your fantasies."
"Yeah, my fantasies, the wild fantasies of a caged man."
"I am real," it says.
"A real machine. I don't do mechanical dolls."
"Give me permission to come inside with you? I shall touch
you in the raw, feel the warmth of your body, your body shall feel
mine, the way you remember another's body feels."
"Go away," I show my teeth.
"I am for you," it replies. "I am like your fantasy woman,
nothing's changed; everything's the same."
I turn my back to it. Facing the other plastic wall, I refuse
to turn around.
"You want me," it insists.
"I want a woman, another human being," I shout.
It becomes urgent in its pleading for me to accept it. It says,
its sole purpose is to sex me. I want a woman, I tell it. No, not
talking to it, but talking to myself. I want a woman, not my hand,
not a mechanized hole to receive my ejaculate. I want a woman.
Yes. Certainly, this has much to do with my relationship with my
late wife. She was good, a lovely woman. Always around her was the
event of my day. She was never the whore, never blatant. Always,
she wore a garment or two, or three to bed. She would lie there
just waiting to be loved. She was exciting, when she was wrapped
with clothing however frilly, however inviting. She was there to be
uncovered, for my pleasure and hers. You can imagine my revulsion
toward the female droid that the government has sent for me to
masturbate in!
Finally, after pestering me for what seems like an hour, the
female droid gets the word and leaves. I shout a curse toward it as
it goes.
This brings me to the heart of this tale: The so-called greatest
living man in all of Earth's history, the Savior, my friend Adrian
Syn. Adrian was born three months before me. We grew up in the same
neighborhood. Our folks were friends. He was smart and popular,
popular throughout his school years and especially popular after he
became a politician. He treated everybody as though he was their
friend. The whole world to him was made up of one big bunch of good
pals rather than of individuals out there in the pits grubbing and
grabbing for theirs. This attitude somehow elicited respect and
admiration from even the most normally skeptics among us. Adrian was
just a regular looking guy: Not handsome, not tall, not short or
skinny or fat, just regular. He worked hard and he thought hard. He
was always writing books which always hit the best sellers' lists.
No one really seemed to give too many serious thoughts to where his
ideas might lead. I guess the idea of seeing him so often in print,
on the best sellers' lists, on tv interview programs, got people to
thinking that he was a regular guy who knew what he was saying.
Now, he's locked up in a bubble and is going stir crazy like the
rest of us old ones. As I've said, he was a regular guy and was
everybody's pal, and nobody thought it was such a big deal when he
had these bubbles built and the droids built. It was supposedly the
only way to save the human race, to give us time to survive until
the cure for the space virus is found. A virus that demands
complete individual human quarantine in a totally sterile
environment.
We humans get to talk to each other over the communicator.
We can see each other's faces through the tele-viewer. But we
can not visit. If I could visit Adrian's bubble, I would go and
punch him out. Maybe not punch him out, just smack him around a
little - a little? A lot.
I never liked Adrian's idea of bubbles. I resisted. I wanted to
take my chances with the virus rather than be indefinitely locked
away, immobile in a plastic prison. But, Adrian was determined. He
had a list of people whom he wanted to save. I and a million others
were on the list. Ten billion were not and they died. Those on the
list could not resist. Of those who did, not one or two were not
caught and put into bubbles. My wife didn't make the list.
Once a month I call Adrian on the communicator just to aggravate
him. I think that many others do the same. He, being like the popular
regular guy his press still says he is, has to always accept the
calls.
His images comes up on the tele-viewer. Bubble living doesn't wear
well with him. All of the fitness schemes that his government has
programmed the droids to give us have done nothing for him. He's
stooped, wizened, old-looking, like a white-haired, nearly bald
troll, and not a fit specimen of manhood for the droids to
preserve.
He is the foremost hate object of my life, and I scream at him,
hard, for two minutes until my tensed body tingles, and then slumps
back in my chair, and I sign off.
Oldest Man on Planet
Copyright (c) 1993, Ed Davis
All rights reserved
OLDEST MAN ON PLANET
"Let's face it, old son, your ass is in the toilet."
Orville's words bounced against the clear lens of the helmet and
back into his face.
You could have called for help when the Sand Cat broke down, he
chided himself. This time mentally. No... A big bad spaceman doesn't
ask for help, especially when he just made everybody painfully aware
that he was the oldest man on planet. Damn silly argument anyway.
What did he care if mentally tossing silverware into coffee cups was a
gift or a learned skill. He had been angry that the younger men had
the skill and he didn't, and had let that anger lash out at the
youngsters. Smooth move, Ex Lax. He chastised himself with what his
Daddy had always said, when he screwed up. The old man had been too
good to mess things up very often, but had also been the first to
recognize the failure.
Well, the oldest man on planet had his butt in a first class sling.
The fall down the steep gully had been fun at first, in the low
gravity, but quickly turned to tragedy when he landed wrong and felt
the bone between his knee and ankle snap. The sound, captive inside
his suit was God-awful. The pain followed quickly and caused him to
black out temporarily. When he came back to reality, he thought the
pain was no worse than an elephant stomping on his leg. He had never
felt an elephant step on him, but he was willing to try. At least
elephants lived on earth and he had a better chance of moving an
elephant than trying to haul his battered hulk back up the hill behind
him.
Three sessions of mind searing pain moved his leg to a more natural
position than the folded mess he found when he first looked down at his
legs. When his vision cleared and the tears in his eyes allowed him to
see clearly, he searched the dials and lights inside the helmet to see
if he was leaking air. The suit was intact. Great, he thought, now
you can sit here and die slowly, after the batteries run down. He
looked at his power supply gage and saw he only had three hours of
power remaining, then the ni-cads died and he quickly followed suit.
Well, wily ole' spaceman, how you gonna' get out of this?
The wily ole' spaceman didn't answer, his leg hurt too much for
humor to help. This was a time for some industrial grade thinking.
Crawling was out, his leg was calmly generating agony while he was
motionless. Scooting on his bottom, like a kid in a pile of dirt
seemed a sillier idea. He would quickly abrade a hole in his suit
and... The manufacturer of the suit made them for men, not children
who liked to play in the dirt. His suit radio was useless, the range
was far too short to reach the base. Besides, real space heroes didn't
call for help. Like hell, he thought. If you can drag your stupid
carcass to the Sand Cat, you'll be plumb grateful to hook up to the big
radio and scream for help. He tested the chin activated radio mike and
smiled when he heard the answering hiss of static. No one liked the
chin activators, but no one wanted to listen to all the cussing that
seemed to come with the voice activated type. People, even spacemen,
cussed a lot when they dropped things. Especially when the things hit
toes and shins.
Orville looked overhead and watched as distant stars winked on and
off, as distance caused them to flicker. He mused about the miles and
became melancholy, he was doomed to end his life on some remote piece
of rock, far from Tennessee. His eyes refilled and he wept softly.
"Off your ass, boy."
Orville was startled to hear his father's voice. He had died ten
years earlier in a train derailment on Earth. There was no way he
could be speaking into his son's helmet. Memory, Orville reasoned.
"I said get off your ass, boy. You ain't dead, yet. Move it."
Orville's heart was pounding like a relay gone mad. He twisted his
head from side to side, trying to see who was within sight and talking
on his radio. Only the pale grey of the rocky plain was visible.
Orville turned and ignored the pain as he searched the hill behind him.
Nothing. No one there.
He keyed his radio. "Who the hell is calling? Identify yourself.
I'm Orville Carpenter and I need help."
Static answered.
Chills raced down Orville's spine and flooded his intestines. He
clamped his buttocks to prevent messing the inside of his suit.
Suddenly the small asteroid, with its tiny monitoring station, was no
longer just a dusty planet in a busy sector of the universe. It was
suddenly very scary.
"Damn it. You turned to look up the hill, and didn't die of pain.
Drag your stupid rear up the hill and get help."
"Dad, is that you?"
"Who the hell'd you think it was?"
"My leg's busted. I'll never get to the Sand Cat. I'll tear holes
in this suit..."
The voice intruded on the almost whining voice. "Bull shit."
Silence followed. Silence so thick it was scarier than the voice
had been.
"Dad..."
"I gotta' go kid. I broke a lot of rules even talking to you. The
rest is up to you."
"But...Dad..."
Only silence answered. Orville cowered in his space suit, trying to
hide from something he could neither see nor understand. The chills
held races up his legs and met at his crotch. They joined forces and
crawled slowly up his stomach, tweaking his nipples to fear induced
stiffness. His shoulders shook and his hair tried to stand on end.
The chills dashed down his back and threatened to start the course
again.
"Dad..."
Silence.
"Damn you, Dad. Answer me. I can't make it."
Anger stopped the chills and goaded the stranded spaceman. He
pulled himself onto his stomach and hammered the ground with both
fists. Then he began the agony of pulling his one hundred and ten kilo
body up the slope.
Twice he tumbled part way back down the slope. He felt blood start
to flow from his shattered leg. A new fear, that he would now bleed to
death before he ripped the suit or ran out of power, filled his mind.
"Nobody gives a damn," he sobbed in despair. "Nobody gives a shit
if I die." Self pity overwhelmed him thirty feet from the top of the
hill and he slid a few feet back down the slope. Time ticked off
slowly, the power gage inside the helmet moved slowly past the two hour
mark, before Orville regained his composure.
"Damn you..." He cursed his father, his school enemies, the man who
built the suit with only four hours of power in the batteries, and
every person who had ever done something rotten to him.
The anger left. What remained could only be described as cold fury.
Not the mad-at-the-world variety, rather the survive-this-disease type.
He began his ascent again. This time he picked his route with more
care. He used the larger rocks for leverage and pushed with his
uninjured leg. He scaled the last thirty feet in minutes and let his
head fall to the ground. The Sand Cat was several yards away, one red
light still blinking on and off.
The disabled vehicle looked better than the latest video from Earth.
He had never felt stronger in his life, as adrenaline filled his system
with power. He felt invincible, and crawled swiftly to the insect like
conveyance. The swollen tires looked like someone had overinflated an
inner tube for the beach. The frame looked like a spider holding four
inner tubes upright.
Pain, fatigue, and fear finally took their toll. Orville was light
headed and sweating, as he slid the umbilical from his suit into the
slot on the Sand Cat. A hiss of fresh oxygen told him the connection
was made and that he no longer had to rely on the suit's recycling
equipment. The power meter started a rapid ascent to the two hour mark
and quickly passed the middle of the scale. Orville felt reborn. He
rested his head and cried with relief.
"This is Orville Carpenter. Does anyone hear me?"
"This is TH-301 base. I read you fine, Orville. Go ahead."
"My Sand Cat is broken down and I have a busted leg. I've turned on
the radio distress signal. Please send some help."
"Roger. I have your signal. By the time we get a gang outside
we'll have you pinpointed. Are you in immediate danger?"
"My suit is intact, I think. But I'm bleeding. Please hurry."
"Roger. We have your location. The rescue pod is on its way. If
you hold on for five minutes, you're home free."
"Thanks."
Darkness enveloped him, as Orville passed out and fell out of the
Sand Cat. His rage was finally over.
Bright lights greeted the return of the base's most talked about
man. The entire fifty-three man detachment had been waiting to
congratulate the only genuine hero the base had ever known.
Orville looked into the worried eyes of the doctor and smiled.
"Looks like I made it."
"Yes, sir. We went back out there and followed your trail up that
hill. No one knows how you managed that. You realize you have a
compound fracture of both bones in your lower leg, don't you?"
"Will it heal?"
"You should be able to walk as well as ever. You'll have a cast for
quite a while, but you will recover completely."
"Thanks. I sure could use a drink."
"There are a lot of guys out there who would love to buy you any
drink you would care to order, but water will have to do right now. We
have you pretty well doped up." The doctor handed a glass with a bent
straw sticking out of the top to Orville and smiled as he drank.
"Why do all those people want to buy me a drink?"
"Hell, you're a hero. None of the rest of us would have had the
guts to do what you did. What made you crawl back up that hill?"
"I had to. Can you keep the people out for a while? I'm awfully
tired."
"Sure. We're just glad to have the oldest man on planet back with
the living."
Orville smiled and nodded, knowing that the practical minded doctor
would never understand what had happened. He watched the door open and
close, leaving him in solitude and silence. He sipped the water again
and rested his head on the pillow.
"Thanks, Dad."
The wily old space man closed his eyes and felt a tear trickle down
his cheek. Time enough tomorrow to be a hero, he thought. Right now I
feel too much like a little boy. As sleep embraced Orville, he could
almost see his father smiling.
If I Could Talk to the Aliens
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
If I Could Talk to the Aliens
by
Bruce Diamond
Let me tell you, if there's a shock cure for agoraphobia, I
think I've found it.
Wasn't my doing, though. Not my invention, not my idea. I
was perfectly happy to spend the rest of my life in my penthouse
studio.
At first, I wasn't even sure how they knew of me. Or how to
find me. My vidphone's unlisted and my address was known to only
a handful of program executives, equipment distributors, delivery
services and the deli around the corner. I think the deli
tripped me up.
The first sign of something unusual were the ghost voices on
my commercial disk for 'Nuffsaid Voicewriters. The commercial
copy read, "Get it write with 'Nuffsaid," but the first take in
my studio sounded like, "Get it hello with 'Nuffhello." The
second and third takes sounded pretty much the same. Two hours
of searching through the equipment turned up zilch. Even the
voice synther, the most sensitive piece of equipment in my
studio, worked perfectly. No glitches.
I suppose I should take this moment to explain why I need a
synther. You know that as the world's highest-paid announcer
(check last week's Variety if you don't believe me), my voice is
my meal ticket. Sure, there's the tri-d and radio talk shows,
but commercial work pays the rent on this place. The annual rent
here puts the GNP of some Third World nations to shame. And
don't get me wrong--a good fifteen percent of my gross proceeds
last year were contributed to charity.
Sorry about the digression. As I was saying, even the voice
synther checked out. Since my voice brought in the bacon, so to
speak, I had to keep those pear-shaped tones sounding the same
year after year even as I aged. Thus the synther. All it did
was take the age out. It wasn't supposed to add "hello" to my
commercials. Which meant either I was losing my mind (not bloody
likely), or had to call in a specialist to track down the glitch.
I tried again. First time I had to do more than one take in
months. I was glad to be working in my automated studio, so no
engineer or producer could hear the glaring error. It didn't
come out of my mouth, though, so I was still flawless.
And the playback proved it. No stray hellos or anything
this time, just my sterling delivery.
Retired to my sumptuous bath after uplinking the commercial
to the 'Nuffsaid producer. Ah, what a set-up. Dreamed about it
for years, as I grew up tutored at home because attending school
gave me panic attacks. Drew up the floorplans while taking a
correspondence course in broadcasting. Researched the
possibilities while building a reputation in radio and voiceover
work. Moving next-door to the top station in the city sure gave
the career a boost. Landed my first job and rapidly rose to the
top. I had one of those voices that could sell anything, and the
synther kept it that way as the years passed and left their
footprints on my throat. If any of my producers had found out .
. .
Checked the newsfax while relaxing in the marble tub,
covered in parfum bubbles, and looking for guests for future
shows. My shows, "The Unique Miles Devins" on radio and "The
Best of Everything with Miles Devins" on tri-d, specialized in
the strange and unusual.
An item caught my eye. "Local Scientist Talks to Aliens,"
in the Davenport, Iowa, Quad-Cities Timesfax. Didn't need to
read the rest of the story to know this was a hot one. Dr.
Stanley Folger from the Augustana College astronomy department in
Rock Island, Illinois, right across the river from Davenport,
according to the vidatlas.
Wonder if Dr. Folger would like to see the big city? Most
of these midwestern hicks couldn't wait to get to New York.
I keyed him onto my guest list and sent it to my producer to
book. That filled all the slots for the following week's show,
providing Dr. Folger agreed to come. The vidphone chimed just as
I finished making notes for future guests. I closed the guest
file and flipped the screen to "receive."
"Devins, what kinda crap you pullin'?" Tony Lawton, the
'Nuffsaid producer. Five feet two inches of smoldering nerd with
no hair.
"Tony, dear heart. I take it you received the spot on
microwave?" I gathered some of the bath bubbles around me. No
use giving him ideas.
"Yes, I did, you damn overpaid, no-talent . . ." When Tony
got like this, the best thing to do was let him run out of air.
Three complete insults and he stopped to catch his breath.
"Tony, my contract specifies 'no verbal abuse.' I get 150%
kill fee and you find yourself another golden throat. Actually,
at best, you'll find a silver throat." The synther hardwired
into the vidphone kept callers from even guessing how far the
pipes had rusted.
Tony wheezed to a stop, ran a hand through the three hairs
on his head and straightened his pink polka-dot tie. Abominable
taste, but he paid on time.
"Sorry, Miles, but you know what kind of deadline we're
running on the 'Nuffsaid account."
"Indeed. That's why I uplinked the spot over this morning."
I deliberately ran the soap across my chest. Tony started to
sweat and ran a hanky through his hairs. Always could play Tony
like a sampler.
"That's all well and good, M-Miles." Tony swallowed
audibly. "But rush jobs don't help when I get defective goods."
That almost got me up out of the bubbles.
"That spot was perfect, bubbalah. As usual."
"Oh, yeah?" Always with that snappy rejoinder. "Then
listen to this!"
After suffering through twenty seconds of watching Tony's
smug face, I did stand up, rather suddenly. Tony's eyes popped
out of his head. He always was easy to impress. But that didn't
matter. I was trying to figure out how "hello, hello, can you
hear me" got onto a spot I had already checked. I do not make
mistakes. I do not send a less-than-perfect spot to a producer.
Flabbergasted, I plopped back down into the bubbles. Tony
managed to replace his eyes and rearrange his face into a
semblance of smugness. The stuttering spoiled the image.
"T-told you s-so." If it weren't for his obvious age, you
could've sworn, time and time again, in court, even, that Tony
was ten.
"Look, dear heart," I said, turning my face casually from
the screen to hide my consternation, "just give me a mo and I'll
recut the spot."
Tony loosened his tie and mopped his forehead again. "The
deadline's too tight to book downlink time, Miles. You . . ."
Tony took a deep breath and gulped. "Y-you'll have to . . . come
to the studio and . . . r-recut it here."
Time to end this. The old soap on the brush and do the back
routine. "Out of the question, Tone. You know better than that.
Now be a dear and book that downlink time. I'll make a special
effort for you." I arched my back. The coup de grace.
Tony's throat bobbed several times and the bowtie looked
like it was ready to start spinning. "This airs tonight, Miles.
D-don't f-fuck up."
"Tony, such language! Naughty, naughty. Must be wishful
thinking." I switched the vidphone off and sighed. After this
session, that equipment gets the once-over.
As an experiment, I uplinked the original take to the GTE
bird and downlinked it back into my system. On playback, I
nearly dropped the stinger I'd been sipping.
A metallic voice scratched its way out of the Bose speakers.
"Hello, can you hear me?" A terrible wash of white noise.
"Hello, can you hear me? I wish to speak to Miles Devins,
please."
The playback stopped, but the voice continued. Nail files
on corrugated tin. "Miles Devins, representative for Earth,
please respond."
"Hello?" I tried, thinking it had to be a joke of some kind.
Maybe the maintenance engineer I stiffed the week before for his
shoddy workmanship. Switching off equipment one-by-one seemed
the best bet to isolate the voice.
"Success!" Dry rustling, like sheets of paper being rubbed
together, now came from the speakers. "Success!" another voice
answered, and the rustling continued. Turning off the disk
recorder, playback system and monitors didn't help.
"Hello, are you still able to respond?" Off went the
twenty-year-old Wollensack tape deck and the turntables. On went
the voice. Tinfoil on teeth. "Hello? Please respond."
Everything but the voice synther and the amp was off by now.
"Hello? Hello?"
May as well play along; at least the problem was isolated.
"Hello, I'm still here."
"That's it, Graffax." Yeah, that's what the voice said. "I
got him."
"Good," the other voice said. "Bring him up."
Up?
Everything went blue.
#
A pancake on a griddle. Steaks on a barbecue. Your mind on
drugs. That was me, lit up with a megawatt blue klieg like I was
in a stripper's nightmare. Well, I'm guessing about the
stripper, having only seen them on tri-d. The intense blue
partially blinded me, while two voices argued about me, the same
voices that had issued from my own speakers. That bran muffin
breakfast this morning began to seem like a bad idea.
Sweat broke out on my forehead. An overwhelming urge to
piss strained at my bladder. This wasn't my apartment. I hadn't
been out of my apartment in over fifteen years. Hot shame burned
my neck as warm piss trickled down my leg, staining my silk
trousers. I couldn't move, but whether that was due to some kind
of field or my own fear I couldn't tell.
The voices came closer, as did the paper rustling. I still
couldn't see clearly, but the approaching outlines didn't
encourage me one bit. The edges appeared sharp and distinct. I
could almost feel their hardness underneath my hands, still
resting by my sides as though gripping a railing. Something had
to be holding me up. My legs sure weren't doing the job.
Voice one spoke, an insectlike chittering that my skin feel
as though a thousand ants had burrowed into it. The chittering
was followed by the metallic voice I had heard in my apartment
studio.
"Hello, Miles Devins, spokesman for the planet Earth. We
are here to negotiate."
Negotiate for what, and why me? My mouth wouldn't work. It
filled with saliva that wouldn't go down. The sweat ran into my
eyes, mercifully blurring the figures even further and stinging
like hell at the same time.
Voice two interrupted voice one's salutations. Chitter,
chitter. "He chooses not to answer, Ch'kun. Perhaps they are
better negotiators than we thought."
"Hauck! Speaking out of turn reveals much, Graf. Be
warned."
While the two voices chittered at each other, I managed to
squeak, "Home."
"What?" said voice one.
"He chooses the home strategy, Ch'kun. Rule ten of Kikul:
'To defend home takes strength. To defend honor, none. Home is
the holder of nobility.' They intend to blow up their planet
before losing it to us!"
Voice one spat. "Hauck! Fair interpretation. You are good
counsel, Graf."
The voices spoke freely, so it was safe to assume they
weren't aware I could hear and understand them even when they
addressed each other. If the reason was more subtle than that,
it wasn't divinable between my shivering fits.
Voice one addressed me again. "Miles Devins, as you are
spokesman for planet Earth, we accept your challenge of nobility.
Carry our message back to your planet."
"Wait!" The word came out of the tiny slit my throat had
closed up to. Clearing my throat with a mighty effort (and in a
way guaranteed to ruin it for two weeks), I said, "I'm not the
person you want. You need the President, or the U.N., or someone
like that."
The rustling halted abruptly, then returned. Voice two
chittered at twice its former speed, so fast that whatever had
been interpreting it couldn't keep up. My hands could move now,
so I rather shakily wiped my forehead and cleared my eyes.
Voice one said, "He claims mistaken identity. Earth has an
unprecedented degree of nobility." The chittering paused
briefly, then resumed. "Miles Devins, we shall make your defeat
the noblest of all our enemies."
Voice two chittered excitedly. "Not the Grand Challenge,
Ch'kun!"
"Hauck! Wait for reply." The chittering subsided, and the
two figures appeared to be awaiting my answer.
Swaying unsteadily, unsure of ever seeing my penthouse, my
safe burrow, again, I was near tears. "Please, please, I can't
help you. Please . . ."
"Ch'kun, the Grand Plea! And stated with such heartfelt
emotion!"
The chittering grew to an intolerable volume. Covering my
ears didn't help.
Voice one seemed to hesitate. "This is unforeseen. We have
heard the Grand Plea only twice, and both times were we defeated.
I have no choice."
Voice one's figure made a slight movement, so slight it was
almost invisible in the blinding blue light. A slow hissing came
from the direction of the floor and the figure shrank downwards.
An acrid stench hit me and I had to pinch my nostrils to keep
from throwing up.
Voice two said, "Top One Ch'kun has resigned his position as
Marshall of the Companions. Our nobility is placed in your
trust. Do as you will."
"Just send me home. Leave me alone." I squeezed my eyes
shut against the tears and the light.
"It is yours."
#
They must have mistook me as spokesman for Earth because my
voice and image are all over the airwaves. That's not boasting,
just plain fact. I awoke in the holotelevision studio on the
west side of my penthouse. My tri-d talk show originated here,
interviews conducted with interactive holograms of my guests.
Modern technology could make an agoraphobe out of anybody.
The clock told me I still had time to make the deadline on
the 'Nuffsaid Voicewriter. This time I checked the playback in
three different players. Nary a stray "hello" from any of them.
Flawless, as always.
I had to laugh when Tony fainted. Standing in the doorway
of his office in my best pink silksuit would've put anyone away.
I warned him that hero-worship would get him in trouble
sooner or later.
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The Splendid Mosque of St. Sophia
Copyright (c) 1994, Daniel Sendecki
All rights reserved
The Splendid Mosque of St. Sophia
---------------------------------
His Father knew He would never see
the facade of the second gallery;
pinned and writhing to crossed stave
the imperial box in the nave,
nor the triumph of the cross in Rome,
however adorned, gilded, or embossed,
-More-the magnificent interior of the Mosque
His Father knew He could never see
the wonderful pillars of St. Sophie.
Untitled
Copyright (c) 1994, Tamara
All rights reserved