GalacticMu

Sorry to rape, murder and then beat a dead horse, but I can’t help it.  I have limited obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

Fringe is pretty laughable. In fact, I’m not even sure the general public is going to tolerate it for longer than a year or two.  It’s baby days, still, sure, but that baby better turn into a swan, because at this stage it looks like a goddamn troglodyte.  But hey!  It’s free on Hulu.com right now!  And what else do I have to do while I wait for employment callbacks?

Let’s make a spoilery list on Episode 2!

• Nearly three straight minutes of screaming is severely testing my patience and the episode has barely even started.
•  Hint to screenwriters: no nurse has ever yelled to a doctor “WE GOT TO CUT THIS BABY OUT NOW, DOCTOR!” and especially not while the patient was conscious.  If there ever were a nurse that had done that, I guarantee you she is now lying in parts at the bottom of a biohazard containment pit.
• Okay, okay.  I’m TRYING to remain OPEN.  But the mass of a biological entity the size of a human being simply cannot grow in a matter of minutes.  It just can’t. Or rather, there would be such in incredible consumption of raw energy (not to mention energy waste) that the room would have heated to like a 1000° or something.  Don’t check my math, just roll with me.  You know what I’m saying?  Laws of physics simply don’t allow for that kind of organic growth, not even in fringe science.
• There is no such thing as “medical grade leak-proof linen”.
• Also, if Clarice Starling taught me anything, it’s that female FBI agents who stomp off and get teary every time they encounter a serial killer’s victim are going to get EATEN ALIVE.  Maybe literally.
• Hint to screenwriters: even hookers get suspicious when some guy with a duffel bag takes them to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere.
• Okay, okay.  Everyone, screenwriters: it is very, very rare for impregnation to occur in under 30 minutes.  Which is the point the plot hinges on:  man with super-advanced aging porks hooker, hooker gets pregnant with super-advanced aging baby, etc. etc.  Why would the sperm even live long enough to impregnate her?  The lifespan of a single sperm is 2-7 days in normal people — in a super-advanced ager it would be like, a fraction of a second.  And should it have even lived long enough to impregnate her, it would probably encounter the egg in the fallopian tube, which would have led to instant death from ectopic pregancy.  That’s even assuming her uterus could contain something growing that fast without rupturing, which it couldn’t.  GODDAMN IT, IT TAKES ONLY A LITTLE EFFORT TO FAKE SCIENCE.  Take a fucking minute to make it sound plausable, you asswads!

My face is stuck like this.

• I’m sorry, none of these people feel like they have any experience with anything at all.  Would it kill someone to throw in little bits of reality, like have someone ask “Are we recording?” during a crucial visual experiment?  There’s zero humanity.  Ever.  No one eats.  No one checks someone else’s math.  Agent Sculder Dunham is clearly going to be both Mulder and Scully, both a believer and rigidly moralistic while adopting a permanent expression of slightly put-out disapproval. The kid will always be the cruelly disbelieving shit who is alternately a genius, a lothario and a dumbass.  Denethor will be Denethor.  Astrid Farnsworth should be getting a spin-off show any day now.

In conclusion:

Meh.  It was okay.  It didn’t make me immediately crave another one, like some deliciously improbable shows. (House, are you there?  It’s me, Sunday.)  The special effects were surprisingly uninspired.  I’m sure some of the medical stuff gave some viewers shivers, but it was straight-up CSI crap - did they blow the whole budget on redubbing the screaming over and over until it was sufficiently shrill?

In conclusion in conclusion:

Boo.

First, a confession: I like Keanu Reeves.

And I’d like to say I’m no fangirl that would fall all over herself trying to touch his jacket should I see him casually trying to be casual while entering some LA eatery, we all know that isn’t true.  I’d probably shriek “I loved you in The Matrix!!!” at him — which is an honest lie — and swoon.

Defense of liking Keanu: he seems like the kind of person I’d like despite their fame.  And I mean that in the least ironic, least winky-winky way possible.  He’s a private person, which I can appreciate, and seems not to give much of a shit about being some bulked-up heartthrob with an actress trophy-girlfriend.  Blah blah blah.  Anyway, my point:  he’s hosting a showing of The Matrix and LA’s beloved Arclight theater, something that piqued my interest despite wanting to punch The Matrix in the nuts. I do adore a roomful of excited nerds, even if it means viewing the singlemost overrated film in history.  And I do adore Mr. Reeves.

Alas, there is a scandal afoot.  The Arclight apparently presold tickets to AFI members and then, as many fans have whined, opened their boxoffice at least an hour before they said they would.  Result: tickets totally sold out before they went on sale.  My disappointment and indignation over this was suddenly overwhelmed by a single memory:

I don’t actually want to watch The Matrix again.  Very little can make me want to see it again.  The second and third movies I saw only in the theater and can’t even justify wasting Netflix time on.  How can I dislike these movies so much and still like Reeves?

I’m just a complicated person, I guess.

Oof.  A lot going on in the last week, including a hell of a lot of stuff I failed to weigh in on.  Not that the world really needed another take on Fringe, but still.  I feel some sense of obligation.

My two cents on Fringe:

•  A young female FBI agent with a permanent expression of disgusted bewilderment?  And no detectable motive or personality?  As a main character?  You’re certain you want to go with that?  Maybe you can sell it a little better if you half-heartedly muster up a reason for her to strip down to her underwear in front of everyone.
• Denethor!  Yay!
• A lot like having a child tell you a long, elaborate fib:  First! There was this FBI agent!  And then she needed to get this scientist who was put in a mental hospital forever but she couldn’t so she flew to Iraq and got his son and they got him and then they needed a super-laboratory so they got one and then they needed to see the killer’s face so they took LSD and they saw his face and then they needed a cure so they made one and then he was a badguy! Not that we want to see her filling out forms requesting travel to Iraq which would then in turn take A THOUSAND YEARS to process and the story would already be over, but you know.
• Related: LSD 100% not actually like that.   But again, we probably don’t want to watch her sitting around for two hours wondering if she should go outside.
• Astrid Farnsworth. Is the name of Dunham’s assistant.  The black girl.  Discuss.

What do I think of the most recent ‘leaked’ James Cameron’s Avatar set photo?

• CG motion capture: sword from the stone.  Maybe Cameron will be king.  MAYBE NOT.
• Also: if I have one piece of advice, it is to not use “urban tribal” graphic design.

Too late.

What about Joss Whedon officially halting Dollhouse while he works the script a little more?

•  I’ve got a bad feeling about it, now that you mention it.
• The explanation makes sense: Whedon was busy directing, rather than writing, and by the time he got the first two episodes in the can everyone agreed that the scripts that had been written without him weren’t up to some kind of standard.  He requested a brief halt in production while he helps write several scripts into the future in order to get everyone on the same page.  Sounds reasonable.  The studio offically supports this, claiming that since production on the show was actually ahead of schedule, Whedon was free to do whatever the hell he wanted.
• Unless you listen to the other rumors, which point out that having a main character with no memory or free will is a terrible plan (a little tip I told the kids at Fringe: nudity fixes everything).  Elsewhere sources point out that Whedon already refilmed the pilot admidst complaints that the show was either too complicated or too grim.  Wait, what’s that smell?  Is that… failure?

Off the subject, but did you happen to watch the new 90210 series?

• You mean 90210.1?  HA.
• Yes.
• I don’t have a single thing good to say about it, and I enjoy garbage TV.  I’m ashamed and saddened that Rob Thomas (of Veronica Mars fame) had anything to do with this piece of shit.

That is all for today.

Sorry if you’re a regular reader here for scifi, but apocalyptic weather is pretty awesome. And I don’t mean like “Awesome, dude!” but “Lo, and His Wrath was Awesome.” I might not be making any sense. It’s early and I stayed out late dancing last night. We left when my friend’s leg was humped and a woman flung her hair at me and showered me with hot sweat. You know that scene? In the second Matrix movie? Where there is the giant, damp, underground hippy rave? It was like that.

Anyway.

Turns out Leesa, our Ship Engineer, took some photos afterall! Almost certainly to make a fool of me, but I’ll take it where I can get it.

Drama!

She’s one of the very few who have power right now, thus proving that God may not totally hate Jews. Good job, GalacticMu crew!

News from the Leesa Leva Compound is that all are safe, though the neighborhood is “a MESS.”

Here’s a photo I took from our trip to Galveston together earlier this year. More information from her when I get more. Though don’t hold your breath for any photos, she won’t take a photo to save her damn life.

33% of this website’s personality and 107% of it’s computer skillz is facing the oncoming path of Hurricane Ike.

In honor of this imminent bad news, I’d like to recount the following conversation during the last hurricane about a week ago.

Sunday: Hey, I turned on the news and the weather guy was all, “Great news everyone, New Orleans is going to be fine! The hurricane is headed for Houston!” They seemed really happy that the hurricane was headed for my best friend.

Leesa: It’s okay, New Orleans doesn’t need that shit. Sometimes I turn on the news and the weathermen are like, having these dramatic fits all A HURRICANE IS HEADED RIGHT FOR YOU and a few hours later there’s a light rain. You know what we call them?

Sunday: What?

Leesa: Hurri-CAN’Ts. Get it?

Sunday: I get it. I was just wondering if you could evacuate to Austin or something.

Leesa: Ooooh no. No. You know what will happen when the storm gets to Austin?

Sunday: It’ll turn into art cars?

Leesa: Tornadoes. Those things are fucked. They’re like, weather’s Velociraptor. You’re just sitting outside, minding your own business and BLOU! It snatches your baby! And your house!

I missed Fringe last night, after all that. I was invited to a CERN¹ dinner and I couldn’t refuse. Anyway, after all that puffing of my chest, I had to rely on my parents for Fringe commentary:

Mom:

The titles were weird. There were giant titles of whatever city they were in. Also the woman was like every other woman on TV. She had big trout lips and was blonde - do people really watch these shows just for these ridiculous-looking women? Everyone on TV looks the same.

Dad:

It was cool! And the lady FBI agent was sexy.

¹No actual Swiss scientists or particle accelerators were involved, but I did eat homemade Higgs boson bread. It tasted theoretical.

Okay, here we go again. Fellow nerdlings: I have no overlord. While I look upon the awkward Comic Book Guys with affection as they declare Joss Whedon to be their master now, I can’t help but recoil a little. And this is going to make me feel like a real huge asshole, but… cut it out. And especially, really cut it out if whomever you are declaring to be my master is actually a hit-or-miss upstart with a lot to prove still.

Case in point: SciFi Scanner’s John DeNardo thinks that JJ Abrams is now the hottest shit in science fiction. Which means that we’ve got to have a little sit-down.

The man responsible for this is my overlord?

And, as usual, a caveat: I don’t think that any one scifi Master is infallible, so it should be no surprise where I’m going with this. Frank Herbert went bonkers. So did Lucas. William Gibson faded away while still being an active writer, which is sad and weird. James Cameron made Titanic and acted proud of it. You get my drift.

But Abrams, Mr. DeNardo, is not even up on the stage yet. Let’s make a list!

1. You said: “Let’s ignore his non-scifi film and television work because, who cares?” Oh, I care. We care. You see, an overlord is not selectively an overlord, and the body of Abram’s work is not science fiction at all. You can call them “humble beginnings” but I call them “disqualifications.”
2. You said: “Despite previous successes, or perhaps because of them, Abrams only recently grabbed the attention of scifi fans.” Just to be redundant: that’s because he just recently started making scifi.
3. You said: “But what of Moore, Whedon, Moffat and Lucas? Mostly falling stars, I’m afraid.” I’ll grant you Lucas, but what the bloody fuck are you talking about? You list the three most successful scifi TV writers/producers today and then call them falling stars? Brother, I do not even know what you are on. Moore’s work (Battlestar Galactica) is now canon for reviving the genre. Whedon you claim is riding on past laurels though Dr. Horrible was great and Dollhouse looks promising - wait, when you say he’s relying on past glories, I guess you mean he’s still glorious? (Let’s not disregard the massively popular “Season 8″ Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic.) And Moffat’s re-energized Dr. Who is… limited to the small screen? Smells like a reach to me. Besides, the conclusion that Abrams is on top purely based on a vaguely plausible opinion that all the other greats are waning is wack. I SAID WACK.
4. Cloverfield might have been a blockbuster, but it is a borderline critical failure. The LA Weekly, New York Times, Chicago Tribune, Variety and Salon.com were not impressed.
5. What we are left with is two potentially big science fiction hits: a new Star Trek movie and a new weekly TV show, Fringe. Claiming that both have already made Abrams an “overlord” is speculation, and poor bets to boot. Star Trek is as poised to backfire as it is to reheat the franchise; should it fail to do anything but blow minds, the future of Star Trek is all but a memory (it should be noted that Abrams did not write the upcoming Star Trek). I have to admit: I really want Star Trek to be good. I want it to be a hit. But there are more than enough aspects to give pause to any reasonable fan (Winona Ryder as Spock’s mom? The designer for the hideous Transformers being on board? A release date pushback? Abrams rumored to have rush “polished” the script to beat the writer’s strike?) And while Fringe indeed looks interesting, early emphasis on The X-Files similarities could just as easily lead to grand-scale disappointments.
6. Speaking of Fringe: early gushing is definitely unadvised when Lost has yet to form a cohesive plotline. It is going to take a serious flexing of creative muscle to explain it all in a way that won’t have watchers throwing bricks at their TVs. People don’t like being strung along, it turns out. Particularly when there’s a real danger of it all ending up being an autistic boy with a snowglobe. Alias suffered the same fate: plot? Bah! MORE SEXY WIGS.
7. This is my weakest point, but also my most personally nagging one: Abrams seems awfully interested in recreating someone else’s successful ideas. Cloverfield? Godzilla. Star Trek? Star Trek. Fringe? The X-Files. Upcoming: more Cloverfield and Stephen King’s The Dark Tower. If he can do it well, I suppose I have nothing to argue about, but there is a little voice in the back of my head wondering what Abrams has to offer of his own. Oh right, that was Forever Young. There’s this jocky “so-and-so franchise needs a REBOOT!” tone that rubs me the wrong way. America needs their OWN GODZILLA! Wait, why? I’m gonna make a show about a NEW FEMALE FBI AGENT who totally investigates EVEN WEIRDER SHIT! Awesome - uh, but…

“SciFi Fans, You Have a New Overlord and His Name Is J.J. Abrams” by John DeNardo at SciFi Scanner.

I’ve hinted at the following sentiment over the last few months, but I now feel inclined to fully vent: I am mad at literature. And mostly science fiction. Settled down with a sammich and a mug of laudanum? Then let’s begin.

Every once and a great while I go through periods of not wanting to read, and almost always this is set off by reading a particularly terrible book — the great Not Reading Anything of 2001 in the wake of China Mieville’s aneurysm-inducing Perdido Street Station, for example. However, just before I moved across the country (the second time) I had a sudden and unpleasant realization: It had been a while since I read a book I’d actually enjoyed.

I looked over my shelves. 2006 Hugo Award-winning Rainbows End by Vernor Vinge? In the dictionary? Next to ‘Trying Too Hard?’ That’s right, there’s Rainbows End. And don’t even get me started on Richard K. Morgan’s Altered Carbon: I’ll take the high road and just say that nothing spells unintentionally funny like preposterous, confusing sex scenes.

In fact, after picking through my shelves with increasing frustration, I found that Peter Watt’s Blindsight was the extent of the good reads in the last year. Good old Watts. Meanwhile, Altered Carbon was purchased for a reported million fucking dollars to be made into a movie. O, the infinite horror of this dimension that I keep trying to insist is merely chaos but is more obviously the result of a cruel and mentally retarded god.

Unrelated: my doctor seems delighted that I am only 29 and need to be on blood pressure medication. Early and often, as they say.

What is going on here? Have I become hard to please, or is science fiction getting shittier?

I’m inclined to say a little from column A and a little from column B, and not just because I’m a noncommittal poser. I had a half-strength epiphany while camping last week with my family and reading John Updike’s The Witches of Eastwick. This being my first Updike (yes, I went to college, shut up - and anyway, I never graduated), I was officially thrown for a loop. Firstly, I remember trying to read Updike years back and curling my lip. Back on the shelf it goes. Secondly Nicholson Baker once wrote a touching ode to Updike, which gave me pause. If Baker likes him, surely…? But no, I still couldn’t be bothered with it. And then, in a fit of pique (”I’ll show those smart people and prove that I don’t like Updike once and for all.”) I picked up a battered copy of Eastwick. And there I was, several pages into it and thinking, “This is fucking brilliant.” It was like reading Baker’s liquid, fizzy train-of-thought, the same bumbling honeybee of prose - but with a story! It’s humane and active, meaningful and profoundly mundane. It is somehow familiar and totally surprising. Stephen King famously complained that Baker’s writing was a “meaningless little fingernail paring,” which is a lot like saying that pie is a pointless trimming of beard hair; also, someday soon Naglfar will be coming for you and it won’t seem so meaningless after all, will it?

Blah blah blah, anyway, I had a mini-epiphany: people don’t know how to write anymore. Or rather, there is no reward for knowing how to write anymore. That has to be it. So that you have these masses of writers who might be technically good but cannot string an arc along to save their lives (any contemporary scifi writer who is obsessed with the singularity, I’m looking at you), and you have these terrible writers who have a whole laundry basket of good ideas but need to be told that no one “stares broodingly”. And they both get five-novel deals with movie options. Huh?

Before I started writing this I thought: I can’t complain if I can’t fix it. But I spent some time with myself, listening to myself’s side of the story, and I came to see a different point of view. I am the consumer. If my TV doesn’t work well, no one expects me to head down to the basement and hack a TV out of a block of butter and some twist ties. Other than MacGyver, who remains disappointed with humanity on a daily basis (like me!). But me, I argued, books aren’t a machine. They are art. Au contraire, me! I said. They are a recipe, like a cake. There are a near-infinite range of variations, but they are still cake, and they are still made according to a finite series of rules (don’t check my math, just trust me). And we’re talking about taste here, anyway. If publishers claim that Americans aren’t reading anymore, I can’t help but ask, is it maybe because the product is shitty? Have you gone off the recipe?

The answer is yes, if you aren’t capable of following my faux-rhetorical questioning.

That just leaves us with my being hard to please, which is straight-forward. In my old age, I find that I want an increasingly rare and perfect balance of real story with quality writing. Poor me. It wasn’t all that long ago that I liked passing time with a book as much as I liked scoring a really excellent read. Currently I’m alienating friends by calling them at work just to read them an especially atrocious sentence of Altered Carbon. DID HE EVEN HAVE AN EDITOR? I guess I’m still upset about it. The point being: popular scifi lit is morphing into a lethal combination of Idiocracy and Fahrenheit 451, and I’m certain it’s not just that I’m getting smarter (I call it “The Dumbening”). But clearly instead of censoring thoughts they are quietly replacing them with lamer ones. And by “they” I don’t know who I mean. I vote Russians. Or possibly Boing Boing.

We are here. We are well. We will soon be back to direct transmission status. We miss you.

Saw this ad today that made us laugh because at heart we are old women whose grandchildren set us up computers against our will. Wait, that’s for kitty photos. Well, this is the new kitty photo, just like cyberdolphins are the new pony.

From Dark Roasted Blend.