Book Review: Red Moon Rising by Matthew Brzezinski
October 4, 2007 marked an important historical anniversary. The 50th anniversary of humanity's exploration of outer space. On October 4, 1957, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, the first artificial object launched by human beings to escape the Earth's gravity (for six months, but a milestone).
In Red Moon Rising, Matthew Brzezinski covers the intense rivalries that served as the catalyst to the great space race between the United States and the Soviet Union, which would eventually culminate in landing men on the moon, and laid the foundations for today's space program, including the International Space Station.
Although the obvious rivalry between the Americans and the Soviets plays out over the course of Brzezinski's account, many other more personal conflicts come to the front of the stage. For the USSR's head of missile development, Sergei Korolev, his childhood obsession to touch space drove him relentlessly. Even years spent in Stalin's gulag did not dash the dream from him. His drive to put a satellite in orbit allowed him to navigate the treacherous waters of the Soviet military community.
Rivalries were, if anything, were more pronounced on the American side of the missile race. The army, navy, and nascent air force all had ballistic missile programs in the works, though it was the Army's that would place the first American satellite in orbit, thanks largely to the stubbornness of the Army Ballistic Missile Agency's commander, Major General John B. Medaris, and ABMA's chief engineer, Wernher von Braun, the man behind the German V-2 rockets.
Brzezinski's book is a fast-paced, enjoyable read giving a lot of insight into the scientific and political environments of the USA and USSR of the late 1950s. The personalities involved leap off the page and come alive, shaping the course of the historical narrative. Highly recommended.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
You can't kill The Metal
OK, this news nearly made me squeal with glee like an anime fangirl:
Two of my favourite prog-metal acts on the same bill!
SQUEEEE!
OK, this news nearly made me squeal with glee like an anime fangirl:
Swedish metallers OPETH will support DREAM THEATER on the prog-metal giants' next North American tour in April/May 2008. More details will be announced soon.
Two of my favourite prog-metal acts on the same bill!
SQUEEEE!
Monday, November 05, 2007
Sunday, November 04, 2007
The areas of book-writing expertise
I've been listening to the audiobook version of The Areas of My Expertise by John Hodgman. Hodgman is best known as the "Resident Expert" on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, or as the PC in the Apple "Mac vs. PC" commercials.
He is also a professional writer, and a former literary agent for the likes of actor Bruce Campbell, and in honour of National Novel Writing Month, I thought I'd share some of Hodgman's advice from The Areas of My Expertise:
And one more:
I've been listening to the audiobook version of The Areas of My Expertise by John Hodgman. Hodgman is best known as the "Resident Expert" on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, or as the PC in the Apple "Mac vs. PC" commercials.
Resident Expert of The Daily Show |
PC vs. Mac |
He is also a professional writer, and a former literary agent for the likes of actor Bruce Campbell, and in honour of National Novel Writing Month, I thought I'd share some of Hodgman's advice from The Areas of My Expertise:
What is the best kind of book to write?
I was asked this many times when I a professional literary agent, and the answer at the time was obvious: the most marketable kind of book to write, was one in which vampires fight serial killers, but the best kind of book to write, was one in which the vampires fight large weather systems and perfect storms. Of course, that answer is not correct in today's publishing environment, as neither of those old examples includes a worldwide conspiracy, overseen by a centuries-old religious secret society. While my initial response dates me hopelessly, I realize literature, blessed, ever grows and matures.
And one more:
Throughout history, all effective stories are based in some sort of conflict, and most critics agree, that in literature, there are five primal conflicts:
These are:
Man vs. Man
Man vs. Nature
Man vs. Society
Man vs. Himself
and Man vs. Cyborgs
If you think of a story, any story, I trust you will find it fits neatly into one of these rubrics.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
A tale of murder most fowl...
Since this is both National Blog Posting Month and National Novel Writing Month, I thought I'd share a story of mine. This is a scenario I wrote to resolve a plot in one of the live-action roleplaying (LARP) games I'm a member of. It might be hard to follow the plot, not knowing the context. If that's the case, let me know!
A Murder of Ravens
The night rain beat a steady rhythm on the corrugated aluminum roof, like a thousand desperate heartbeats sounding in cacophony. To the fugitive, they were a dull roar overwhelmed by his own desperate heartbeats.
He was chilled, but not from the dampness on his skin. In fact, the warm blood on his arms offset much of the climate. The source of that blood was what froze his own solid.
I didn't…it wasn't…I could never … The gears of his reason attempted to rationalize the actions of the past few hours, but could not gain purchase. He remembered one of his former patients. The man had let his friend drive after a night of hard drinking. What's a couple of beers? He's only going a couple of blocks.
That night, Mr. and Mrs. Patel missed their son's high school graduation, just like they would miss his acceptance into his grad program, his wedding, and the births of their grandchildren.
It was a night like this, too, the fugitive recalled. He quickly glanced over both shoulders as lightning lit up the path between buildings, followed by the loud crash of thunder. It sounded like judgment.
**********************************************************************************
The man looked around the living room, or what was left of it. Scarlet paths cut their way through the white carpeting. Most traced a mandala in the centre of the room, where the man of the house hung suspended from the ceiling fan by his own entrails, like some grisly piñata.
While the onlooker could still be inwardly horrified by such carnage, it troubled him that his body betrayed no physiological reactions. I'm getting used to these things, he thought, and that's frightening.
Two men walked down the stairs in a grim-faced procession. The one in the trenchcoat would have been handsome, if his features were not perpetually set in stone-faced determination. Behind him, the man in the suit was even more impassive.
"It's even worse upstairs," he told the onlooker. "You really don't want to know."
"It was definitely him, though," said the Councillor, slowly pulling a rifle from beneath the folds of his trenchcoat. "And it wasn't long ago."
Two older men joined the three from outside.
"We have a trail," said one.
The Herald stood straighter, taking some weight off his cane. "My associates have been quite forthcoming on the subject," he said in his impeccable Received Pronunciation. "They despise the Intruder and its medium even more than we do."
The first man looked around the room one more time. "Why are we wasting anymore time then?" the Sentinel demanded.
**********************************************************************************
Cold and wet, the fugitive reflected on how things had gone wrong. His order often required someone to pull a trigger so others wouldn't have to. It was a form of self-sacrifice that was never to be undertaken lightly, and always for the greater good, the self be damned.
As time went on, however, he found himself pulling the trigger more and more often, and less for the greater good, and more because he liked it. He wasn't going to let an affliction slow him down, and if it meant giving over control of his body for an hour or so, what was the harm?
Why won't the blood wash off? He held his hands out to the falling rain. His companion offered no explanations.
**********************************************************************************
"This way!" His companions followed the interjection between the buildings. The rain was harder now, battering the docks with its staccato beats. The five ran hard, bearing arms conventional and otherwise.
**********************************************************************************
Seeking shelter in a warehouse, the fugitive tried to rest. Rain and sweat turned to vapour on his face, and only made him hotter. He tried to relax while his heart continued to pound a desperate pattern.
The Voice came to him then.
-LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU
No! You got me into this!
-I TOOK YOU DOWN NO ROAD YOU WEREN'T ALREADY WALKING
Liar!
-THE DESTINATION IS THE SAME / ONLY FASTER
That's not true!
-YOU KNOW IT IS
I am not a murderer! I kill only for the greater good!
-HOW CONVENIENT / WHAT YOU DO IS FOR THE GREATER GOOD / AND THE GREATER GOOD IS WHAT YOU DO
-CIRCULAR REASONING
-DO ALL OF YOUR KIND JUSTIFY THEMSELVES SO
No, that's not how it works—
-TELL ME
I…I… he stumbled with his thoughts. He turned to his companion, but could no longer find the solace that was once there. Its once noble and proud features seemed twisted into the feral visage of the most cowardly and savage of predators.
**********************************************************************************
"You're sure he's in this building?" the Sentinel asked.
"Positive," said the Herald.
"I can confirm that as well," the Councillor agreed.
"OK, then." The Sentinel quietly stalked his way around the warehouse, stopping every few steps to inscribe a mark with his pocketknife.
The Herald and the other older man bent their heads together in discussion, before seeming to address the empty air.
The Councillor readied his rifle with a practiced hand, while the man in the suit closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
The Sentinel returned.
"It's done," he said.
The man in the suit opened his eyes. "Everyone remember the plan?" asked the Councillor. Four heads nodded their assent.
"Let's do this."
**********************************************************************************
-THEY'RE HERE
-SHOULD HAVE LET ME DRIVE
No wait, come back! I…
-RUN AND I'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU
I will! I'll just…
The fugitive gesticulated wildly in the air and drew upon his power, power which never came.
Fuckers!
In his mind's eye, he could see the golden lines of primal energy surround the building.
This is my cage.
**********************************************************************************
The door blew off its hinges as the axe-wielding Sentinel crashed through.
"Raven, Walker of the Path of Pandemonium! The Council of the Mens Ferrum finds you guilty of Hubris and conspiring with the enemies of Ascension! Submit to their judgement!"
"You won't take me! I'll…" He called upon his power again, and again failed. The Herald stood with a look of intense concentration.
"Get them!" the fugitive beckoned his companion, only to notice the companion had problems of its own.
"You can't stop me! You don't have the…AARRGGGHH!!!" Blood trickled from his nose and eyes as spears of intense pain shot through his head. The man in the suit stared at him, sweat beading along his brow.
"I'll kill you all! You don't have the stomach for this! That's why you need me! You need…" His last sentence was clipped short by the rifle round piercing his chest.
The Councillor stalked forward, ejecting the spent casing from his weapon. "No," he said impassively. "We don't."
**********************************************************************************
The fugitive knelt on the floor before the Sentinel, the Herald and the other man. The man in the suit and the Councillor stood behind him.
"You three can leave," the Councillor said. "We'll finish up here."
"Indeed," intoned the man in the suit. "Your services have been exemplary, but this is our matter now."
"No way," protested the Sentinel. "We did this together, we finish it together. It's my job."
The Councillor shook his head slightly. "No, your job is to fight the battles. Slitting the throats of whoever's left on the battlefield is our task. Now go."
"I won't."
"Witness if you like," said the man in the suit, cutting off further discussion, "but the task is ours."
Unholstering his pistol, the Councillor placed it at the back of the fugitive's neck.
"Farewell, brother," the man in the suit whispered in the fugitive's ear. "We now return you to the Diamond Wheel. May you choose a better journey next time around."
The only response was a gunshot.
Since this is both National Blog Posting Month and National Novel Writing Month, I thought I'd share a story of mine. This is a scenario I wrote to resolve a plot in one of the live-action roleplaying (LARP) games I'm a member of. It might be hard to follow the plot, not knowing the context. If that's the case, let me know!
A Murder of Ravens
The night rain beat a steady rhythm on the corrugated aluminum roof, like a thousand desperate heartbeats sounding in cacophony. To the fugitive, they were a dull roar overwhelmed by his own desperate heartbeats.
He was chilled, but not from the dampness on his skin. In fact, the warm blood on his arms offset much of the climate. The source of that blood was what froze his own solid.
I didn't…it wasn't…I could never … The gears of his reason attempted to rationalize the actions of the past few hours, but could not gain purchase. He remembered one of his former patients. The man had let his friend drive after a night of hard drinking. What's a couple of beers? He's only going a couple of blocks.
That night, Mr. and Mrs. Patel missed their son's high school graduation, just like they would miss his acceptance into his grad program, his wedding, and the births of their grandchildren.
It was a night like this, too, the fugitive recalled. He quickly glanced over both shoulders as lightning lit up the path between buildings, followed by the loud crash of thunder. It sounded like judgment.
**********************************************************************************
The man looked around the living room, or what was left of it. Scarlet paths cut their way through the white carpeting. Most traced a mandala in the centre of the room, where the man of the house hung suspended from the ceiling fan by his own entrails, like some grisly piñata.
While the onlooker could still be inwardly horrified by such carnage, it troubled him that his body betrayed no physiological reactions. I'm getting used to these things, he thought, and that's frightening.
Two men walked down the stairs in a grim-faced procession. The one in the trenchcoat would have been handsome, if his features were not perpetually set in stone-faced determination. Behind him, the man in the suit was even more impassive.
"It's even worse upstairs," he told the onlooker. "You really don't want to know."
"It was definitely him, though," said the Councillor, slowly pulling a rifle from beneath the folds of his trenchcoat. "And it wasn't long ago."
Two older men joined the three from outside.
"We have a trail," said one.
The Herald stood straighter, taking some weight off his cane. "My associates have been quite forthcoming on the subject," he said in his impeccable Received Pronunciation. "They despise the Intruder and its medium even more than we do."
The first man looked around the room one more time. "Why are we wasting anymore time then?" the Sentinel demanded.
**********************************************************************************
Cold and wet, the fugitive reflected on how things had gone wrong. His order often required someone to pull a trigger so others wouldn't have to. It was a form of self-sacrifice that was never to be undertaken lightly, and always for the greater good, the self be damned.
As time went on, however, he found himself pulling the trigger more and more often, and less for the greater good, and more because he liked it. He wasn't going to let an affliction slow him down, and if it meant giving over control of his body for an hour or so, what was the harm?
Why won't the blood wash off? He held his hands out to the falling rain. His companion offered no explanations.
**********************************************************************************
"This way!" His companions followed the interjection between the buildings. The rain was harder now, battering the docks with its staccato beats. The five ran hard, bearing arms conventional and otherwise.
**********************************************************************************
Seeking shelter in a warehouse, the fugitive tried to rest. Rain and sweat turned to vapour on his face, and only made him hotter. He tried to relax while his heart continued to pound a desperate pattern.
The Voice came to him then.
-LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU
No! You got me into this!
-I TOOK YOU DOWN NO ROAD YOU WEREN'T ALREADY WALKING
Liar!
-THE DESTINATION IS THE SAME / ONLY FASTER
That's not true!
-YOU KNOW IT IS
I am not a murderer! I kill only for the greater good!
-HOW CONVENIENT / WHAT YOU DO IS FOR THE GREATER GOOD / AND THE GREATER GOOD IS WHAT YOU DO
-CIRCULAR REASONING
-DO ALL OF YOUR KIND JUSTIFY THEMSELVES SO
No, that's not how it works—
-TELL ME
I…I… he stumbled with his thoughts. He turned to his companion, but could no longer find the solace that was once there. Its once noble and proud features seemed twisted into the feral visage of the most cowardly and savage of predators.
**********************************************************************************
"You're sure he's in this building?" the Sentinel asked.
"Positive," said the Herald.
"I can confirm that as well," the Councillor agreed.
"OK, then." The Sentinel quietly stalked his way around the warehouse, stopping every few steps to inscribe a mark with his pocketknife.
The Herald and the other older man bent their heads together in discussion, before seeming to address the empty air.
The Councillor readied his rifle with a practiced hand, while the man in the suit closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
The Sentinel returned.
"It's done," he said.
The man in the suit opened his eyes. "Everyone remember the plan?" asked the Councillor. Four heads nodded their assent.
"Let's do this."
**********************************************************************************
-THEY'RE HERE
-SHOULD HAVE LET ME DRIVE
No wait, come back! I…
-RUN AND I'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU
I will! I'll just…
The fugitive gesticulated wildly in the air and drew upon his power, power which never came.
Fuckers!
In his mind's eye, he could see the golden lines of primal energy surround the building.
This is my cage.
**********************************************************************************
The door blew off its hinges as the axe-wielding Sentinel crashed through.
"Raven, Walker of the Path of Pandemonium! The Council of the Mens Ferrum finds you guilty of Hubris and conspiring with the enemies of Ascension! Submit to their judgement!"
"You won't take me! I'll…" He called upon his power again, and again failed. The Herald stood with a look of intense concentration.
"Get them!" the fugitive beckoned his companion, only to notice the companion had problems of its own.
"You can't stop me! You don't have the…AARRGGGHH!!!" Blood trickled from his nose and eyes as spears of intense pain shot through his head. The man in the suit stared at him, sweat beading along his brow.
"I'll kill you all! You don't have the stomach for this! That's why you need me! You need…" His last sentence was clipped short by the rifle round piercing his chest.
The Councillor stalked forward, ejecting the spent casing from his weapon. "No," he said impassively. "We don't."
**********************************************************************************
The fugitive knelt on the floor before the Sentinel, the Herald and the other man. The man in the suit and the Councillor stood behind him.
"You three can leave," the Councillor said. "We'll finish up here."
"Indeed," intoned the man in the suit. "Your services have been exemplary, but this is our matter now."
"No way," protested the Sentinel. "We did this together, we finish it together. It's my job."
The Councillor shook his head slightly. "No, your job is to fight the battles. Slitting the throats of whoever's left on the battlefield is our task. Now go."
"I won't."
"Witness if you like," said the man in the suit, cutting off further discussion, "but the task is ours."
Unholstering his pistol, the Councillor placed it at the back of the fugitive's neck.
"Farewell, brother," the man in the suit whispered in the fugitive's ear. "We now return you to the Diamond Wheel. May you choose a better journey next time around."
The only response was a gunshot.
Friday, November 02, 2007
An image is worth a thousand blurbs
Found this internet meme: do a Google Image search for your name and post the first picture that comes up.
With my first name, I get a picture of Joe Jack Talcum of early 80s punk band, The Dead Milkmen.
Not sure what that means, since I'm not a huge punk fan (except for The Clash) and have probably never heard a Dead Milkmen song in my life. We're both Italian and play guitar, I guess.
With my full name, I get someone's old family photo (not my family).
Found this internet meme: do a Google Image search for your name and post the first picture that comes up.
With my first name, I get a picture of Joe Jack Talcum of early 80s punk band, The Dead Milkmen.
Not sure what that means, since I'm not a huge punk fan (except for The Clash) and have probably never heard a Dead Milkmen song in my life. We're both Italian and play guitar, I guess.
With my full name, I get someone's old family photo (not my family).
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
What happens...After Forever?
Well, my new favourite band of the moment, After Forever (MySpace), came to the Funhaus in Toronto for an intimate but exciting show.
The opening act was Montreal's Unexpect (MySpace), whom I can only describe as the Dillinger Escape Plan kidnapping Arcade Fire and forcing them to perform Phantom of the Opera or be ground up by a chainsaw. A very twisted and interesting sound, to be sure.
After Forever themselves performed majestically, rocking the hell out a cozy venue like Funhaus. Actually, it was nice to be in a club like Funhaus again: exposing ductwork and rafters in the ceiling; single, small bar with few taps; one pool table. I missed the ambience of low-rent goth-industrial clubs like Vatikan and Necropolis.
Me & Floor Jansen
Well, my new favourite band of the moment, After Forever (MySpace), came to the Funhaus in Toronto for an intimate but exciting show.
The opening act was Montreal's Unexpect (MySpace), whom I can only describe as the Dillinger Escape Plan kidnapping Arcade Fire and forcing them to perform Phantom of the Opera or be ground up by a chainsaw. A very twisted and interesting sound, to be sure.
After Forever themselves performed majestically, rocking the hell out a cozy venue like Funhaus. Actually, it was nice to be in a club like Funhaus again: exposing ductwork and rafters in the ceiling; single, small bar with few taps; one pool table. I missed the ambience of low-rent goth-industrial clubs like Vatikan and Necropolis.
Friday, October 12, 2007
A Faith of Reason?
OK, I found this kind of creepy:
Now, normally, I find myself of the same mind as Professor Steven Dutch on this subject:
Clearly, though, these "Spockians" are not acting rationally at all, since a rational person would be the first to admit that one cannot be rational all the time. In fact, the effort to do so is extremely irrational.
OK, I found this kind of creepy:
A few miles south of Lynchburg in Campbell County sits a large and attractive octagonal building which is home to one of most unique churches in the world. Founded in 1977, “The Spock,” as the church is called, is the world’s only church of Star Trek, a religion centered on the popular 1960’s television series featuring the adventures of a crew of interstellar explorers. “The Spock” promotes beliefs associated with one of the popular characters in the TV series, Mr. Spock, who was from a peace-loving race of aliens known as “Vulcans.”
The ideology of the church is centered on so-called Vulcan philosophy which includes the belief in pure “logic” and which emphasizes a lifestyle devoid of emotion. A huge stained-glass likeness of the church’s namesake is featured in the sanctuary, where churchgoers recite sequences of dialogue from the series and participate in what they call a “Holy Mind Meld.” Many church members wear stick-on pointed ears (mimicking those of the TV character) during services and at other church functions (in one case of excessive dedication to the “faith,” one member attempted to have his ears surgically altered but with disastrous results, requiring extensive corrective surgery).
Now, normally, I find myself of the same mind as Professor Steven Dutch on this subject:
Contrary to popular psychology, this is not a society where people are out of touch with their feelings. This society wallows in feelings. If anything, what most people in this society need is precisely to get out of touch with their feelings for a while. Beirut, Belfast and Belgrade were all creations of people who were entirely too much in touch with their feelings.
When film does show rational people, it is often as a caricature. The Vulcans in Star Trek are the type examples. They are regularly portrayed as secretly longing to have human emotions but unable to do so because of their conditioning. (The Vulcans nearly destroyed themselves before they learned to control their emotions. See Beirut, Belfast and Belgrade above.) Or when the characters simply proceed rationally (Star Wars: The Phantom Menace) critics lambaste them as stiff and wooden. Considering the number of people in the arts who have destroyed themselves through suicide, substance abuse or self-destructive lifestyles, I conclude that many media critics are simply unable to relate to characters who solve their problems rationally without going into depression or hysteria, that unless a character has some defect requiring deep therapy, they simply aren't interesting to the critics.
Clearly, though, these "Spockians" are not acting rationally at all, since a rational person would be the first to admit that one cannot be rational all the time. In fact, the effort to do so is extremely irrational.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Just in time for Halloween!
I wrote up this phony press release for work as a joke last Halloween, and many of my co-workers seemed to find it funny, so I thought I'd post it for all to see.
A bit of backstory: some of my coworkers noticed some teenagers using a ouija board in the library, and another one joked we should adopt a ouija reference service.
I wrote up this phony press release for work as a joke last Halloween, and many of my co-workers seemed to find it funny, so I thought I'd post it for all to see.
A bit of backstory: some of my coworkers noticed some teenagers using a ouija board in the library, and another one joked we should adopt a ouija reference service.
Anytown Public Libraries is pleased to offer another information service for our customers. We already offer our top-notch public service, our 24-hour email reference service, and our one number for all your information needs: (555) 555-BOOK, as well as our website located at www.anytownlibrary.com. This year, in the wake of Ontario Public Libraries Week, Anytown Public Libraries is pleased to add our newest information service, InfoGhost.
Using proven necromantic principles of ouija and seance, Anytown PL is now able to ask questions of the dead and departed on your behalf. Genealogical research has never been easier--why not ask you late grandfather exactly where his grandfather came from? And if great-aunt Winnie is haunting your attic, maybe she knows where your missing library book is!
InfoGhost will launch on October 31, 2007, as our psychic consultants have informed us that the etheric energies released by Ontario Public Libraries Week will form a sympathetic resonance with the Gate to the Underworld while Scorpio is in the House of Jupiter at the end of the tenth month. Assuming these auspicious portents hold true, InfoGhost will go dead--er, live on Halloween!
InfoGhost is available only to registered members of Anytown Public Libraries. We regret that because of a deeply-held cultural belief in metempsychosis, InfoGhost may not be able to contact deceased relations of the Hindu or Sikh faiths.
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