One of the brightest stars in science fiction was the wildly lovely Nichelle Nichols of Star Trek fame.
Last night I had a series of very odd dreams.
One involved one of my younger ex-girlfriends (that one was fun). Another dealt with a friend of mine trying to sell me modified “shell piercing” sniper rifles as a home-security measure in the face of recent attacks in the neighborhood by tortoises. A third found me in Mime Jail (don’t ask). And a fourth one had me trapped in a collapsed bridge near a river with rising water.
Sadly I drowned I drowned. Slowly, too. Not recommended.
The fifth dream, however, was rather odd. Having told a friend of mine that Shroud had not made it into Sundance, he replied his short film was accepted. I was a little surprise, if not envious, and pressed him about his short film. My friend had apparently bought the rights to Howard the Duck and made a 30-minute short filmed called “Blood Duck” in which Howard (the aforementioned duck) storms a South American convent and commences a grisly killing spree, executing the heroine-dealing nuns in a Tarantino-style slaughter.
The frequent arterial jets of bright red blood invariably splash on Howard, saturating him red.
Sundance loved it.
You are the hour of my serenity, the many minutes of my peace,
My desperate daily devotion, and for my calm a sovereign lease;
It is you I find in the stone stillness and refuge of my prayer,
You, the very spark and spray that keeps the circuit of my care;
You are the frequent freight of my mind, commerce without end,
A rail of palaces and parlors, the order of which all hinge,
On the strength of your splendor—those many polished pins—
That over trestles and weighbridges link the silent treasure I send.
M., Merry Christmas.
From Kevin Kelly’s 1994 book Out of Control: The New Biology of Machines, Social Systems, and the Economic World (Chapter 5 – Coevolution) comes our 2009 Christmas Pop Quiz:
Exactly what color is a chameleon on a mirror?
Tonight I watched Federico Fellini’s 8 ½ with a friend. The film stars Marcello Mastroianni and a bevy of shining actresses all in orbit about Mastroianni’s exasperated filmmaker. The film is a clever and accurate commentary on the burden of the artistic journey when it is pressed beneath the heel of those forces interested only in the “bottom line.”
Hilarious, whimsical, haunting, philosophical, inventive, and wonderfully evocative, 8 ½ is wildly refreshing look at the filmmaker’s process. Interestingly, we paused the film briefly to discuss a scene only to have the film start again of its own accord. Clearly, one does not pause the Fellini.
And all that fashion style never seems to go away.
8 ½ is a great film with a musing, maundering performance by Marcello Mastroianni and the DVD offers an introduction by Terry Gilliam.
Of course, it also has Barbara Steele. Unfortunately, it is a small role.
At Jetrefilm Entertainment, we are dedicated not only to excellence, but to the acknowledging of those who achieve excellence in their own lives. Thus, we have created a humble award for those persons so driven to higher ideals.
I offer for your consideration our modest…
Certificate of Eternal Majesty
This is to ordain and decree throughout the Spiritual Continuum of Boolean Sanctity that
[ N A M E O F R E C I P I E N T ]
Having thus achieved the status of pure enlightenment, resonating forthwith as a celestial sentinel of imponderable eminence, standing alone on the precipice of his own supremacy as the lone guardian of the ancient wisdom and defender of the sacred honor of the everlasting vengeance, in mauve, as empowered by the primordial texts of forgotten sages of yester-yore, imbued therefrom by the unsearchable riches of their prophecies, and standing exalted as an oracle of inutterable truths – self-ordained by the incalculable depth of the mysteries of oblivion – while hovering in endless vigil over the milk moats of the ethereal sponge pyramids, does reign the dark margins of judgment from where true judgment is itself judged in the scales of judgment with true judgment, brandishing the astral justice of the remembered covenants with angelic commentary while the cabbalist riddles of tomorrow echo through the hallways of purgatory (in accordance to the peaty Order of Moses) having monitored the whispered death screams of the mites of melancholy, through the veil of the preternatural domains of the shadows of the shades of the least eldest light; with only the primordial wellsprings of his sanctification and the bubbling font of his superiority to guide his ultra-id through the labyrinths of the Night Gallery, vaunting the heraldry of his proto-Aztec charm while simultaneously whispering the mystical testaments of those heretics whom he has denounced for all time through his tenure as chief champion of the elder admirals of the northern hemispheres of Nirvana, while revenging the necrophiliacs of the Templar-Pharoahs of Nebraska who built the wicker ziggurats of wrath, who in their conspiracy to wreak the apocalypse of Count Chocula foretold by the amnesiacs of the doom lords of the before time, defiantly siege the heavenly throne of Carthaginian destiny, from which the fantasy of the future lore of the Lilliputian dead shall sing the spatial hymns of the first parable, through the standard pre-eminent deification of the non-corporeal repugnance of the unvirtuous misdemeanors of unsound theology, naturally underestimated in sum due to scandalous predispositions of intellectual vagrants, having aborted the libertine temperance and non-refundable sensualisms of the alpha mimes, having smartly rejected the apostolic harlotries of David Hasselhoff, and swiftly thwarting the ethical hoaxes of the shrine raiders of the Comet Empire, injured with all apathy during the Olympian counter-thrust of apocryphal hajira of the Minoan spacefarers, and bewailing not the capricious canards of the valkyries of Starfleet, has rightly undertaken the oath of fabulous crusade to topple the philosophical Death Stars of the agnostic hordes of the hegemony of the unenlightened, to the eradication of the ghost-ridden ruins of Silver Surfer’s home world Zenn-La, who will forever be heralded as the archbishop of wandering pre-papal mediocrity – and as a Professor of Muppetology in good standing with the city, county and state of the Louisiana Purchase – reaches towards the summit of the blissful heterodoxy of self-amazement, and who, bearing no ill will towards the sasquatch, will heretofore be recognized and ascertained as the rightful inheritor to the pellucid petitions to the ancestry of innocence, and having refused to pay, whole or in part, the moral deductible of incompetence, forever affirming the warranted social affidavit of the cultural axioms of the hopefully avoidable future ruled by damned, dirty apes, and having a penultimate mote of disposition towards interstellar peace of the phoenix, and having doubted the power of constitutionally suspect claims of those surviving conquistadors from the Inquisition, as remembered through the haunting revelations of the excommunicated holograms of Easter Island, bionic bigfoots and the insane warlocks of the hidden planet, violating their unholy pact with the elemental barons of the galactic axis, who, in all honesty, array themselves in the velvet mantles of the half-elven organ donors of the seventeenth age, having thwarted the ambivalence of the disinterested at the behest of the abhorred and praised, in contradiction to the sensibly extrajudicial diatribes of those who oppose Aquaman, to perpetuate the annoyance of the irritated, through his buoyant charm (though dismayed like the rest of us as to exactly what the hell happened to the much anticipated Superman Returns by the formerly impeccable Bryan Singer) and having acquired the mandatory Pre-Cambrian dexterity of opposable thumbs, is hereby awarded with all the rights, privileges and honors thereto appertaining to his ascension heretofore aforementioned unto forthwith thus…
Now, who deserves this the most?