Don't Panick!

Don't panick, but do be aware that Towel Day is Monday. Be prepared, know where your towel is, and offer thanks to whatever supreme being you happen to worship that we were able to experience Douglas' genius, for a little while.

The Black Arrow

I've just read The Black Arrow by Robert Louis Stevenson. Can't think why I never read this adventure story set during the Wars of the Roses before, since that historical period has always interested me. The hero, Richard Shelton, is brave if unworldly, sometimes to the point of silliness and recklessness. Still, his struggles with divided loyalties, adventures with outlaws in the wildwood, participation in an all too grownup and deadly if relatively small battle and, above all, his determination to rescue and marry his pretty sweetheart, Joanna Sedley should please readers of all ages.

The only major drawback to the book is Stevenson's treatment of Richard Plantagenet. In accordance with the calumny so effectively propagated by the Tudors and not finally discredited till the mid to late Twentieth Century, Stevenson depicts Richard as a villain, an ugly and bitter hunchback, ruthless and ambitious. In this view, Richard's undeniable nobility and courage serve only as spurs to his wickedness. It is highly to be regretted that an intelligent, sensitive man and fine writer such as Stevenson accepted these lies as historical fact. He did accept them, though, and using them he paints a vivid picture of "Richard Crookback," as he is called in the novel. Briefly though he appears, Crookback is a formidable figure against whom the hero, Richard Shelton shows both to good and to bad advantage. That is, young Master Shelton is, to be blunt, no warrior. At the same time, he has a true and loyal heart and, the reader is sure, has learned from his youthful mistakes and will grow into both a goodhearted and a sensible man.

Dom DeLuise has died

LOS ANGELES - Dom DeLuise, the portly entertainer and chef whose affable nature made him a popular character actor for decades with movie and TV audiences as well as directors and fellow actors, has died. He was 75.

Agent Robert Malcolm said DeLuise died about 6 p.m. Monday at St. John's Health Center in Santa Monica. Malcolm said the family did not release the cause of death.

"He had high blood pressure, he had diabetes, he had lots of things," but seemed fine as recently as two weeks ago, he said.

DeLuise entered the hospital on Friday and his wife and all three sons were there when he died "peacefully," Malcolm said.

A family statement said, "It's easy to mourn his death but easier to remember a time when he made you laugh."

The actor, who loved to cook and eat almost as much as he enjoyed acting, also carved out a formidable second career later in life as a chef of fine cuisine. He authored two cookbooks and would appear often on morning TV shows to whip up his favorite recipes.

As an actor, he was incredibly prolific, appearing in scores of movies and TV shows, in Broadway plays and voicing characters for numerous cartoon shows.

Link
Dom DeLuise, actor, comedian and chef, dies at 75

Shorthand Adapted from Braille

I have adapted the system of Braille contractions and short-form words to a shorthand for use on Twitter.

Single Letter Contractions

B but
C can
D do
E every
F from
G go
H have
J just
K knowledge
L like
M more
N not
P people
Q quite
R rather
S so
T that
U us
V very
W will
X it
Y you
Z as

Multi-Letter Contractions or Short-Form Words

ab about
abv above
ac according
acr across
af after
afn afternoon
afw afterward
ag again
agst against
alm almost
alr already
al also
alt altogether
alth although
alw always

bc because
bf before
bh behind
bl blind
blw below
bn beneath
brl Braille
bs beside
bt between
byd beyond

ch child
chn children
concv conceive
concv conceiving
cd could

dcv deceive
dcvg deceiving
dcl declare
dclg declaring

fst first
fr friend

ei either

gd good
grt great

herf herself
hm him
hmf himself

imm immediate

lr letter
ll little

mch much
mst must
myf myself

nec necessary
nei neither

o'c o'clock
onef oneself
ourvs ourselves

pd paid
percv perceive
percvg perceiving
perh perhaps

qk quick

rcv receive
rcvg receiving
rjc rejoice
rjcg rejoicing

sch such
sd said
sh shall
shd should
st still

td today
tgr together
th this
themvs themselves
tm tomorrow
tn tonight

wd would

xf itself
xs its

yr your
yrf yourself
yrvs yourselves

Twenty Years of a Fatwa

Salman Rushdie reflects on twenty years under a fatwa. The article could have gone into more detail about his writing, but makes a pleasant read.

Click the title to go to the AP article.

London's Babylon exhibit divides myth and reality

LONDON (Reuters Life!) - A new exhibition in London explores the reality behind the myths of ancient Babylon through art and relics from the historic site.

"Babylon: Myth and Reality" at the British Museum places artifacts from the site of the ancient city alongside contemporary news footage and works depicting Babylonian themes from such artists as William Blake, Cornelis Anthonisz and Pieter Bruegel the Elder.

...

The reality of ancient Babylon is demonstrated through numerous artifacts from the site.

The walls are flanked by blue-and-gold glazed panels from the city's processional road and detailed cuneiform scripts describe pivotal moments from Babylon's history.

One giant tablet covered in cuneiform known as the "East India House" slab describes Nebuchadnezzar's rebuilding of the city's holy districts. Another, the "Cyrus Cylinder" relates Cyrus of Persia's conquest of Babylon in 539 BC.

The site of Babylon, which sits about 85 miles south of modern Baghdad, has been altered often in modern times. The area was damaged during the 2003 U.S.-led invasion to topple President Saddam Hussein, who also built a huge palace nearby that overlooks the city.

...

The exhibition depicts the damage done to the site during U.S. occupation and Saddam Hussein's leadership through news footage from modern day television broadcasts.

"The effect of the Gulf War was that it concentrated public attention, concern and worry onto Iraq," he said. "The disasters affected the archaeology of the whole country."

I hope there's extensive news coverage of the exhibition. I'd love to see pictures, at least.

Link
London's Babylon exhibit divides myth and reality

Life on the edge for Syrian artists

Click the title to read the full article at the BBC

In the second of his articles from the Syrian capital Damascus, the BBC's Martin Asser looks at the role of the cultural life in a police state which for years has oppressively controlled freedom of expression.

I was trying to buy a banned book in Damascus by one of Syria's top literary figures, and to my surprise it seemed to be going rather well.

The bookseller phoned another supplier located nearby. A boy was dispatched and soon returned with my request, discretely folded in a plastic bag.

Actually, I confess to being somewhat disappointed - as I had been trying to test one of Syria's famous "red lines".

These are the taboos imposed by Syria's repressive government on public discussion of things like politics, the ruling Assad regime, or the security forces.

So how was I standing in a bookshop in the centre of the Syrian capital having just bought a book that crossed a whole tangle of red lines, In Praise of Hatred by Khalid Khalifa?

Happily, or perhaps unhappily, my faith in Syrian totalitarianism was restored as soon as I asked for a receipt for my purchase.

"I can't give you one, sir," the bookseller hissed conspiratorially. "It's banned, it's a banned book. Let me make it out in a different title for the same price."

Which he did, officially "selling" me a fictional work (in more than one sense) called In Praise of Women.

It's not perhaps a very good fit, but the above excerpted article reminded me of a story in the December '08 issue of Asimov's Science Fiction, "The Flowers of Nicosia." Click the story title for an excerpt.

Snowball

"Confusticate and drat it all!" I slammed back from the computer, taut with frustration, and sat for a moment, staring at the monitor screen. It seemed to stare back with its enlarged print and enhanced, brightly colored cursor. Then, I sank my head into my hands. "I can't," I moaned. "I can't, can't, can't write!"

"What's the pur-roblem?" my cat, Snowball, inquired languorously. She sounded so relaxed!

I dug my fingers through my hair and groaned. "The problem is that there's nothing I can write about." Snowball made a low, rumbly sort of inquiring sound. I sat up and swiveled to look at her where she lay on the windowsill, ears perked, large, round, green eyes trained on me attentively. I sighed. "You're supposed to write what you know, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, everything I know - my real or everyday life, my dream life, my fantasy life," I choked on a sob and returned my head to my hands. "Even and especially my pain and despair and emptiness life -" Snowball growled. I ignored her and my ungrammatical construction. "Everything I know is Kit." Snowball sneezed.

She had never liked Kit, and had made no bones that she was satisfied that he and I had broken up. But, I was devastated by the breakup. I hadn't eaten, hadn't showered, hadn't gotten dressed for days. The only thing that kept me going was needing to take care of Snowball. Then, I had woken up this morning, well, actually, it had been almost 12:30, and looked listlessly at the large display digital clock which showed not only the time, but also the date and room temperature. With a shock, I realized that the deadline for the NFB Writers' Division contests was only four days away. I had to enter something, and fast! After washing and filling Snowball's food and water dishes and cleaning her litter box, I sat down listlessly at the computer. But, everything I started seemed too personal, too intense, too Kit.
Now I tried to explain this to Snowball. She rumbled thoughtfully. "Don't humans write about their most intimate ex-purr-iences in autobiographies, and memoirs, and those novels with the Fur-rench name?"

"Roman à clef? Yes. And, most first novels are largely autobiographical as well."

She sat up and began washing her paws. "So," she inquired again with a delicate redirection of emphasis, "what's the pur-roblem?"

"I find that sort of stuff distasteful enough to read, let alone to write."

"Writing about one's life and everyday ex-purr-ience, you mean?"

"Yes."

She began washing her face. I loved it when Snowball washed her face, and the top of her head. She was absorbed in this important business for several minutes. When she finished, she blinked. "Is everything in your life distasteful?"

It was my turn to blink. "Well, no, I suppose not. But..."

"Is everything in your life too intensely purr-sonal to talk about?" she pursued, stretching her front paws.

"Well, no; but..." I stared at her. She stared back, sublimely unconcerned. She yawned.

"Is there anything, or purr-haps anybody in your life that is noteworthy?" she asked with a fine show of indifference.

I began to grin. And, as the grin grew broader, I felt the despondency and writer's block disperse, like a thick fog stirred by a breeze. I still missed Kit something awful but, for now at least, I had something to do. Of course! It was so simple. "I'll write about you," I said, leaning forward to rub Snowball's head. "I'll be sure to win First Prize in the Fiction division."

I laughed, the first time in days, in weeks, I'd laughed as she reared up, the image of a lion rampant. "What do you mean the Fiction division?" she demanded in a low growl.

I smoothed the ruffled fur on her back. "Well, after all," I said. "No one would accept a story about a talking cat as nonfiction."

Snowball growled. Ignoring her, I stood up. "Man, I'm hungry! I'm going to have a nice, big breakfast, or brunch, or whatever and then, thanks to you, Snowball, I can get to work."

Jumping down, she followed me into the kitchen. I poured her a saucer of milk as a special treat, and then bustled about distractedly. I only just avoided putting the Canadian bacon in the toaster and the frozen French toast in the microwave in my excitement.

"What should I call the story?" I mused while setting the table. "Something snappy. Cat On A Hot Tin Roof? Na, that's been used. Hmm. The Cat Who Came In From The Cold? Long Cat's Journey Into Night?"

Snowball jumped onto my chair and sniffed at my plate as I set it down. "Are you going to drown that in maple surr-up?" she asked disapprovingly, pointing at the Canadian bacon with her nose.

"Yep." Picking her up, I moved her to the other chair. Then, I sat down and began extravagantly buttering the French toast. "How about All'sS Cat That Ends Cat?" Snowball sneezed. I looked up in concern. "Are you getting a cold, Kitty?"

"No," she said testily. Climbing up, she sat on the far edge of the table and glared at me. I could tell she was glaring because her eyes had changed from green to yellow. I watched her warily. If they turned orange, I was really in trouble.

"I think," she said, "and since I'm the subject of this so-called 'story' my opinion ought to be taken into consideration - I think you should call it Snowball The Wonder Cat."

I choked on a bite of French toast. "W-wonder cat?"

She crossed her paws in front of her chest and glared still more intensely, orange eyes glowing. "Wonder Cat," she repeated grimly. "After all, how many talking cats do you know?"