Depression 'n Sex

A Facebook friend recently posted the following, and invited comments: When women are depressed, they eat or go shopping. Men invade another country. It's a whole different way of thinking" -- Elayne Boosler

Not what you were expecting after the title, eh? And I further muddied the waters with the photo. Nyuk.

Okay, so if we take the comedic thesis on its face, the average depressed woman is shopping or eating, it doesn't take a masters degree to identify that pattern. If she's depressed during post-Christmas sales, she's downright dangerous, which leads back to the photo.

As for a depressed man, one in a position of power is certainly able to -- with a command and control mechanism firmly in place -- invade another country. He (or his PR handlers) can come up with any spun-til-its-plausible reason to justify the invasion, and never have to admit to the masses that they are at war because he had a bad hair day or he didn't get any after a night of barhopping.

But what about the rest of us average dudes? Can chess, Risk, or Battleship, serve to cure what ails us?

I've been depressed, and overrunning Asia with a horde of colored plastic simulated 'armies', didn't serve to make me feel any better.

But I can see her point: invading something -- anything -- tends to minimize depression by focusing on a whole new series of needs and priorities. I mean, the depressed man seeking to escape the darkness of depression, has a helluva lot to focus on, for to plan a successful invasion. There's the strategic and tactical considerations. Military force build up and deployment. Logistics. Intelligence of, and psy-ops against, the intended invadee. Offensive and defensive strategms. Economic support of logistics. Maintenance of lines of communication and supply. Medical logistics. Managing of news and public relations.

And, of course -- what the late Charlie Wilson knew all too well -- having a well-crafted 'end game' for victory and consolidation.

Alas, only the depressed man in a position of power over a country, or perhaps a global corporation, will have the wherewithal to properly assume the role as deemed natural by Boosler.

For us average schleps...our goals to relieve the tedium of depression, must be adjusted accordingly.

I don't know about you, but the next time I am depressed, I am going to craft an invasion of my own. One geographically feasible. One that is long overdue for execution. And one that I do believe that I am capable of masterminding.

After all, I have won the board game Risk more than once. Anyone who can overrun Irkutsk, can't be any more there than the person that named a country Irkutsk. Even if only on a board game.

Yes, the next time I am depressed, and must fulfill the Boosler Depression Relief Syndrome, I will launch an invasion of Kansas. And after successfully defeating a state that one can see from end-to-end of, by merely mounting an 8' step ladder, I will announce my peace terms: Kansas must take all of Colorado, from Limon eastward. 'Cuz it all looks like Kansas, and like-contiguous geography should be joined as one.

If that doesn't lift my depression, well...I might try stealing a woman's gallon of chocolate ice cream. Yeah, I know: that could get me killed.

I think I begin to understand why depressed guys opt for invasion..

Quantum Horsefeathers

I suspect that science -- or at least, some scientists -- just lurve peeing in Hollyweird's tofu.
And not just Hollyweirds.

From the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology, comes the revelation that Albert Einstein was right: you can't make a bagel travel back in time.

Claiming to have proved that time travel is impossible, a team of researchers at the aforementioned university -- whose credibility is lacking amongst scholars who hale from universities where binge drinking took up all their free time -- say that they have proved Einstein's theory that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light.

Using a single photon -- because a married one has too much baggage -- they claim to have proved that this unit of light "obeys the traffic law of the universe", and cannot exceed the speed of light.

This means, according to the Hong Kongians, that time travel is a scientific impossibility.

I mean...WTF?

No Quantum Leaping; no warp speed whiplashes around the Sun; no 88 mph back 'n forths in a 1.21 jiggawatted DeLorean; no Time Tunnel, no magnetic storms at sea hijacking aircraft carriers, Guardians perpetually awaiting "a question", or cyborgs from the future, open to learning hip phrases and wrecking about everything else.

Not even a chance to send Grandma's oft-regifted fruitcake back to the Stone Age, only to find it as one of the foundation blocks in one of the Egyptian pyramids.

Only in Hollyweird or literature, can time travel "be".

Man, this sucks.

I was all set to unveil to the world my newest invention: a time machine that allowed one to travel back in time to observe actual events as they really happened, but not interact with them and screw up history or today.

And dang it all, them darn fool Hong Kongians claim it doesn't work.

Eh...they're way better educated than me, so they're probably right. I'm sure that my first test case 'time traveller' -- my pet rock, Seymour -- didn't really go anywhere in that cloud of smoke.
On the other hand, he ain't back yet...

Pawdon Me Boyz

It was a day of firsts. I got trained. And trained. And detrained.

As my pet rock, Seymour is knowd to s(pr)ay, "phffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffftttttt!"

My current locale of employment is closed for a few weeks of renovation. So, my employer moved me to another location in the Metro area. One that, with one day's particular schedule, gave me an opportunity.

So I decided to try me out Denver's Regional Transportation District's overpriced pride and joy: Light Rail. Existing lines ran from downtown to south of the Denver Tech Center, and conveniently right past my temporary new location.

I caught the early bus from the park 'n ride knowd metrolly as 'Cold Springs'. With temperatures projected to hit near 100 degrees, there ain't a danged thing cold there. Not even at 6am. It was the earliest bus I've caught there. It was so early, I had a snorer two seats back wake me up, so's I could wake up the driver, when it was time to make with the vehicular throng, into the bowels of the big city.

25 minutes later, we arrived at the RTD park 'n ride at I-25 and Broadway, home to bus and the 'celebrated' Light Rail. After watching one four-car 'doodlebug' go by north-bound, I followed the thundering herd across the tracks, to await a southbound 'doodlebug'.

With a bell that sounded reminiscent of something from the Carol Burnett Show (whereon Tim Conway spoiled the skit after Harvey Korman rang the 'service' bell, and Conway responded "you tinkled, sir?"), the 'H' Line -- running from Union Station to Lincoln -- arrived, and we scattered for any available seats.

Of which, at that hour, there were many.

So here I was, on my first RTD 'doodlebug'. And it didn't take me long to decide on that name for it: it bucked, jumped, doodled, bobbed, weaved, and ran like...a really bad carnival ride.

Without the lines, overpriced popcorn and sodas.

Despite the ride, the 'H' Line performed better than advertised. It deposited me at the Dry Creek Station terminus a few minutes ahead of schedule, and within 2 walking blocks of my destination.

After a long, arduous day of being trained for a new facility, it was time to take the 'doodlebug' back to catch a west-bound express bus to Fried Springs. I expected an equally trouble-free experience.

*BUZZZZZZZZZZZZER*

The 'doodlebug' that next came along was a tad late. Eh...I had plenty of time to catch my connecting bus at I-25 and Broadway.

*BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZER*

As we approached the terminus at Colorado Boulevard, the 'doodlebug' started to unexpectedly slow...rapidly. It's a good thing I can make an unbraced, undignified fall look graceless. Lookin' out the winders of the now stopped-dead 'doodlebug', I was confronted with high walls and no forward view. And the terminus was nary in sight.

And there we sat, a speculatin' away, us passengers in various forms of dishevel.

Then the 'doodlebug' jerked forward. And jerked to a stop. Jerked forward. Jerked to a stop. It was like being caught on I-25 northbound at 6th Avenue during rush hour -- jerk, move, jerk stop, jerk, flip off, repeat -- 'cept we wuz on da 'celebrated' Light Rail. It tweren't 'sposed to feel like rush hour traffic.

But that's how we arrived at the Colorado Boulevard terminus.

It was then that we heard an announcement from the squeaky bugger who was drivin' the 'doodlebug': train was experiencing mechanical difficulties.

Duh.

We finally 'doodlebug'ged ala jerk to the University of Denver terminus, where we was all chased from the 'doodlebug' by the squeaky bugger who was drivin' the broked 'doodlebug'. He assured us that "there's another one a minute behind us".

*BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZER*

Make it 5 minutes. And make that one full 'doodlebug'.

We finally arrived at I-25 and Broadway...just in time for me to see the bus I needed, driving off into the solar flare of a sunset.

Bad twain. Vewy, vewy bad twain.

Of course, I should have seen this coming...especially when you hear the name of the twain that bwoke in the middle of da twacks: it was...the 'F' Line.

One guess what the 'F' stood for....

Is-Ain't

It's all Bill Clinton's fault, y'know.

In the mid 1990s, Slick Willie asserted that oral sex wasn't really 'sex', and that it all depends on what your definition of 'is' is.

The aftershocks didn't reverberate merely around intern apartments in DC and Merriam-Webster; they had cosmic repercussions.

In 2006, Pluto -- our 9th solar systemly planet -- was suddenly demoted by *some* astronomers, as not being a 'real' planet, for some silly classificational reasons. When discovered in 1930, Pluto -- named for an animated Disney pet -- was deemed worthy of inclusion into our solar systemly family.

Then came the same kinda thinking that turned 'is' into 'is-ain't', and *BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZER*, we boot out the 9th planet named for a cute animated dog. All the while, keeping the 7th one named for a below the belt orifice.

Well, move over, 'is', 'oral sex', and Pluto: you have company.

North Dakota.

In brief, the poor silly void between NE Montana and NW Minnesota, achieved a degree of respectability with statehood in 1889. And retained it, despite all the geographical and meteorological jokes, until some nosy North Dakota history buff found his version of redefining 'is': the omission of one word in the North Dakota state constitution -- "executive" -- put it at odds with the US Constitution. And thus, this historian asserts, North Dakota really ain't a state.
One faction within the void is preparing for the worst case scenario, and prepping border signs to read "Welcome To No Dakota..Kidding Y'all Since 1889".

The state legislature is preparing to address the issue with the voters, tentatively in November, 2012, to decide whether to fix the one-word omission or not.

'Is', 'oral sex', and Pluto, never got that chance.

So we have to wait until November, 2012, to find out if it's Minot, or Mightnot.

But don't worry about replacing your flags just yet: Califorlornia is thinking of splitting into two states. That star for the possibly former North Dakota-turned-Not Really Dakota, may have a need yet.

Depending on what their definition of 'state' is.

SeaQuest -- The Musical

A few days ago, it was the idea that some theatre group had for a musical about Middle Eastern terrorism.

I can see Broadway on opening night: tuxedos and bomb-sniffing dogs, all waiting for the fat lady to blow up.

Silly or revolting as that idea sounds, news of late gets better: now some sea-going treasure hunter -- Bill Warren -- wants to find and retrieve the buried-at-sea corpse of Osama Bin Laden.

His stated purpose (in my paraphrasing): to confirm it really is Bin Laden (for the benefit of the conspiracy buffs, which is a complete waste of time: a true conspiracy buff would believe the retrieved sample was a set up, and that Bin Laden is still living in luxury in Dearborn, funded by Dubya and supplied through secret corporation agreements by Walmart). And -- better still -- to sell him back to his relatives, of corpse.

*Ducking boos and throwd whatever was handy*

So Warren's going to prowl the Arabian Sea, intent on finding and retrieving the body of Osama Bin Laden.

It must be nice to be both of those kind of means, and a moron by choice.

But why let it stop there...*TOING*...note to theatrics, looking for a musical begging to be writ: Saving Osama's Privates -- The Musical.

What with musical adaptations of such songs as Ahab The Arab, Midnight At the Oasis (take your camel to bed, perv), Orinoco Flow, Dragging The Line, Farewell and Adieu, Sea Cruise, Rubber Ducky, Sail On Sailor, Ride Captain Ride...and so much more, something like this could revive defunct paid programming giants like K-Tel, Ronco and Time-Warner! Who needs The Clapper or Pocket Fisherman, when you can market the greatest musical hits from Saving Bin Laden's Privates -- The Musical?

Don't even get me started on lyrics...

Whatever -- The Musical

At an unnamed location, I recently learned that a local theatre group was doing research and working on a potential musical about Middle East terrorism.

I know where I could go with that, but why end this post on that note? Let's play a little, first.

I'm not much for musicals, I must admit. About as far as I ever got into musicals was a local dinner theatre that always slanted to the side of improvisational funny.

And unlike their musical operatic counterparts, they never looked like disheveled Vikings from Nordland, or Capital One ads.

More classical music operas would probably bore me to tears, if not see me going over like a fart in a diver's suit when I laughed during the fat lady singing.

I'm not called a cultural barbarian for nothing.

As this subject got discussed at work -- and as frequently happens to any conversation I'm a part of, there or anywhere else -- it devolved into musicals made out of movies. Titanic The Musical came out on Broadway before Titanic the movie (and I had my own fun with the musical version about 15 years ago, but I digress). The bomb of a movie Little Shop Of Horrors went on to become, in the minds of some, a much more widely heralded musical.

I've always wondered why some movie ideas never wound up as Broadway fodder. For example, Jaws -- The Musical. Just imagine a moving, poignant duet of Quint and Jaws, singing Saying Something Stupid Like I Bite You.

I've had three concussions, so this crap isn't hard for me to imagine. And I don't have to worry about how Frank Sinatra might not like it.

Why didn't Rambo ever go Broadway? Imagine the town sheriff, doing a heartful rendition of the Doors Light My (Town On) Fire.

As I said...I've had three concussions, so this crap comes easy for me.

I suppose that anything Broadway wants to adapt from Hollyweird, could be constrained by what can be fit on a stage. *BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZER* It didn't stop them from doing Titanic The Musical.

So why not Star Wars -- The Musical? Why not Indiana Jones And The Last Musical? Why not Pearl Harbor -- The Badly Written Musical by the same director that trashed the subject in a movie?

I'll bet Gremlins would make one helluva musical, right? A little tweaking, and I'll bet a rewrite of the bubble gum hit Yummy Yummy Yummy I've Got You In My Tummy, sung by the entire Stripe Gremlins Choir, would bring the house down, just like it did the movie theater in the movie.

Think of what kind of musical mileage you could get out of Meg Ryan's faked orgasm with the musical When Harry Met Sally. That one would be tailor made for the fat lady to beller.

At any rate, Broadway doesn't need my help to come up with musicals. Nor would the theater group with their notion of a musical based on terrorists. They don't need me to suggest that their musical can't end until the fat lady blows up.

Given To The Sky

If you've read much of this blog, you'll know that one of my sci-fi fascinations has always been with time travel.

In many an adventure in time travel, the time travellers go back in time, flirting with the possibility of forever altering the future, by an action -- or an inaction -- that changes not only the past, but the future outcome as well.

Though -- Hollywood being what it is -- sometimes the future, the present, and the past, can all be jacked with at once, and things turn out okay despite the time tampering.

Even if a Delorean, or a transparent aluminum formula, get respectively screwed up and revealed in the process.

At least we think we know that there'll be humpback whales in the 23rd Century. At least in the hopes of someone in Hollywood.

I -- and most of you -- are familiar with The Twilight Zone (TOS). There were approximately 163 episodes of it, from 1959-1964. As with another sci-fi series that would come along later -- The Outer Limits -- the show packed a great deal of science fiction, theory, and current science, into a wealth of possibilities for humankind, from the absolutely worst case, to the absolutely amusing.

In many of the episodes, with an underlying 'human life lesson' theme woven in, and remarked about in the show's closing narration.

I haven't seen all of The Twilight Zone episodes, but I saw one for the first time this weekend. A classic on the conundrums of time travel and humans wrestling with inner fears, from Season 1, Episode 18: The Last Flight.

It begins with Flight Lt. William Decker, Royal Flying Corps (UK), flying his Nieuport biplane fighter over France, totally lost in a mysterious white cloud. Suddenly, Lt. Decker sees beneath him an airfield, and he goes in at once to land.

But it is like no airfield he as ever seen before, with aircraft parked upon it, completely alien to him, save for the national markings of the aircraft: US.

Lt. Decker has arrived at a US airbase in Reims, France. With a casual remark to a US Air Force major about "I didn't realize how advanced you chaps are", Flight Lt. Decker is slow to realize that he is more lost than he knew.

For Flight Lt. Decker, and his missing wingman, Flight Lt. Alexander "Leadbottom" Mackaye, took off on a mission on March 5, 1917. And Lt. Decker has arrived at the airbase in Reims on March 5...1959.

For a while, it's not clear who is more confused: Flight Lt. Decker, or the USAF brigadier general and major, who aren't convinced that Decker is some kind of prank...or worse.

Perhaps, they think, Decker's arrival is some kind of salute or stunt regarding the pending arrival of an Royal Air Force Air Vice Marshal at Reims: Air Vice Marshal Alexander Mackaye.

Impossible, insists a disbelieving Lt. Decker: when Decker had last seen Mackaye, his Nieuport was surrounded and under attack by at least seven German Fokker fighters. No, the Americans insist: Air Vice Marshal Mackaye had survived not only World War I, but had been a hero during the aerial Battle of Britain, during World War II, and in so being, having saved hundreds of lives with his heroics.

Decker is at once both stunned and confused. Confused enough to reveal a little known story to the American major about how Flight Lt. Mackaye had obtained the nickname of "Leadbottom".

Shortly it becomes a concern to the Americans that Mackaye's arrival at Reims is unaccountably delayed. And Decker -- under minimum security 'confinement' because the Americans remain skeptical of his story -- confesses to the American major, not only had he become separated from Flight Lt. Mackaye because Decker "was scared and running away"...but now, learning what he had of Mackaye, Decker has come to realize that if he doesn't overcome his own personal cowardice, and take off back into that mysterious white cloud to assist Flight Lt. Mackaye, hundreds of lives saved by Mackaye will be lost, and there will BE no Air Vice Marshal Mackaye. Suddenly, Decker's own fear of dying is overcome by a greater fear of what Decker's desire for self-preservation will mean to not only Flight Lt. -- and future Air Vice Marshal -- Mackaye, but to those hundreds of lives Mackaye saved in a future Decker would, himself, never see.

When Lt. Decker's efforts to convince the Americans to let him go come to naught, Lt. Decker breaks himself out, gets to his plane, and takes off again, finding and disappearing into the mysterious white cloud, never to be seen again.

A short time later, Air Vice Marshal Mackaye arrives at the airbase, and once with the American officers, is asked if he ever heard of a Flight Lt. Decker. Mackaye relates how Decker had been his wingman back in 1917, and had "run off" during a tangle with a group of German fighters...and just when Mackaye thought he was a goner, Decker suddenly returned, and shot down three of the German planes before being shot down himself, saving Mackaye's life while losing his own.

When Air Vice Marshal Mackaye becomes irritated and demands to know exactly what this is all about, the Americans hand him the personal ID and other items Decker had left behind, and suggest to "Leadbottom" that he be sitting down, to hear the rest of the story.

Imaginative, romanticized science fiction? Perhaps.

But, as we've seen many a time in real life, some of the most unselfish acts by Man on behalf of his fellow Man, come at a knowing cost to the former.

The overcoming of one's own fear, of self-sacrificial heroism in behalf of others, time and again, is not merely a lesson of -- or in -- The Twilight Zone.