A gunphone. It can also take pictures. The seductive feature of this gunphone is that it automatically takes a picture upon firing, and then sends it to all of your contacts. A snuff filmmaker's wet dream.
(Tip of the hat to Peeping Tom.)
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Friday, June 8, 2007
Conspiracy.
A DEA agent goes undercover in a prison to find out how the gangs are able to run drugs.
It turns out drugs are only a small part of the operation. The main thing is guns.
But it's government itself that's arming prison gangs --to build an army to enforce martial law.
In the end a prison riot becomes the excuse to begin the project.
--E. R. O'Neill
(It's not my theory: some Branch Davidians believe David Koresh founds out the government's secret plot to impose martial law and had to be killed by the DEA.)
It turns out drugs are only a small part of the operation. The main thing is guns.
But it's government itself that's arming prison gangs --to build an army to enforce martial law.
In the end a prison riot becomes the excuse to begin the project.
--E. R. O'Neill
(It's not my theory: some Branch Davidians believe David Koresh founds out the government's secret plot to impose martial law and had to be killed by the DEA.)
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Shakespeare: The Musical
(Alternate Titles: "Shakespeare in Manhattan" or "The Place Beneath.")
Shakespeare re-appears on earth to mortals--at the Harvard Yacht Club, drinking a cosmopolitan and smoking a Winston Ultra Light, with Saint Dymphna, who in this incarnation is a black woman who runs a nightclub on the upper west side.
Shakespeare's appearance causes a very minor sensation. He is on Page Six and everything.
Ultimately, of course, he is hired to write the book and lyrics for a new Broadway musical: "Three Iz Da Funk"--an all-black hip-hop adaptation of the TV show Three's Company.
A savage once-major critic eagerly looks forward to the opening. He has a long-standing grudge against the producer, and no one pays attention to his reviews anymore: he fell from grace when he wrote a savage pan of a children's Easter pageant. His wife divorced him, and he went from a prestigious paper to a crappy one.
So our critic friend is looking forward to writing a searing pan of something everyone agrees is bad--to set everyone on their ear laughing and jeering at the new show to put him back on his perch.
Shakespeare turns out to be a hack. He dumps in all his usual tricks: women dressing as men, people feigning madness, soliloquies--old stuff nobody does anymore. It's awful--even more awful than the original premise, or the original show (if possible).
The show gets worse and worse. The director's a pretentious British windbag, which doesn't help. And the black cast includes actors who should get better material and are fairly sick and bitter about the gig from the get-go.
Gossip gets out to the critic, who's fairly salivating. He'll get his old job back. His reviews will be quoted on posters. Maybe his ex-wife will patch things up. Maybe he'll even get an easy job--like reviewing movies.
But Shakespeare proves acutely psychologically insightful and helps all the actors in the show (and the woman who washes up the theater, too). Everywhere he goes, he dispenses marvelous insight to people and changes their lives. He's beloved.
It turns out "Shakespeare" is just a washed-up actor nobody remembers named Ted Fearfield. (The ancient stagehands remember, but they never bother to mention it.) He once ran in Titus Andronicus on Broadway for all of three performances. Other than that, he had minor parts and was quickly forgotten. The Titus wasn't that bad, but he screwed a major critic's wife--you can guess whose--and that single savage review ended the show and his career. The critic left his wife, and she's who knows where.
As if by magic, the show starts going well. There's positive buzz everywhere. People are talking about awards, movie adaptations, transfer to Vegas.
The major critic keeps being on the verge of remembering the has-been actor. He has to meet a tight-ass at the restaurant Andronico's. That reminds him of something.... Someone tries to think of Shakespeare's bloodiest play. They list all of them (except Titus): he can't quite recall the title. (Only a waiter remembers.) It's only when his dinner arrives and it's a big plate of ham that he remembers shouts "Ted Fearfield."
The critic runs to the library to get the review, a photo, an old program, proving "Shakespeare" is really Ted Fearfield. The resemblance is dim. No one can match up the picture with the actor.
But a rumor starts. There's gossip in the gossip pages (again). But people stand up for the "Shakespeare": the show's cast, its director, even just random people on the street.
The critic finally confronts the actor, tries to get him to confess, or to trap him. But the actor cannot be stopped. Who is "Ted Fearfield" anyway? Can anyone even find his birth certificate? It was just a stage name. He realized one day there was nothing to prove he ever existed, and he realized that was his great opportunity in life--to start fresh, to make every day of living magical, the way it is in great drama, to create a whole new life, the way playwrights do. Or the way actors do every night when that curtain goes up and they're whomever they imagine themselves to be, whomever they can convince the audience they are, because the audience wants to believe in magic.
'Shakespeare,' with his infallible psychological insight, makes the critic realize what a sham his life has been and how his whole life should have been centered around his former wife. He accepts the truth of the actor's insight, decides to give up on panning the show.
All's almost resolved when the police show up. "Shakespeare" owes $8,612 dollars in parking tickets dating back thirty years--not including interest. His fingerprints are on the paperwork to prove he's just a guy who drove a cab for a dozen years many years ago.
That night in jail "Shakespeare" works his magic on the guards, the other prisoners. Everyone loves him--even his public defender lawyer.
It's opening night. The crowds are tremendous, the cast tearful. It's a real "the-show-must-go-on" moment. But the critic isn't there: his seat's empty.
He knocks on his ex-wife's door. He begs, pleads, to be taken back. She takes him back without a fuss. She would have done so at any time, she says. All he had to do was ask. "The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath."
The next morning is to be "Shakespeare's" first court appearance. It's a zoo--straight out of Meet John Doe. The actors are their, clutching their great reviews and still carrying champagne glasses. TV camera crews interview the partisans: he's a great old guy, who cares if he's a fraud; what's a fake anyway, aren't we all fakes; I'll pay his parking tickets; they should hang him; etc. The usual media circus of craziness.
But when the police come to his cell take "Shakespeare" for his first court appearance, he's gone. Vanished.
The critic and his wife grab a cab to city hall to get remarried. The cabbie looks awfully familiar. Is it? It isn't. Or is it?
--E. R. O'Neill
P.S. I literally dreamt this one last night.
Shakespeare re-appears on earth to mortals--at the Harvard Yacht Club, drinking a cosmopolitan and smoking a Winston Ultra Light, with Saint Dymphna, who in this incarnation is a black woman who runs a nightclub on the upper west side.
Shakespeare's appearance causes a very minor sensation. He is on Page Six and everything.
Ultimately, of course, he is hired to write the book and lyrics for a new Broadway musical: "Three Iz Da Funk"--an all-black hip-hop adaptation of the TV show Three's Company.
A savage once-major critic eagerly looks forward to the opening. He has a long-standing grudge against the producer, and no one pays attention to his reviews anymore: he fell from grace when he wrote a savage pan of a children's Easter pageant. His wife divorced him, and he went from a prestigious paper to a crappy one.
So our critic friend is looking forward to writing a searing pan of something everyone agrees is bad--to set everyone on their ear laughing and jeering at the new show to put him back on his perch.
Shakespeare turns out to be a hack. He dumps in all his usual tricks: women dressing as men, people feigning madness, soliloquies--old stuff nobody does anymore. It's awful--even more awful than the original premise, or the original show (if possible).
The show gets worse and worse. The director's a pretentious British windbag, which doesn't help. And the black cast includes actors who should get better material and are fairly sick and bitter about the gig from the get-go.
Gossip gets out to the critic, who's fairly salivating. He'll get his old job back. His reviews will be quoted on posters. Maybe his ex-wife will patch things up. Maybe he'll even get an easy job--like reviewing movies.
But Shakespeare proves acutely psychologically insightful and helps all the actors in the show (and the woman who washes up the theater, too). Everywhere he goes, he dispenses marvelous insight to people and changes their lives. He's beloved.
It turns out "Shakespeare" is just a washed-up actor nobody remembers named Ted Fearfield. (The ancient stagehands remember, but they never bother to mention it.) He once ran in Titus Andronicus on Broadway for all of three performances. Other than that, he had minor parts and was quickly forgotten. The Titus wasn't that bad, but he screwed a major critic's wife--you can guess whose--and that single savage review ended the show and his career. The critic left his wife, and she's who knows where.
As if by magic, the show starts going well. There's positive buzz everywhere. People are talking about awards, movie adaptations, transfer to Vegas.
The major critic keeps being on the verge of remembering the has-been actor. He has to meet a tight-ass at the restaurant Andronico's. That reminds him of something.... Someone tries to think of Shakespeare's bloodiest play. They list all of them (except Titus): he can't quite recall the title. (Only a waiter remembers.) It's only when his dinner arrives and it's a big plate of ham that he remembers shouts "Ted Fearfield."
The critic runs to the library to get the review, a photo, an old program, proving "Shakespeare" is really Ted Fearfield. The resemblance is dim. No one can match up the picture with the actor.
But a rumor starts. There's gossip in the gossip pages (again). But people stand up for the "Shakespeare": the show's cast, its director, even just random people on the street.
The critic finally confronts the actor, tries to get him to confess, or to trap him. But the actor cannot be stopped. Who is "Ted Fearfield" anyway? Can anyone even find his birth certificate? It was just a stage name. He realized one day there was nothing to prove he ever existed, and he realized that was his great opportunity in life--to start fresh, to make every day of living magical, the way it is in great drama, to create a whole new life, the way playwrights do. Or the way actors do every night when that curtain goes up and they're whomever they imagine themselves to be, whomever they can convince the audience they are, because the audience wants to believe in magic.
'Shakespeare,' with his infallible psychological insight, makes the critic realize what a sham his life has been and how his whole life should have been centered around his former wife. He accepts the truth of the actor's insight, decides to give up on panning the show.
All's almost resolved when the police show up. "Shakespeare" owes $8,612 dollars in parking tickets dating back thirty years--not including interest. His fingerprints are on the paperwork to prove he's just a guy who drove a cab for a dozen years many years ago.
That night in jail "Shakespeare" works his magic on the guards, the other prisoners. Everyone loves him--even his public defender lawyer.
It's opening night. The crowds are tremendous, the cast tearful. It's a real "the-show-must-go-on" moment. But the critic isn't there: his seat's empty.
He knocks on his ex-wife's door. He begs, pleads, to be taken back. She takes him back without a fuss. She would have done so at any time, she says. All he had to do was ask. "The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath."
The next morning is to be "Shakespeare's" first court appearance. It's a zoo--straight out of Meet John Doe. The actors are their, clutching their great reviews and still carrying champagne glasses. TV camera crews interview the partisans: he's a great old guy, who cares if he's a fraud; what's a fake anyway, aren't we all fakes; I'll pay his parking tickets; they should hang him; etc. The usual media circus of craziness.
But when the police come to his cell take "Shakespeare" for his first court appearance, he's gone. Vanished.
The critic and his wife grab a cab to city hall to get remarried. The cabbie looks awfully familiar. Is it? It isn't. Or is it?
--E. R. O'Neill
P.S. I literally dreamt this one last night.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
After School Special: "If Freud Were Right."
Mrs. Janewski visits Little Billie's desk in the fourth row.
Gee, Billy, what's wrong? You seem a little..out of sorts.
I don't know. I feel tense and sad.
That's not good. Are you eliminating effectively?
Eliminating?
Yes. Your BM's. Your bowel movements--how are they?
Well, it's funny you mention. I haven't been able to have one for a while. I love my turds so much--I don't want to let them go.
You know Billie, that's pretty common. It's called being anal compulsive. Sometimes there are good things. Like the way you keep your tidy. Or the way you're so good at saving money.
I saved enough to get a new bike last week!
Yes, that's great. But it's important to know when to let go.
Like that song about 'The Gambler'?
Ha. Yes, like that song about the gambler.
Later. The bathroom. Billie's looking down into the bowl, a tear in his eye. His teacher forces open the stall door.
Mrs. Janewski! What are you doing here? I was just--
It's okay Billie. I know. You were just...trying to say goodbye.
Yes. I'm going to miss this little guy so much. He took so long to make!
Yes, that's why I brought all your friends along. Come in everybody!
All Billie's friends fill the tiny stall.
Hey Jake. Hey Todd. Hey Sara. Hey Kimberly.
Everybody, I'd like us all to look at Billie's B.M. Isn't it terrific.
Wow. Cool. Great. It's nice and tight.
Billie beams with pride.
Now we all have to help Billie do something very difficult.
What's that Mrs. J.?
Billie has to say goodbye to his B.M.
Goodbye forever?
Sort of. Billie's B.M. has to sleep with the fishes and fertilize fields and pastures. But he can have another one tomorrow--if he works real hard.
Goodbye, little turd. I'll miss you.
Everyone joins in.
Is it time, Billy?
I think it's finally time, Mrs. J.
Each lends a hand to pull the handle and flush. We see the turd wisked cleanly away. Montage of happy fish and waving seaweed. Billy beams.
Thanks Mrs. J. I feel much better now.
That's good.
And I'm going to start right away saving for a nice big turd for tomorrow!
Smells like you're halfway there.
That's enough, Todd McCarthy. How many times have I told you?
But Billy smells like an old ham sandwich!
Enough! Now apologize.
Sorry Mrs. J. Sorry Billy.
Okay, everyone, back to class. Who wants graham crackers?
Me! Me! Oh me!
Next week on "If Freud Were Right": Why Sara's Angry She Doesn't Have a Penis.
Gee, Billy, what's wrong? You seem a little..out of sorts.
I don't know. I feel tense and sad.
That's not good. Are you eliminating effectively?
Eliminating?
Yes. Your BM's. Your bowel movements--how are they?
Well, it's funny you mention. I haven't been able to have one for a while. I love my turds so much--I don't want to let them go.
You know Billie, that's pretty common. It's called being anal compulsive. Sometimes there are good things. Like the way you keep your tidy. Or the way you're so good at saving money.
I saved enough to get a new bike last week!
Yes, that's great. But it's important to know when to let go.
Like that song about 'The Gambler'?
Ha. Yes, like that song about the gambler.
Later. The bathroom. Billie's looking down into the bowl, a tear in his eye. His teacher forces open the stall door.
Mrs. Janewski! What are you doing here? I was just--
It's okay Billie. I know. You were just...trying to say goodbye.
Yes. I'm going to miss this little guy so much. He took so long to make!
Yes, that's why I brought all your friends along. Come in everybody!
All Billie's friends fill the tiny stall.
Hey Jake. Hey Todd. Hey Sara. Hey Kimberly.
Everybody, I'd like us all to look at Billie's B.M. Isn't it terrific.
Wow. Cool. Great. It's nice and tight.
Billie beams with pride.
Now we all have to help Billie do something very difficult.
What's that Mrs. J.?
Billie has to say goodbye to his B.M.
Goodbye forever?
Sort of. Billie's B.M. has to sleep with the fishes and fertilize fields and pastures. But he can have another one tomorrow--if he works real hard.
Goodbye, little turd. I'll miss you.
Everyone joins in.
Is it time, Billy?
I think it's finally time, Mrs. J.
Each lends a hand to pull the handle and flush. We see the turd wisked cleanly away. Montage of happy fish and waving seaweed. Billy beams.
Thanks Mrs. J. I feel much better now.
That's good.
And I'm going to start right away saving for a nice big turd for tomorrow!
Smells like you're halfway there.
That's enough, Todd McCarthy. How many times have I told you?
But Billy smells like an old ham sandwich!
Enough! Now apologize.
Sorry Mrs. J. Sorry Billy.
Okay, everyone, back to class. Who wants graham crackers?
Me! Me! Oh me!
Next week on "If Freud Were Right": Why Sara's Angry She Doesn't Have a Penis.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
learn.google.com
Google is all about information--finding it, organizing it, distributing.
Google is part of a worldwide shift that's been taking place for thirty or so years: transfering information is adding up to a lot more than just numbers and files.
Information is becoming networked knoweldge management. It stretches from the way numbers and letters, visual and auditory information are digitized and stored on computers to the way this information is distributed over networks, browsed and shaped for our eyes and ears, understood by users, created and organized collectively, flagged and tagged for usefulness.
By doing everything from making the internet searchable to helping people retouch and organize photos to combining maps with sattellite photos to publishing blogs (like this one) to spearheading an operation to scan public domain books and make them widely available, Google is arguably on the forefront of networked knowledge management today.
Google's focus on managing information opens the way for them to achieve the kind of project piloted by MIT and now being developed by Harvard: open source education.
Right now colleges and universities pay millions to companies like WebCT and Blackboard for prioprietary services that allow teachers to managing and organize their courses. The software is fairly simple--threaded discussion, writing and posting elementary web pages, allowing students to collaborate.
These companies offer nothing so special or so elegant.
And the class sites are doubly proprietary: the whole things are firewalled. It's like having a university surrounded by an electrified fence topped by razor wire. The border between expert knowledge and the public at large is rigidly guarded. (They might as well have barking dogs.)
Google could do it better--and expand the reach of knowledge world-wide in the process.
Google needs to bundle its relevant tools, as well as building others.
They could all live together under a learn.google.com url.
Accredited colleges and universities could use some of the services for free--depending on issues like enrollment, if they're public or private, etc.--esp. on the condition that some of the teaching materials were available to all users.
Yes, it's nice that MIT and Stanford and Berkeley have some course materials and podcasts online.
And yes there are open source software projects like Moodle and the like--but how many people use them? How robust are they? Right now they're all competing for a market largely given over to for-profit companies who could, let's admit it, do a better job.
Who has more computing power?
Who's more on the forefront of making the distribution of information into the actual management of knowledge--from your photos to your calendar to collaborating on documents to mapping the planet?
Who should get behind open source education on the internet?
Google.
--E. R. O'Neill
Google is part of a worldwide shift that's been taking place for thirty or so years: transfering information is adding up to a lot more than just numbers and files.
Information is becoming networked knoweldge management. It stretches from the way numbers and letters, visual and auditory information are digitized and stored on computers to the way this information is distributed over networks, browsed and shaped for our eyes and ears, understood by users, created and organized collectively, flagged and tagged for usefulness.
By doing everything from making the internet searchable to helping people retouch and organize photos to combining maps with sattellite photos to publishing blogs (like this one) to spearheading an operation to scan public domain books and make them widely available, Google is arguably on the forefront of networked knowledge management today.
Google's focus on managing information opens the way for them to achieve the kind of project piloted by MIT and now being developed by Harvard: open source education.
Right now colleges and universities pay millions to companies like WebCT and Blackboard for prioprietary services that allow teachers to managing and organize their courses. The software is fairly simple--threaded discussion, writing and posting elementary web pages, allowing students to collaborate.
These companies offer nothing so special or so elegant.
And the class sites are doubly proprietary: the whole things are firewalled. It's like having a university surrounded by an electrified fence topped by razor wire. The border between expert knowledge and the public at large is rigidly guarded. (They might as well have barking dogs.)
Google could do it better--and expand the reach of knowledge world-wide in the process.
Google needs to bundle its relevant tools, as well as building others.
They could all live together under a learn.google.com url.
Accredited colleges and universities could use some of the services for free--depending on issues like enrollment, if they're public or private, etc.--esp. on the condition that some of the teaching materials were available to all users.
Yes, it's nice that MIT and Stanford and Berkeley have some course materials and podcasts online.
And yes there are open source software projects like Moodle and the like--but how many people use them? How robust are they? Right now they're all competing for a market largely given over to for-profit companies who could, let's admit it, do a better job.
Who has more computing power?
Who's more on the forefront of making the distribution of information into the actual management of knowledge--from your photos to your calendar to collaborating on documents to mapping the planet?
Who should get behind open source education on the internet?
Google.
--E. R. O'Neill
Monday, May 21, 2007
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Needle in the Hay.
A short autobiography after the fashion of Nicholson Baker's "U & I" and Frederick Exley's "A Fan's Notes."
My life so far as lived in the shadow of, with the gift of Elliott Smith and his work.
Elliott as excuse for, trigger of retrospection, introspection.
A stranger as constant echo and friend of/in the imagination.
NOT a biography of Elliott Smith. A biography of me, but with a soundtrack.
My life so far as lived in the shadow of, with the gift of Elliott Smith and his work.
Elliott as excuse for, trigger of retrospection, introspection.
A stranger as constant echo and friend of/in the imagination.
NOT a biography of Elliott Smith. A biography of me, but with a soundtrack.
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