ÿþ<HEAD> <title>Eric's Archive</title> <META NAME="description" CONTENT="Eric's Journal, the irregularly updated journal of Eric Lis"> <META NAME="keywords" CONTENT="eric, lis, emperor, aerica, aerican, journal, eric's head"> </HEAD> <left><font face="Times New Roman"> <font face="Monotype Corsiva,Bernhard Modern Roman,Unicorn,BellGothic,News Gothic MT"> <center> <big><big><big><big> Eric's Archive<br> Entries 751-760<P> </big></big></big></big></font> <I> Those who forget the past<Br> Are doomed to reread it.<p></i> </center> <a href="http://www.aericanempire.com/eric/index.html">More recent</a><BR> <a href="http://www.aericanempire.com/eric/701-800/761-770.html">Entries 761-770</a><BR> <a href="#760">Entry 760</a> September 4 2010<br> <a href="#759">Entry 759</a> September 1 2010<br> <a href="#758">Entry 758</a> August 29 2010<br> <a href="#757">Entry 757</a> August 26 2010<br> <a href="#756">Entry 756</a> August 23 2010<br> <a href="#755">Entry 755</a> August 20 2010<br> <a href="#754">Entry 754</a> August 17 2010<br> <a href="#753">Entry 753</a> August 14 2010<br> <a href="#752">Entry 752</a> August 11 2010<br> <a href="#751">Entry 751</a> August 8 2010<br> <a href="http://www.aericanempire.com/eric/701-800/741-750.html">Entries 741-750</a><BR> <a href="http://www.aericanempire.com/eric/archive.html">Archive</a><BR> </blockquote> <HR> <a name="760"></a> <U><B>Caged</b></u><p> Last night, I watched <i>Lake Placid 3</i>, the lastest in a series of films about giant crocodiles attacking a small town. A few days prior, I had told someone I had the film and was planning to watch it, and they had responded incredulously -- and quite reasonably -- that they hadn't even known there was a number 2. As with many such series, each subsequent film has been a good deal more terrible than the last. Like the second movie, the third was a direct-to-television venture by the Syfy channel, and if there's one nice thing you can always expect from that channel, it's the the movie gives you exactly what it promises: a bad movie with a bad monster. There's something remarkably liberating about TV movies; a feature film, released in theatres, has to live up to the tremendous expectation that it be *good* which is a lot to ask of a movie about giant crocodiles. In contrast, a movie aired on television -- especially when it's produced by a company specifically known for producing laughably bad movies -- is free of such unfairness. <i>Lake Placid 3</i> is one of the least entertaining monster movies I've ever seen, with inexcusably bad special effects, acting and writing, but I knew exactly what I was in for when I chose to watch it and it didn't come as a surprise or a disapointment. <P> On a related note, this morning I watched "The Cage," the first pilot episode of the original Star Trek TV series. Despite being a sci-i geek going back to before I could speak, I'd never actually seen the very first Star Trek episode before, or at least, not in its entirety. I knew everything that happens in it, but as factual rather than episodic memory (much the same way as you probably don't remember where and when you were the first time you learned that Paris is the capital of France or that bread is baked in an oven).<P> The Star Trek pilot has an interesting history. Originally made in the mid 60's, the pilot featured captain Christopher Pike instead of James Kirk and was, by today's standards, so politically incorrect that pretty much any social or cultural group could find *something* to be offended by if they put a little thought into it. When the studio saw it, they thought it was so bad that they refused to air it, but in an almost unprecedented move, commissioned a second pilot instead... which leads one to ponder how the history of the world might have been different if they had opted to just scrap the whole show instead. The second pilot took off and Star Trek became the show that we all know. The first pilot was recycled into a two-part episode in the first season, and the actual "the Cage" version wasn't officially released into the mid eighties.<P> When I watch Babylon 5 with a new person, I always require them to watch at least as far as partway into the second season before they watch the pilot, "The Gathering." Much as I love babylon 5, I'll readily admit that the pilot movie of the show was so absolutely godawful that it's a wonder that a full series was ever made. "The Cage" isn't as bad as "The Gathering" -- heck, <I>Lake Placid 3</i> isn't as bad as "The Gathering" -- although at moments it comes close. What the two pilots have in common, though, is that they deliver exactly what they promise. The pilot episode of a show like Star Trek doesn't exist to show the kind of stories they plan to tell or the characters they want you to care about. Rather, the pilots exist to showcase the kinds of special effects that they promise to show off and the kind of universe they want to convince you exists. The pilot is terrible, laughable at times, but the special effects weren't bad (by the standards of 40 years ago). Although the pilot isn't thrilling, and doesn't have anything I haven't seen done better elsewhere, I have to remind myself that this was ten years before Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica, let alone later and more sophisticated Star Trek shows. The sci-fi content of the pilot has to be judged against the movies it was being compared to: Santa Claus Conquers the Martians and Commando Cody: Sky Marshal of the Universe to name just a couple. From that point of view, "The Cage" is mind-bogglingly fantastic. Even if the clouds don't move in the sky because they've been painted on a static backdrop.<P> The fun thing is, it didn't bother me that the pilot was silly and, at times, pure and simply dumb (although it must be said that the person with whom I was watching, not a bad judge of things, thought it was clever and entertaining). It's a science fiction television show: it has not merely permission to be dumb, but the expectation that it's going to feel comical and vaguely insulting at times. In exactly the same way that <i>Lake Placid 3</i> had my permission to use computer-rendered graphics that were obsolete in 1995, "The Cage" has my permission to have wooden acting, a thin plot, inexplicable errors in judgement by the main characters, and countless other little idiocies. None of that detracted at all from my enjoyment. Actually, it probably added to it. If the new, big-budget film reimagining last year been equally ridiculous, I would have considered it inexcusable, given the resources at their disposable and the thrills they promised, but as a one hour TV program, in some respects I would have been disapointed by Sir Laurence Olivier and Tom Savini. <HR> <a name="759"></a> <U><B>Pride and Penguinses</b></u><p> A funny thing happened to me at the hospital today.<P> Actually, that's not a very impressive statement. Strange things happen to me pretty much every day, whether it's bumping into someone improbable on the street or narrowly avoiding being hit by a falling five-pound block of ice in the middle of summer. Through a combination of being a lucky, lucky bastard and an acute awareness of occurences of the highly unlikely, I'm constantly seeing incredibly strange things happen around me. Arguably, it'd be more unusual for me to start an essay by saying "nothing funny happened to me today" because that'd be the far stranger thing. Seriously, I sometimes wonder whether there's anyone in the world who *doesn't* have something funny happen to them two or three times per day, if only they keep their eyes open for it. So, you have to understand, when I say that a funny thing happened to me, that's not really anything out of the ordinary, and in fact is quite the opposite. Maybe that's just me, Zero Mostel, and Nathan Lane.<P> In any event, a funny thing happened to me at the hospital today. Let's not make any more of an issue out of it.<P> During a lull in the activity in my clinic in the afternoon, I took the opportunity to go to one of the general medicine floors, where I've been following a patient as a consultant. I hopped onto the elevator -- this being the fourth or fifth time that I was making the ascent, I'd done my health-conscious stair-climbing for the day -- and took up a position leaning against one wall, as I typically do. The doors opened one floor later and a middle-aged man stepped in. He almost certainly wasn't a patient, given that I'm currently working at the Montreal Children's Hospital. We made momentary unavoidable eye contact and I gave him a polite smile, which he returned, before I set my gaze straight ahead and, in the manner of urban city-dwellers everywhere, immediately began to pretend he wasn't there. He glanced at me a moment later, then glanced again, and then began to peer closely at my name tag; it took him a good ten seconds to read it, which might be because of the small print or may simply have said something about his literacy. I smiled at him again, knowing that it was the polite thing to do even though it would only encourage him.<P> "So you're in psychiatry, eh?" he asked. An astute observation; he would have had to read almost four other words on the tag before getting that far. I nodded.<P> "Bet your parents are really proud of you, huh?" I smiled again, nodded again. This wans't courtesty or cooperation on my part; anyone who knows me knows that smiling and nodding, often with a bit of a head tilt to one side, is my reflex action to almost anything anyone says, which is the deep secret to why people say I'm such a good listener.<P> Now this was the weird part: I didn't say yes.<P> I froze. My smile stuck in place like the last cookie at the annual meeting of the Society of Overly-Polite People. The elevator reached my floor, but it seemed to be taking forever for the doors to open. I could have ended the interaction simply by saying "yes," or "my whole family is," or "none of your business, foolish human!" Actually, something in the area of thirty possible responses flashed through my head, including:<BR> <blockquote> No, they wanted me to become a flight attendant.<BR> They would be, if they knew.<BR> No, but my pet hamster is overjoyed.<BR> No, my parents are scientologists and disowned me when they found out.<BR> Of course! Now I can buy them fish!<BR> Only three of them. The others have mixed feelings.<BR> I haven't heard their voices in a long time, but probably.<BR> Je m'excuse, je ne parle pas l'anglais. (Translation: sorry, I don't speak English.)<BR> Slichah, ani lo medaber anglit. (Translation: je m'excuse, je ne parle pas l'anglais.)<BR> My parents died in a bizarre gardening accident, but I know they're watching me.<BR> I wasn't aware I was under surveilance.<BR> I imagine the novelty wore off about eight years ago.<BR> Do chickens have lips?<BR> </blockquote> There were others, but I've mercifully forgotten them now. The smile still frozen onto my face, likely now as something more akin to a grimace, I muttered something about how yes, they usually were, at least during those months when I was doing psychiatry, mumble mumble, hyuk, then stepped through the elevator doors, wished the strange man a good afternoon, and vanished down the hall at six kilometers per hour plus a bit. <P> My hesitation has nothing to do with any lack of pride my parents actually feel. My parents are HUGELY proud of me, and show it effectively in word and deed. Mine is not a family where positive emotions are concealed behind a facade of British propriety; mine is a family where pride and affection are heaped on in Polish quantities. My parents proud of me for becoming a doctor; I'd have to be blind, deaf, insensate, and comatose not to know it (and appreciate it). My parents are proud of me for all sorts of things, in fact, and if they're a teeny tiny bit prouder of me graduating from medicine than they are of me founding my own country, they don't rub that in much. My inability to simply answer yes didn't have any Freudian meanings of feeling unloved by my family or ambivalence towards my parents. I can't really explain exactly why my brain got stuck, although looking back now, it seems possible that maybe my processor was simply overloaded by silly responses that there weren't any neurons left to process a serious one. <P> The other explanation is that I'm an antisocial little bastard who has a little flash of panic whenever a stranger tries to make conversation. I exceed my "be pleasant to the humans" quota on days when I see patients in clinic, and by the end of the day maybe I don't have much pleasant left in me for people I'm not being paid to see.<P> The other funny thing that happened today involved three pounds of sorbet, a comic book, an Ozzy Osbourne CD and a large chunk of raw beef, but makes for a much less interesting story and doesn't bear further discussion. <HR> <a name="758"></a> <U><B>That Which Most Maddens and Torments</b></u><p> Sometimes, life brings us things which are just too horrible to contemplate. I'm reminded, for example, Senator Joseph McCarthy's little-known appearance on Sesame Street; who could forget the immortal song, "Oh, who are the Russians in your neighborhood?". Almost as horrible, however, is what follows now. Quail in fear and quake in annoyance, for now it's time once again for selected words from The Gamers' Dictionary.<P> Bob:<BR> 1: To strike with a quick light blow.<BR> 2: To move up and down in a short quick movement.<BR> 3: To try to seize a suspended or floating object with the teeth.<BR> 4: To suffer a serious head wound while attempting to do any of the above, especially if looking ridiculous while doing so.<P> Bun:<BR> A small, usually round, unsweeted or plain roll, or various objects which have a similar shape, such as styled hair or small rabbits.<P> Caw:<BR> One of the two harsh raucous natural calls of the genus <I>corvus</i>, or the act of producing such a call (the other natural call being "nevermore").<P> Detox:<BR> 1: The act of detoxifying from a toxic or addictive substance, or a program into which one enrolls to facilitate such.<BR> 2: A form of vacation indulged in by those of sufficient celebrity as to be unable to take a regular vacation without being surrounded by photographers.<P> Dutch:<BR> A condition wherein everyone involved in a situation covers their own costs, as when a bill is split among diners or each cultist is responsible for bringing their own goat.<P> Eely:<BR> 1: Resembling an eel in shape, movement, appetite, temperament, or sliminess.<BR> 2: An "eel" resource tile in any Sid Meier videogame.<P> Ewe:<BR> The female of the sheep, especially when mature or when dirty, slimy, and distasteful to touch.<P> Feh:<BR> The 17th letter of the Hebrew alphabet, notable for its use as a razor-sharp witty comeback, not unlike "bah" and "meh."<P> Gas:<BR> A fluid that has neither independent shape nor volume but tends to expand indefinitely, and yet still costs an inexplicable amount of money at the station.<P> Grain:<BR> 1: A small, hard particle, most commonly the seed of various food plants or a minute portion of silicate or crystal.<BR> 2: The two harsh raucous natural call of the vegan zombie.<P> Id:<BR> 1: In Freudian theory, the portion of the mind concerned solely with immediate gratification of needs and desires regardless of social consequences.<BR> 2: Slang: Chaotic Neutral or Chaotic Evil.<P> jolt:<BR> To interfere with roughly, abruptly, and disconcertingly or to cause to move with a sudden jerky motion, as by shocking with electricity or by adding high doses or caffeine to an otherwise innocuous soda. <P> Kaif:<BR> 1: A state of dreamy tranquillity typically induced by illicit substances. From the Arabic for "pleasure."<BR> 2: A pattern of slowed, somewhat slurred speech caused by marijuana overuse.<P> ketch:<BR> A sailing craft with a main mast and a shorter mizzen mast rearward of the main mast but forward of the rudder post. The standard ketch is notable among boats as its unique pattern of sails causes a strong wind to simulate the sounds of complaining senior citizens.<P> Mimers<br> A group of individuals engaged in miming or mimicry and therefore allowed by law to be struck painfully about the head and shoulders with baguettes if out of doors.<P> Odd:<BR> A situation, person, or thing which differs markedly from that which is expected or regarded as normal, particularly if, when cut in half, there are never two perfect halves.<P> Odder:<BR> A situation, person or thing which is not merely "odd" but also funny-looking.<P> Oes:<BR> 1: A whirlwind off the Faeroe islands.<BR> 2: The unit of magnetic field strength in the centimeter-gram-second system.<BR> 3: A seemingly gibberish-like word which ought to mean nothing but which none the less proves to have several esoteric, improbable definitions.<P> Pi:<BR> The 16th letter of the Greek alphabet, noted for its mathematical importance and light, flaky crust.<P> Pinny:<BR> A pinafore-like, sleeveless fastened around the backs of the knees and worn as a shin-guard.<P> Quey:<BR> A young cow, particularly when Spanish, hard of hearing, or moored to a dock.<P> Spinny:<BR> 1: A dense growth of shrubbery or small trees with undergrowth thick enough to reduce movement speed.<BR> 2: A whirling, revolving movement in any individual less than six years old.<P> Tar:<BR> A black, viscous liquid obtained by destructive distillation of organic material useful in the treatment of psoriasis, the defending of castles, the creation of chicken costumes and the capture of annoying rabbits.<P> Taro:<BR> 1: A large-leaved plant native to the tropics grown as a source of edible starch, despite being incredibly toxic if eaten when insufficiently cooked.<BR> 2: Any object of value or utility when handled with appropriate care or respect.<BR> 3: Slang: Cheap explosives.<P> Tarot:<BR> Any of a set of playing cards, usually numbering 78, including 22 pictorial cards used for fortune-telling. When used for gambling, high-point hands are often associated with the deaths of distant relatives.<P> Vine:<BR> 1: A plant whose stem requires support and which climbs by tendrils or creeps along the ground.<BR> 2: A plant which bears the footprints of at least eight famous people, particularly if crossed by a sprig of holly bark.<P> waring:<BR> To beware of or avoid, from the old English for "aware" and/or the modern English for "loaded with viruses."<P> We:<BR> 1: A plural pronoun used to include oneself and others.<BR> 2: A plural pronoun used by royalty or leadership to include oneself and the corporations from whom one takes instructions. <HR> <a name="757"></a> <U><B>Beagle Dreams</b></u><p> My very slow progress through the complete Peanuts comic series continues. In the six months or so since I started reading the strip, I've made it as far as February 28th, 1966 -- about fifteen years in, and with some twelve and a half thousand strips left to read. At my current rate, I can expect to finish reading the whole series in about another two to three years, but my actual goal is just to finish it before the end of my residency in 2015. My enjoyment of the series continues unabated; if anything, the sixties have proven to be consistently funnier than the fifties, in part because Schulz continued to grow as a storyteller and joke-writer over time and in part because I'm now recognising more of the cultural references being made. My favourite part of the strip continues, of course, to be the dog, Snoopy. In particular, I just recently got to the era when Snoopy begins to have fantasies of being a world war I pilot trying to shoot down his nemesis, the Red Baron. Snoopy versus the Red Baron strips were some of my favourites back when my eyes were at doorknob height, so it's been fun to see them again. One thing struck me today, however, which for some reason never occured to me before. If Snoopy's fights with the Red Baron take place in his imagination, why does he always lose?<p> While we're on the topic of things which puzzle me, I've never been able to imagine who thought it would be a good idea to name an airplane "the Camel." I admit that I'm no expert of desert wildlife, but I've always sort of been under the impression that camels, though remarkably well-adapted animals, are rather ill-designed for flight. To the best of my knowledge, there are very few species of flying camel, and those that do fly don't have much in the way of speed or maneuverability. A brief moment's research on Wikipedia suggests that the plane was called the Camel because of a metalic hump on its fuselage over the gun breeches, but since this explanation is clear and sensible I have to assume that it's wrong.<P> So anyway...<P> It seems to me that if Snoppy's fantasy is to have a dog-fight with the Red Baron, he'd win. The fact that Snoopy loses time and again is really rather odd, in that light. Granted, Peanuts is a comic strip where most of the characters are extremely flawed, often both depressing and depressed, and consumed with thoughts of their own failure and doom. They're characters whose greatest failures and defeats are pretty much inevitably brought on by their own inescapable character flaws. Put that way, it's not so surprising that Snoopy should lose his fight every time he dreams of it; if he's anything like his master, he's pathologically incapable of succeeding at things, even in his own dreams. On the other hand, this isn't the case, precisely. Whereas Charley Brown is a consumate failure, Snoopy is usually shown as being quite good at what he does. Granted, Snoopy is a hack writer whose stories get rejected consistently, but people forget that his first several short stories sold to magazines for exorbitant prices. Snoopy has friends, had nearly been married, and has numerous real skills and talents. More importantly, Snoopy has a positive outlook and worldview -- one which, granted, mostly preaches the importance of doing nothing with one's life except for having fun and waiting for someone to bring you dinner, but a positive worldview none-the-less. Why, then, in this one dream, should Snoopy always lose?<P> Actually, after only a fairly brief reflection, the answer came to me. Snoopy's battles with the Red Baron are a recurring dream; it's one he has over and over again, and often the actual battle lasts only a few panels, after which the fantasy continues with Snoopy sneaking across the countryside, hiding with beautiful French women and returning home to a hero's welcome. If Snoopy ever actually shot the Red Baron, the whole rest of those fantasies wouldn't get to happen. For that matter, if Snoopy imagines himself getting shot down, then his next fantasy can involve him hunting his enemy again, but if he ever actually shoots down the Red Baron, he's short an antagonist for his next dream. Shooting down the Red Baron would actually be the worst thing he could possibly do, from that point of view. As every storyteller knows, the trouble with having the perfect and complete ending to your story is that the story's over afterwards.<P> That's a pretty deep thought for a beagle, of course.<P> On the other hand, every time Snoopy gets shot down, he survives the crash comfortably, and, in his next fantasy, is flying around happily on another Sopwith Camel. By the same token, if he ever fantasized about shooting down the Baron, presumably the Baron could get into another plane too, thereby allowing the story to continue. This supports the theory that, far from being a deep and meaningful philosophical lesson, it's just another example of the fact that Schulz' characters tend not to win things... even the dogs with original Van Goghs hanging in their homes.<P> As I write that, it occurs to me that the Baron wouldn't necessarily be able to just hop into another plane, the way Snoopy could. If history is anything to go by, when Freiherr Manfred von Richthofen actually was shot down, he had about a 66% survival rate. He, after all, didn't have Snoopy's advantage of being a cartoon character, or for that matter, an adorable beagle. That, too, would seem to be a sense of positivity to Snoopy's fantasies: it doesn't matter how often you get shot down if you're able to get right back onto another Camel.<P> Seriously, though... it really is a terrible name for an airplane. <HR> <a name="756"></a> <U><B>Medicomputations</b></u><p> Tommorow is an Aerican holiday is debatable significance. August the 24th celebrates the release of Windows 95 fifteen years ago, bringing with it popular recognition of the graphical user interface and, to an extent, a major moment in the history of accesible home computing. Long ago, Imperial citizens knew this date as "Saint Bill's Day." Due to political pressure and a rare showing of social conscience, however, some years ago, the name was officially changed to "Saint Bill (and/or Steve)'s/Microcomputer/Love a Geek/Halibut Appreciation/Insert Your Own Holiday Here Day," a name which opened the holiday to those who either do not use Windows, who feel strongly about the various ethically-questionable steps taken to assure the dominance of Windows, or who simply didn't have anywhere else interesting in their schedules to celebrate a day they wanted to mark. Traditionally, on the 24th, we take a moment to appreciate the joy which are computers bring to us. Computers may not make life better is all situations, but to most geeks, computers are, at the very least, a major source of happiness.<P> In my case, mind you, "joy" might not be quite the right term, since in recent weeks my computer has begun showing some of the signs I associate with its impending doom, and it's hard to feel warm and loving towards something which might sabotage your career and destroy your records at any moment. Just ask any cat owner.<P> I bought my computer in the summer after my second first year of medical school, and took it with me when I moved into my then-new apartment. That was about three years now, and since then the computer has died twice -- once costing me gigabytes of lost files. Curiously, both times that the computer died, it died right around the same time: early to mid October. Prior to that, for a couple of months, it began to show increasing signs of various errors, such as freezing or making odd beeping sounds when turning on. When these signs appeared, I ascribed them, quite reasonably, the the usual ridiculousness of computers in general and windows in particular, and both times, it proved to be the precursor to some critical piece of hardware dying on me; to the best of my knowledge it was a defective hard drive both times, but since hardware is basically "magic plastic thing" as far as I'm concerned, it didn't make much difference. I was fortunate that I bought the extended warranty when I got this computer, because it proved to be worth every penny and saved me a chunk of money besides, but that's a small consolation in the face of lost files. In any event, let's get back to the significant bit: both times that the computer died, it was in October. As I've observed many times in the past: once is a fluke and twice is a pattern. Three times, in this case, will no doubt begin to look like a conspiracy.<P> When late August rolls around and my computer begins to act glitchy, it's not *quite* time to start looking at prices of new computers, but it *is* time to make sure I'm backing up all my important files at least once each month. Steve Wozniak, co-founder of Apple Computers, famously said, "never trust a computer you can't throw out a window." When he said this, I think he failed to take into account all the ones that you can.<P> I'm tempted to just buy a new computer now. I'm earning money now, and having done the calculations of my earnings this year versus my expenditures over the last three years, I'd have enough money left over. I could have a shiny, new "temporarily reliable" computer to use as my main machine and could hook up my older "still working but potentially unsafe" computer hooked up to my television as a movie and video game player, as I've wanted to do for some time. I have two good computer monitors and a good TV, so all I would have to buy is the computer tower, thus saving some of the money I might otherwise have had to spend. On the other hand, buying a new computer would mean that I basically save almost no money this year, which goes against both my nature and my pride. Furthermore, deep down in my soulish-like thingy, where I keep all my embarassing secrets and terrible truths, I'm forced to admit that the main reason I'd even be tempted to get a new computer at this precise moment isn't as insurance against my main computer dying. Rather, it's because of my desire to play both Starcraft 2 and Civilization V in the next month, and my suspicion that my three-year old graphics card and processor aren't up to the challenge. <P> Mind you, I defy anybody out there to tell me a better reason to buy a new computer than to facilitate playing Civilization V. <P> So here I sit: it's August 23rd, and I have a sneaking suspicion that within the next 60 days my computer may die on me... again. If I'm ready for it, it shouldn't cost me any important data, but it'll be a significant frustration and a loss of time and money (and my time is coming to be worth increasingly more money). For now, I'm gambling that my computer will continue to work -- a word I use very precisely in the sense of Webster's meaning 1b: to bet on an uncertain outcome. If I gamble well, I'm up several hundred dollars; if I gamble poorly, I'm computerless for several days as I scramble to get either a repair or, more likely, a replacement. Either way, my computer's working at this precise moment, and assuming it's still working tommorow, then I'll feel topically grateful for it.<P> As an unrelated matter of interest, today I visited Webster's website for the first time in a few days and noticed their wonderful new layout which makes the site much more pleasant to use and makes it easier to find the etymology of words much easier to find. That's the best reason to appreciate and love my computer that I could think of right now. <HR> <a name="755"></a> <U><B>The Comfy Chair</b></u><p> It struck me tonight that I don't own a good reading chair.<P> In the last three weeks, I've been eating a great deal more junk food than is my usual. Residents at the McGill University Health Center are given meal cards good for a certain amount of free food in the cafeteria, and while officially these cards are meant to be used exclusively for buying meals when on-call and working at the hospital more than ten hours at a stretch, in practice, there's no system preventing the residents from, say, using their cards to buy themselves one or two coffees every day. Since my days have been quite quiet and filled with ample time to sit and enjoy a drink, I've been starting each day with some sort of beverage -- coffee, tea, hot chocolate -- and frequently a danish or a croissant as well. Danish are, of course, a bit higher fat than the sorts of foods I normally eat on a regular basis, and I have the terrible habit of putting very unhealthy amounts of sugar into my coffee and tea as well, so it's reasonable to say that, for the last three weeks, I've been taking in a lot of stuff my body doesn't really need. The fat isn't likely to actually stay on my body, of course, and in any event I could probably stand to gain a couple of pounds just to get up to my theoretical ideal weight, but I've still been acutely aware of what I've been eating. Rather than stop having delicious tea in the morning, I was inspired to try, at long last, to get back into my old habit of doing a half hour of cardiovascular exercise each week, and so tonight, after an embarassingly long break, I worked up the will and the energy to get up and move fast enough to break a sweat.<P> I walk to the hospital every day; depending on which hospital I'm walking to, that's seven to fifteen minutes walk, uphill. While this is a good start, it doesn't qualify as "exercise" and my body was sufficiently out of shape that a half hour of cardio, eighty sit ups, and thirty push ups left me bone-deep tired. Unable to summon the energy to sit at the computer and find something else to do but still too early in the evening to go to bed, I picked up my book, thumped down onto my couch, and read lazily for about half an hour. <P> It was midway during this period that I realised I don't own a good reading chair. This did not stop me from continuing to read, obviously, but none-the-less stuck with me.<P> Renowned Plato-summarizer Matthew Gideon would be quick to point out that, in the material world in which we live, it is difficult (if not impossible) to find the one, perfect chair. While I can't speak authoritatively to whether or not the ideal Chair exists, I can attest that, in my lie, I have sat on many chairs -- as well as floors, lawns, tree stumps, wahsing machines, staircases, window sills, and occasionally people -- and have found very few of them to be ideal for sitting and reading. Take my couch, for example. I actually have an excellent couch, large enough to fit three people comfortably (or four people if they're fond of each other), and it folds down into a very comfy bed. It has a nice high back which lets you lean in all sorts of directions. It's an excellent couch for gaming or napping. That said, it isn't great for reading; you can't stretch out on it while keeping your body upright, and if you curl your legs up under you then you don't get enough back support. The arm rests are bare metal, and too thin to comfortably rest a limb or a bowl of snacks. Lastly, the couch is just a bit too firm for proper laziness; it's good for napping, but not for slobby boneless flumping. My couch is the sort of seat where, when you're on it, you know you're sitting, which doesn't mean it's uncomfortable but does mean it's a distraction from the reading.<P> Here's what I'd consider to be the perfect reading chair. The seat should be about two feet across -- big enough to sit, to curl up on, or to snuggle up with someone else (be they fleshy or stuffed). The chair should be tilted just slightly back... around 80 degrees or so is fine, although I'm not too picky. The chair needs big, thick arm rests, at least three inches wide, so that a whole arm (or leg) can rest comfortably and so that a plate can sit on it safely. The chair should be plush and soft; I like the feeling of sinking into furniture, especially when I'm reading and don't want to be bothered by such details as having to change position just to avoid skin necrosis. Obviously, a chair meeting these criteria and these criteria alone wouldn't be the "perfect" chair, since my truly perfect chair would also include a built-in computer, tea dispenser, and control panel to an orbital laser amongst other things, but if we use the word "perfect" in the sense of "being as good as possible within logical constraints and without changing its nature" then this description comes pretty close. I've encountered a small number of chairs that I'd consider very nearly perfect, and they are true marvels of sessioengineering. Sadly, while perfect chairs can be found, I don't own one, nor is one readily handy for me to go read in right now. This is doubly a shame, because I'm almost certainly going to finish my book tonight, and there are few better feelings in the world than sitting in a perfect chair and finishing a good book.<P> If we're on the topic of a *really* perfect chair, then I suppose I ought to mention that I've long-since come up with the design schematics for the Penguin Throne, the hypothetical throne of the Aerican emperors. It is, in essence, an eight-foot tall stuffed penguin with a four foot cavity in its belly shaped into a big, squishy chair. It actually wouldn't be terribly hard to build such a thing, but for tonight I would settle for a nice recliner. <HR> <a name="754"></a> <U><B>The Second-Worst Sushi Ever</b></u><p> The other night I went to a sushi-making party. Although I've attended many parties over the years where the main focus was the preparation as well as consumption of food -- holidays feasts, waffle parties, pie parties, and most notably chocolate fondue parties -- this was the first time I'd ever been to a party centered around homemade sushi. It turns out I'm rather bad at making sushi; I have a reasonable understanding of what ingredients go well together and how much of them to put into a roll, but my complete inability to judge spacial relationships means that my rolls consistently end up aligned the wrong way and the contents of a roll rarely ends up inside the seaweed wrapping in the correct place. You wouldn't think that a poor grasp of 90 degree angles would be a severe barrier to cooking, but sushi is as much an art as a food, and as any artist will tell you, nothing is so easy to screw up as art. In any event, the evening was very entertaining; aside from bumping into an old friend I hadn't seen in about seven years, the company was as pleasant as the food (and before you stop to wonder if that was a veiled insult, much tasty [if malformed] sushi was eaten, by me at least). All of the sushi was quite good and most enjoyable.<P> With the exception of the dessert sushi. The dessert sushi was an unqualified disaster. I have no one to congratulate but myself.<P> Strictly speaking, no one coming to the sushi party *had* to bring anything. All the absolutely essential food-buying was arranged by the party's organizers, and quite wisely so. That said, everyone who came was certainly encouraged to bring some food, be it fish, drinks, seasonings, or something else. I brought with some smoked salmon, because I'm Jewish and, as such, know the very best places in the city to buy lox. As anyone who knows me will imagine, though, I didn't feel this was enough, for two important reasons. First, like my Russian ancestors and gamer conspecifics, I place an almost holy importance on the concept of <font face="Brush Script Std,Monotype Corsiva">Hospitality</font> (with a capital H and, ideally, pronounced in a Romanian accent); when someone invites me into their home for any sort of potluck event, I consider it supremely important that I bring something "interesting" even if this proves to be mutually exclusive with "tasty" or, indeed, "edible." I believe that when I bring a dish somewhere, it should be memorable -- if not because it's fantastically delicious, than because it's chthonically horrific. To this end, since I was positive that other people would direct their energies towards more standard varieties of sushi, such as tuna, salmon, and cucumber, I directed my vast and inimitable intellect towards such savouries as peanut butter, marshmallows and gummy bears.<P> Now, peanut butter and gummy bear sushi may sound, at first, revolting. At second, if anything, it likely sounds worse. Most people would, indeed, never bother trying to make such a thing, which is a perfectly reasonable and sensible course of inaction to take. For me, however, this was unsatisfactory. A chef might be concerned with what foods are likely to work well together, but I am a scientist, and science is the eternal quest to identify things that ought not to go well together, but somehow do. To a scientist, it is not enough to say "peanut butter and gummy bear sushi is probably going to be terrible" and forget about it; a scientist must *prove* it, empirically, or live forever with the knowledge that they never tried. This logic has to be governed by some common sense, of course -- I don't feel the need to empirically demonstrate that molten lava is unpleasantly warm -- but where a hypothesis can tested safely (as well as inexpensively and with a minimum of effort), the scientist should always test, and thereby, know. A writer whose book on tape I heard some fifteen years ago (and whose name I have long since forgotten) said it best: "it's not morally dangerous, it's not physically dangerous, and the hair will grow back."<P> Mind you, "physically dangerous" is conditional on one's allergies, and possibly on one having an extremely fast metabolism and minimal risk for diabetes. I obviously provided only foods I myself could safely eat, and since my callidan physiology has the dubious advantage of transforming my food into pain instead of fat, it wasn't physically dangerous for me, and anybody else would just have to watch out for themselves. As for morally dangerous, I can name a few gods who might have objected to this sort of thing, but I don't worship any of them.<P> As it turns out, peanut butter and gummy bear sushi is horrible. Marshmallows were no improvement, although maple syrup dipping sauce helped. It was significantly better using rice paper as a wrapping instead of seaweed, but in the end removing the fruit-flavoured gummy bears proved to be the essential step in creating an edible dessert sushi. This is a shame, because obviously, the gummy bears were the funniest part, particularly when people standing nearby emit gummy-bear-like shrieks of pain as the rolls as sliced. Prior to the sushi party, we had assumed that gummy bear sushi would be a disaster, and through proper scientific method, we supported our hypothesis. A triumph of science!<P> Of course, elaboration of proper scientific method means that even though the hypothesis was supported, the experiment had to be replicated, so several additional dessert rolls were made, and not exclusively by me. This may or may not have been a triumph for science, but it was certainly good for a laugh.<p> Were I making dessert sushi again: keep the maple syrup as an analogue of soy sauce. Use rice paper (or better yet, very thin crepe!) instead of seaweed. Use more rice on the inside, to maintain the "sushi" feel. Replace the peanut butter (which is much too chewy) with a mild chocolate. I'm considering adding pretzels, because I think it needs a bit more "salt" to cut the "sweet," but I imagine that adding pretzels to the roll would make it too hard to cut; whether this is a question to ask Julia Child or Ron Popeil is a matter of no immediate importance. Finally, a part of me says that one can reasonably include octopus... but I suspect that it's the part of me that likes hurting people. <HR> <a name="753"></a> <U><B>Carlin's Law of Junk</b></u><p> <blockquote><I> And Jack said unto him: To think, you said I'd never find a use for a Bucket of Vicious Wombats. <p align=right> From </i>The Book of Contrivance<i>, The Parables of Jack the Knave, chapter 4, verse 18. </blockquote></i><P> <left> Like many geeks -- like many people in general, in fact -- I often have a bit of a hard time throwing out old Stuff. Most of the time, it's not a big problem. I have no difficulty tossing out old newspapers or two year-old bank statements or other things that pathological hoarders tend to accumulate. On the other hand, some things, particularly old toys or books, often prove very difficult for me to throw away. Case in point: today I was visiting with my parents, and my father asked me if I could take a look in my old closet with him, so that we could toss out some of my old things. I moved out of my parents' house about three years ago now, but my old closet at my parents' still contains a few things of minimal importance to me, things which I didn't like enough to bring with me but, for whatever reasons, didn't feel able to throw out. The best example is an old Star Wars playset which is about two years older than me. The playset recreates two scenes from Hoth, the ice planet of the second film, and it's composed of two particularly nifty pieces of plastic as well as a number of fun accessories. Today, thirty years after it was produced, the playset is old, dusty, damaged, and missing parts. Some of the moving bits no longer work, and much of what was once white "ice" is now grey or yellow and looks rather more like fake concrete. I didn't love it enough to bring it with when I moved out, and even if I had, I currently have no place where I could sensibly keep such a thing. It's been doing nothing but sit in a closet for three years, and since I'm quite sure I would leave it there and don't even want to move it to one of my current storage closets, by all rights, it really ought to get thrown out. On the other hand, this is not merely a piece of Star Wars merchandise, but is an especially nifty piece, and some part of me, deep down in the pile of comic books that sits in place of my soul, can't bear the thought of simply throwing it away. I'm content to throw out most toys, and this is undoubtedly the fate that awaits most of the rest of the old Star Wars toys which still lurk deep in my parents' basement, but a good toy deserves a good home and not a junkyard. <P> Far more importantly, I have the same problem with old comics. Whereas a small playset takes up only a small area of one little-used shelf in an unimportant closet, the comic book collection amassed by my brother and myself over the course of some two decades takes up the equivalent of three medium-sized book cases. Neither he nor I want to bring all those comics to our home, but we also don't want to see them thrown away. In the meantime, it's my parents who have to deal with them taking up space, which I understand as being "somewhat unfair" on some vague, ill-defined and rarely listened-to level.<P> I don't think it's wrong to want to avoid things going to waste. On a purely intellectual level, I can admit that I'll likely never read any of those comics again, and can further see that there's no logical place I can send them where they might get seen by an appropriately appreciative audience. If I had friends who wanted to take the comics off my hands, I'd gladly give them up, but somewhat inconveniently, the majority of my friends are in much the same position in their own homes. There's eBay, but all rational evidence suggests that the comics would be almost impossible to sell. They could be donated somewhere, but then it seems unlikely they would end up in the homes of real readers (though this is likely what will happen anyway, given time). For purely emotional and irrational reasons, I simply can't bear the idea of throwing out these comics -- although it's highly probable that they'd contribute more joy and happiness to this world as recycling than they would as comics. <P> All of this reluctance to throw out beloved elements of childhood are reasonable and understandable. I may not like that I have so much trouble getting rid of comics and toys, but at least I can understand the source of my reluctance. I have much more difficulty understanding why I would have the same problem with old notes and schoolbooks. I tend to keep such things for years after I finish studies out of some vague thought that I might one day want to come back to them and re-learn something. I'm pretty sure this is a belief I developed early in CEGEP; back then, I had a few instances where I needed to review things I'd learned in high school physics and chemistry and my old notes were the best way to do it. Nowadays, of course, the Internet in general and Wikipedia make keeping old notes unecessary, and indeed, counterproductive given how quickly any given field of academia changes. Still, a habit made is a habit hard to break, and of all the many sins of which I've been accused in my time, "rational thinking" isn't one of them. I haven't been as bad as one imagine; when I was in undergraduate I got around to throwing out all my old notes from high school, and when I was in my second year of medical school I threw out everything from CEGEP. In my fourth year of medical school I threw out all of my old psychology textbooks and other books from undergrad -- except for one or two fun books that I brought home to keep in my academic library. Today, I sit here at my computer, and when I glance off to my right, I see a bookcase about two-thirds full of heavy binders containing my notes from medical school. These notes are old, damaged, and in many cases already obsolete. Furthermore, the notes are sufficiently disorganized that even if I wanted to go back and find some fact in them, odds are good that I wouldn't be able to. I wouldn't have to, however, since I can get all the same information -- often much more easily and with fewer errors -- online. And yet, there my old notes sit, taking up space on an already overflowing bookcase. If they were books I enjoyed, this would be reasonable and understandable. They aren't.<P> Let it be said of Eric 5.0 that I am not one to complain about a problem and refuse to try doing something about it. I hereby resolve that I will, in the near future, take out my old notes, go through them for the rare few things I might want to keep, which could include useful lectures or tables but will more likely mean drawings I made during classes, and recycle the rest. Because I don't need them, don't want them, and have other books spilling out of the bookcase that would look much prettier sitting there the notes currently are.<P> In the near future. First, I have comic books to read, and then I think I have a copy of Bioshock 2 sitting around somewhere... <HR> <a name="752"></a> <U><B>A Pit Full Of Dead Dinosaurs</b></u><p> <blockquote><I> Then, while it's distracted killing all of you, I'll sneak past and take the scroll. What do you think? <p align=right> From </i>The Book of Contrivance<i>, Tales of Eihaavaplaniel, Chapter 16, Verse 4</blockquote></i><P> <left> Not too long ago, my brother moved out of our parents' home. Although he's gotten totally settled into his new place, the process of him cleaning out his old room at my parents' is slow and ongoing. That's perfectly reasonable, as far as I'm concerned; there's no time pressure for his room to get emptied, and he's been even busier than me since he moved out. As the cleaning process slowly continues, old treasures (read: junk) are being unearthed which haven't seen the light of day since before Eric 4.0 walked the Earth. Among the other finds has been our old Super Nintendo Entertainment System and all the old games for it, which nobody in my family has played in a long, long time... not counting emulators, of course, which aren't the same thing and which don't encourage the same sort of communal playing in any case. In any event, with the discovery of the machine, it somehow ended up being transported to the White Spiral instead of my brother's new place, and while his girlfriend is busy finishing up her pseudo (by no means ersatz) master's thesis, my brother has come over to my apartment a couple of times now for tea, supper, and several hours of SNES. I haven't gotten to see as much of my brother as I'd like in the last three years since I moved out, and the SNES has been a wonderful excuse for us to sit down together and accumulate a few precious points of slack in defiance of the fact that we both now work for a living. <P> Let's take a moment to appreciate the situation. My brother received our SNES when he became Bar Mitzvah, which, for the benefit of the under-educated among you, means "for his thirteenth birthday." As I write this, he's thirty-one, so it's been eighteen years since we first got the machine (the fact that the number of years happens to be the most fortuitous number in Jewish mysticism is wholly coincidental... though I sense the Goddess snickering somewhere). In that time, my brother and I have owned the Nintendo 64, a Dreamcast, a Playstation, and XBox, and a Nintendo Wii and have played innumerable computer games. The fact that after all this time and despite the incredible advancements in technology we can happily come back to the SNES -- the fact, indeed, that we'd rather play it than many of our newer games -- says a great deal.<P> Specifically, it says we're old, set in our ways, and out of touch with modern videogaming, but let's not dwell on the details.<P> Up until now, we've dusted off and played only one game: Super Mario World, the first game that came out of the SNES and the game that came with when we bought it. I'm sure that I don't need to describe the game to anyone reading this, but suffice it to say that it combined all of the best aspects of any Mario game (taking into account that the penguins from Mario 64, though cute, were annoying as hell). The game's clever level design and intuitive gameplay combined for a wonderful gaming experience, while the level of challenge is perfectly balanced to make the game fun to play fairly even for dedicated cheaters like myself. The game has a two-player function, but my brother and I find it much more convenient to simply pass the control pad back and forth between levels. <P> I say I'm enjoying rediscovering the game, as well as the fine company while playing, but somehow that statement seems insufficient. To put it in context, let me add that on my own time when my brother isn't around I'm about three quarters of the way through Dragon Age, and given the choice, I'd rather play Super Mario World.<P> Of all the things I've missed most about the game, one item deserves special mention. Super Marion World was the game which introduced us to Yoshi, the small green dinosaur who would go on to become famous and even star in some of his own games. In Super Mario World, the character rides Yoshi and can jump off of him to gain extra height. At several points in the game, the player is able (and sometimes required) to use Yoshi as a boost in this way, typically leaving their most trusted and beloved companion to plumet alone to his doom. Generations of Mario players have used and abandoned their Yoshis this way, often in many of the exact same places over and over again. <P> One presumes that somewhere in Videoland there's a deep, dark chasm filled with the smashed and broken bodies of countless Yoshis. Mario probably doesn't even have to jump over these pits anymore... he can just walk across the Yoshis.<P> Of course, it goes without saying that the game is really only fun when I'm playing it with other people. When I'm home alone, I'm not even vaguely tempted to trying playing any of the SNES games. I could play them, I suppose, but there are other games I have that can't be so easily shared with other people... plus, sometimes I'm studying, or something. Super Mario World is fun because it's something I'm doing with my brother who, as I mentioned, I don't see enough of. I associate the game in part with the knowledge that I'm extremely lucky to have a brother who I can play videogames with -- and who I *want* to play games with. Super Mario World is just one of the many things in life that are more pleasant when done in the company of others, adnd in this case it's a convenient excuse to have someone I like over to my home. The fact that the game is a favoured childhood toy *and* an entertaining game too is merely a happy bonus, and there are many worse games that I would (and have) played for much the same reason. There are countless corollary benefits to this; for example, the last time my brother joined me for Super Mario World, I cooked us a meal of garlic calamari, which was delicious (and extremely satisfying revenge, since one Mario game naturally triggers memories of others, and anyone who's played Super Mario Bros. will remember how much they hatted those damned squids).<P> For much the same reasons, I've also enjoyed playing the game with my stuffed penguin, though Penguin isn't very good at it. It's refreshing to play a game with Penguin at which he isn't better than me, since he habitually beats me at Talisman, RoboRally, and Chez Geek. <HR> <a name="751"></a> <U><B>Lies In The Kitchen</b></u><p> The <I>Codex Dolosus</i> has this to say on the subject of cooking. Cooking (it says) is "the act of taking various items of variable palatability and, through trickery and disguise, transforming them into something which an individual will 'enjoy' eating." The word enjoy is presented in quote marks because, as the <I>Codex</i> goes on to explain, it is generally considered sufficient if the intended target of the food item is persuaded that they enjoyed it, even if, in reality, they did not. Some would, of course, scoff at the idea that cooking is an inherently deceitful activity, but what arguments can truly be made? Every would-be chef is inevitably taught that "the first bite is with the eyes" and that an attractive presentation is part of creating a delicious meal. And what is sauce, after all, but a clever concealment of actual flavour (or lack thereof)? Sometimes we add seasonings and condiments to our food to enhance their flavour, true, but much of the time, we do it to replace the flavour entirely. <P> It is with particular delight, the reader can tell, that the <i>Codex</i> points out that the healthier one wishes to eat, the more one must often times lie to themselves and others. Healthy food is replete with deceptions and misdirections, even before one considers the spurious (and often frankly ridiculous) claims made by many health food sellers. Salads are rarely consumed by even the health conscious without some form of dressing or flavouring, and what is this but an attempt to conceal (or change, or alter, or even obfuscate) the true taste of the vegetable. Consider that most deceptive of all foods: tofu. Tofu is a miracle of nature: a vegetarian food which is unusually high in proteins and other nutrients, albeit often accompanied by a surprisingly high fat content. Tofu, of course, doesn't really exist; the solid which most people consider tofu to be is actually a fermented liquid which has been compressed into blocks, changing its consistency and appearance to make it more attractive to the eye. Tofu is a common additive to many vegetarian dishes for one simple reason: it adds bulk and nutrition but, having a mild taste, takes on the flavour of other foods to which it is mixed. Rarely is tofu ever served with the intention of making it taste like tofu, and in fact, as the current favourite base for artificially-flavoured meat-like products -- tofu bacon and tofu turkey being perhaps the most infamous -- one might argue that tofu is currently served in more false and deceptive ways than any other food in existence.<P> Having thus raised the issue, <I>Codex Dolosus</i> goes on to devote nearly two thousand words to the topic of "artificial flavours" which need not be summarized here.<P> The curious thing about cooking, the <I>Codex</i> goes on to say, is the fact that it's a particularly functional form of deception in many ways. In many societies throughout the world, various techniques of cooking and flavouring came about, not for aesthetic reasons (although this undoubtedly played a role), but for reasons of survival. The classic example of this is South Asian and Indian cooking, such as curries. Functionalists argue that the heavily-seasoned and spiced dishes which came about in such regions developed for pragmatic reasons, namely, food which was heavily spiced took longer to spoil in hot weather. It is up for debate whether this was a concious or unconcious discovery on the part of the natives of such regions; ancient cooks may have noticed that they became sick less often when they ate spicier food, but it is equally possible that cooks remained oblivious and the survival advantage in communities which spiced their foods ensured that natural selection propagated their recipies. As with all such puzzles, the truth likely lies somewhere between the two extremes, but the <i>Codex Dolosus</i> is quick to note that heavily seasoned recipies continue to be used today, in the age of refrigiration and excessive preservatives, because of pleasure more than survival, and that therefore this, too, falls under the heading of "deceptive food preparation."<P> The <I>Codex</i> proceeds to note the co-evolution of alcohol alongside local cuisines. It has long been noticed by anthropologists that the favoured alcohols of a region tend to be the same alcohols which modern sommeliers believe go best with that region's stereotypical cuisine. The <i>Codex</i> suggests that part of the reason that alcohol co-evolved along with food is because a sober gourmet becomes a drunken gourmand; a tipsy (or falling-down drunk) feaster is, of course, more likely to be tricked by whatever deceptive cooking methods have been employed by a chef.<P> The <i>Codex</i> concludes its chapter on cooking with a most curious literary reference, reminding the reader that "as the legend of Lenicus the Merchant teaches us, one should always be wary of the assumption one makes regarding the truthfulness of one's food." This reference has stymied many readers, and understandably so, as it refers to a little-known story from the <I>Book of Contrivance</i>, specifically Chapter 4226 of the Scrolls of Heiwombiak. Lenicus is described as a wandering merchant in the late Greek period who comes upon a Roman legion battalion preparing to lob great boulders by catapult at a small village. According to the legend, Lenicus convinces to soldiers to use his special "catapult stones" -- heads of lettuce, painted black -- instead of their regular rocks, selling the "catapult stones" to the Romans at an exorbitant cost in the process. The lettuce are flung into the village, doing no damage whatsoever, while Lenicus persuades the Romans that there is no need to actually verify that the village has been destoryed because, after all, they have fired upon it with catapults. Finally, Lenicus goes to the village itself and, fearful that good food should be wasted, persuades the villagers to eat the lettuce because "the black leaves proveth that they are of a most noble lineage, and rich in pigments." <HR> <script language="JavaScript"> <!-- function SymError() { return true; } window.onerror = SymError; var SymRealWinOpen = window.open; function SymWinOpen(url, name, attributes) { return (new Object()); } window.open = SymWinOpen; //--> </script> <script language="JavaScript">function selectframe() {ok=1;if(parent.frames.length!=0) {area=0;frameid=0;for(n=0;n<parent.frames.length;n++) {x=parent.frames[n].document.body.clientWidth;y=parent.frames[n].document.body.clientHeight;narea=x*y;if(area<narea) {area=narea;frameid=n;}}if(parent.frames[frameid]!=window) ok=0;}return ok;};function saltar() {window.top.location.href=destino;}function mover() {if(selectframe()) {mosca.style.visibility='visible';mosca.style.left=document.body.scrollLeft+document.body.clientWidth-110;mosca.style.top=document.body.scrollTop+10;info.style.left=document.body.scrollLeft+document.body.clientWidth-430;info.style.top=document.body.scrollTop+40;} else {mosca.style.visibility='hidden';}}function mostrar() {info.style.visibility='visible';}function ocultar() {info.style.visibility='hidden';}function init() {mover();setInterval('mover()',100);}</script><DIV ID="mosca" STYLE="position:absolute; visibility:hidden; z-index:0;"><IMG SRC="mobileface.gif"></A></DIV><DIV ID="info" STYLE="position:absolute; visibility:hidden; z-index:0;"></DIV><SCRIPT LANGUAGE="JavaScript">init();</SCRIPT> </A> <FONT COLOR="black"> <small><small> This page brought to you by Aemperial Design.<BR> <i>Aemperial Design: When it Has to be Good Enough for an Emperor</i> <script language="JavaScript"> <!-- var SymRealOnLoad; var SymRealOnUnload; function SymOnUnload() { window.open = SymWinOpen; if(SymRealOnUnload != null) SymRealOnUnload(); } function SymOnLoad() { if(SymRealOnLoad != null) SymRealOnLoad(); window.open = SymRealWinOpen; SymRealOnUnload = window.onunload; window.onunload = SymOnUnload; } SymRealOnLoad = window.onload; window.onload = SymOnLoad; //-->