<Richard Feynman> muses on the relationship between <physics and chess>:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1dg...

Despondent over his inability to create a <unified field theory>, and even more about the fact that he can no longer pull young Co-Eds, <Richard Feynman> turns to <India>-- and <The Bongos>.

WARNING- THIS IS REAL-- NOT A JOKE

For example.

INT/EXT

MAG and BUB are talking:

- Z!
- Z?
- Zed?
- Zee
- They say Zed in Ingerland.
- Zee!
- Peter Greenaway sez Zed.
- We say Zee in Holland. Also in Biel.
- Biel? Zee? Bub?
- Zzzzzzzzzz

IE-- NOT ACID-WASHED!!

get it?

HAHAHAHAAHAHAAH

<I am Aguirre- the Wrath of God-- When I walk, the earth trembles>...

(pan upwards to reveal Monkeys chattering in the trees)

Ok I don't care how many guineas you got hiding in the wood work

Oh wait that's from the Godfather.

Ok <Coast of Gravol>.

Z is <hopelessly dated> if you actually watch it today.

Possibly might be better with the aid of a time machine.

OOZ is sublime--- slugs ahoy.... symmetry- beautiful, useless symmetry... easeful death... rot...

<Thus I Refute Beelzy>, the incomparable shorty horror story by <John Collier> when a positivistic Dentist Dad mistakenly tells his son that his imaginary friend "Beelzy" isn't real...

<perched between> Heaven and Hell, naked up a tree, <Feynman> spent every second he wasn't chasing skirt looking into the telescope.. not brass though in Canada it gets cold enough to freeze the nuts off a brass monkey...

[SIC] hubby wanted JAM on it!

But there are so many typos in the Forest of Invincible Error.

In contrast, Dubya ties up his tongue and ass-lashes the senate.

Stellar post <Dom>!

Interestingly, Bears enjoy <itching posts> but have little use for <hitching posts>.

As a <mathophile>, you'll be interested to know that I have <percolated> one of <Schroedinger's Energy-Wave> equations in order to predict, with absolute certainty, the result of tonight's <sporting match> between <Viva Zapata> and <The Magus>.

Evidence is in plain site on the <live games page> until the administrators <censor> it.

Do you know what the <censor's> job was in the <Roman Republic>?

Hint-- you REALLY didn't want to get censored.

Earlier, the censor cut 4982 minutes from Gone With the Wind (for allowing both dark-skinned folks and immoral light-skinned ones in the vicinity of Tara, named after a sacred Irish pin-up girl).

Sorry, sacred Irish hill. Hill of Tara. Silly of me.

Also, Casablanca was banned cos Rick and Ilse weren't married when they 'had' Paris.

By the 1980s, only films with bad sex plus bad religion got banned: eg, Bad Lieutenant. And Life of Brian, though it was released after a 7-year appeal.

Then, latterly, the bowers-that-pee noticed that Irish film 'classification' was "even more liberal than the Brits, shock horror".

So they changed the name. The IFCO, Irish Film Censorship Office, became the IFCO, or Irish Film Classification Office.

Bureaucrats. Gotta love 'em. But it's a love that dare not speak its name: I might get censored.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the love that dare not speak its name has been shooting its mouth off ... and then mouthing its shoe off ...

You know, <Catholicism> really has a lot to answer for in general, I think, and in Irish social history in particular.

Since I'm not <Sinead O'Connor>, lacking the looks, talent, drive, ambition, taste, and sense--

I expect my "career" as a Class B- or maybe even-- A- Club player (approximate USCF rating probably around 1800) will not be ended due to my harsh criticism of the Pope.

I don't even know who he is at the moment. German chap?

Anyhoo he seems like a nice fellow.

However, since I haven't even started my Club Playing Impoverished Chess career, I think I will escape the fate of the egregiously unfairly benighted <Sinead>.

You know, I really, really love her music.

And I really, really, think she had a lot of guts to make a fuss at <Saturday Night Live> and at <Bob Fest>.

I think that the censorship of art, including <decadent art>, <shock art> , and <really, really, laughably bad quality art> is an abomination.

Heh- and <The Bad Lieutenant>...

What a great movie. Did you notice that as well as everything else, he was really "bad" at his job?

Like he was the worst detective ever, regardless of his moral condition.

Ironically, of course, the film is a <Christian allegory>.

In the end, <Keitel> gives back the <30,000> (read 30 shekels- the "betrayal amount") to a drug dealer to help redeem him.

Viz- (a good magazine)--

<Kietel> as Judas redeems himself as well, in explicit <Christian iconography>.

He is actually a doubled <Christ-Judas> figure.

Remember when he is drunk and stoned and naked and moaning, with his arms held out to the sides?

This is the <Crucifixion scene>.

But I know you know all of this.

Also, finally, why did the American Catholics go spare over the <Excorsit>?

This film is a <non-allegorical>, totally literal vindication of all of the loopiest beliefs of the Catholic Church.

A fact pointed out by Pauline Kael, who despised the film for its flat characterization and mechanical grotesquery.

I like her. She hated everyone except <Robert Altman>.

RIP Pauline, I read all of your collected reviews.

The <Rat Singer> ... maybe he's descended from the Pied Piper?

One time I was playing a Captain Beefheart song, <Dachau Blues>. Maybe it's just a *little* trite, but the sentiments seem beyond reproach: "Dachau Blues/ Those poor poor Jews/ The world can't forget their misery/ Talkin' 'bout the burnin' and the killin' back in World War 2/ Back in Dachau Blues ..."

A leftish-liberalish politically-ish engaged friend was passing by, and was utterly appalled. Some things are too serious to put in a song, etc. Not unlike the flak Benigni got later with his holocaust 'comedy'.

But the Captain's heart was clearly in the right place, and that'll suffice for me. If folks have ire to spew, let 'em throw it at Norwegian Fascist-Metal bands writing homages to that failed painter Adolf, and his deeply sick book.

Meanwhile, back at the Vatican. It could be argued that successive popes, by upholding the sacred ban on contraception have done more damage to the planet than most people ever get a chance to.

Did I tell you that the Irish word for contraceptive is <frith-ghiniunach>, pronounced 'Friggin Eunuch'?

Yeah, I did. And I'm doing it again now.

In the last few days I've invented a fictional 18th century Frenchman named Debauchin ... elements of Cagliostro, DeSade, and - ahead of time - Duchamp. He'll fit nicely into my retelling of Mason & Dixon.

Meanwhile a news story about a new Alzheimer's drug could add a key plotline to my ongoing Larry Alzheimer saga.

I'll co-opt you as Reader.

<There's no hiding in memory
There's <<<no one>>> to avoid

There's only one direction
In the faces that I see
It's upward to the ceiling
Where a chamber's said to be

Like a forest fight for sunlight
It takes root in every tree

And the wise and foolish virgins
Giggle with their bodies glowing bright

Through the door a harvest feast
Is lit by candlelight
It's the bottom of a staircase
That spirals out of sight...>

Mrs. Unaccountably Agricultural Progressive British Rock Music

You owe me soda

Oh, and tell Mrs Whatsername - Chesapeake? Hudson? O'Keechokee? - that I shan't be needing her services tonight. No dinner, obviously -- that's *alimentary*, my dear Watson. And no 'relief massage' because the family jewels are in hock to the Chinaman.

Cut.

Very well, then. Back in your box, Sherlock. You were never more than a fictional character created by Prof Moriarty to allow him to test his mettle: the world's first interactive videogame.

<you owe me soda>
I owe you everything, but terms and conditions apply so you can't sue me. Like a dairy farmer, I owe my success to udders.

<Since I'm not <Sinead O'Connor>, lacking the looks, talent, drive, ambition, taste, and sense-->

Great voice, yes, but I wouldn't extrapolate from it to any aspect of her personal life. Ambition? I think not. Just for starters.

You also lack the *forkedupness*.
Not to mention her polyphilogenitive tropisms and a strange habit of making babies with journalists.

Am I jealous because I was never the Chosen One? Most definitely not. Sinead spooks me, and I'm pretty sure I could decline any approach along those lines.

You, in total contrast, are already *perfect*. Although I believe that *making meaning* is a superior activity to making bacon, making out, making money, making lurve, making one's way, making it, making believe, making certain, making the most of, or making mad passionate babies.

C'est exquis, ca.

"I am, but what I am
Others may know, others may care

I always live with myself
And that's too much."

[borrowed from Barefoot in the Head, by Brian Aldiss. As is ...]

"Life's never been better
Each night lasts a year
Stuffed with women and music
And piss-ups and beer

On Thursday right early
We were up with the lark
We shot it down dead
And crawled back in the dark.

Life's never been better ... [repeat]"

Some folk just can't make their minds up. Existential angst or bucolic pleasures? Why not have both?

On grey recursive mornings
Over entropy cornflakes
We sprinkled information.

For less than a moment
The colours don't fit
The rhythms don't scan
And the newsreader's lips
Move to a tune
That has yet to be played
Sometimes the shabbiness shows
And it makes me afraid.

[finale] - Man's Best Friend

Against the wind chill factor
We built shelters of words
Which kept out other words.

Dying in the snow
Dying with the cruel fate
Of Otzi the iceman
Who emerged from his glacier
After 12,000 years
And became a scientific freakshow
His proboscis probed in Pisa
His pizzle in Paris
His liver in Leiden.

This is no place to die
Won't posterity have enough to laugh at?

And then, from nowhere
Big, snuffling, valiant
Trained to bring succour to Otzi
And all the other idiots
A Saint Bernard bounds over the snowdrift
Sniffs, pants with pleasure, job well done.

Got eaten by <the Frog>, I expect.

It practices chess, it keeps its webby hand in -- well, technically it keeps its *tongue* in, except it doesn't, it tends to stick it out - violently, ultra-rapidly, with a coiled-spring force vector that disobeys several of the laws of physics.

Enter a Police Officer

*sings*

<"And after luncheon
With my truncheon
I'll hear the crunch on
Froggy skulls.
And after dinner
We'll grab some sinner
And force them in 'er
- froggy skulls.>

- Right, sonny boy. You got any idea how many laws you just broke? *Driving While Green*, that's one. Then there's resisting arrest by being covered in slime. Officer Murphy used six pairs of gloves and is still wringing her hands like that Lady MacBeth. Then there's the *attempted tongue-lashing* at 20 paces - could've been nasty, that.

Right, put 'im in the van. Cripes, you idiot, not the police van -- it's not like cleaning up after a drunk, you know. Or even one of those lunatics with a chemistry lab, cutting his class-A drugs with hydrogen sulphide. No, this frog is on a whole other level.

Put it this way. If you was a frog too, you'd be sexually aroused already.