"We are the thylacines of snerk."

A post without any redeeming social value whatsoever:

Does anybody know the origins of the word "snerk"? I am watching it appear in conversations across the internet either through multiple parallel evolution or a remarkable osmosis, and I am curious.

Earthly Delights

I want.

Doesn't everybody want their own three-dimensional representations of some of the most manic, surrealist, and brilliant heavens and hells ever committed to paint? Thanks to both dgr8bob and oldcharliebrown for alerting me (independently, what's more) to the existence of these. Now I shall sit here and covet. Wait, isn't that a sin too . . . ?

I'm a stranger here myself

Inspired by a recent interchange with gwynnega and earlier discussion with John Benson, I am rambling about Ridley Scott's Alien. I saw the film for the first time this summer: having been, when quite small, scared into weeks of nightmares by what I think must have been an exhibit on aliens at the Boston Museum of Science. I saw the model of an H.R. Giger alien, that looked half like a tar-black dinosaur skeleton and half like a predatory insect and altogether menacing, looming up over a mannequin astronaut that was probably meant for Ripley, and that was it. Couldn't sleep for nights. So I put off seeing Alien, and put it off, and then this summer I saw Aliens. It seemed that every time I was packing clothes for a trip late at night and turned on the television, the last forty-five minutes of Aliens were on; so I caved to fate and one night, during a blackout, watched the entire movie. (That was atmospheric.) To my great surprise, it didn't leave me far too freaked out to sleep that night. I rented Alien shortly thereafter, and was amazed.

What I love best about Alien may be what an unromanticized future it presents. Maybe somewhere in this near-future universe there's space opera and interstellar politics and people with neat uniforms and shined shoes, but not on the Nostromo: this is a space-age working stiff's slice of life. Far from being sleek, streamlined, FTL in a pretty effect of stars gone to streaks of light, the ship is grungy, bulky, functional; it's perfectly serviceable, it gets from one place to another in one piece, but it doesn't need to look beautiful to do so. For all its size, its rooms and corridors have some of the same claustrophic, oil-stained feel as a submarine, possibly crossed with a mechanic's garage. Same for the technology: it's there, but it's hardly gosh-wow. Cryogenic sleep? Mundane as coffee. Waking up from a nap of several decades seems about as much fun as oversleeping with a hangover, to judge from John Hurt's expression when he opens his eyes. Alien distress call? Fine, answer it, as long as it's not too much of a waste of time. As for Ash, it's only a revelation that he's an android because they thought he was human: the fact of his nature doesn't surprise them.

Herein, I think, lies much of the effectiveness of the horror. With the exception of Ash, the crew all seem to have worked together on multiple ship-outs just like this one: retrieving ores or salvage or whatever the Company sends them out for, and then coming back home so everyone can get their proper cut and go out and do the exact same thing all over again. These are ordinary people, getting on with their lives. Their introductions as characters are matter-of-fact, ranks and personalities gradually emerging through conversation and daily routine, scarcely a distinguishable movie "type" among them. (Nor is this, despite a gratuitous shot of Ripley in the smallest underwear in the known universe, a cast of beautiful people. Interesting faces, yes. Hollywood sculptures, no.) Don't even try to tell by characterization or actor's reputation who will disappear first. As viewers, we may all know Ellen Ripley as the definitive female action hero: here she's just another one of the crew, who doesn't even stand out particularly for the first half-hour or so. There are no guarantees.

It's like walking into the office some morning to discover that a finely honed predator has been evolving behind the coffee maker. And then nothing can ever be taken for granted again.

Is there a quiz out there for chai?

I can't even drink coffee:


You are a double espresso at three AM.

You are the tortured, nail-biting essence of
coffee. You see visions. You could change the
world if only you were up at the same time as
everyone else. You have created a programming
language that throws errors if the code is not
written in iambic pentameter, and you are
infuriated by the typos in the new edition of
Ulysses. You practice sarcasm as a
form of tantric sex, and your cats have
doctorates. You believe in virgin sacrifice in
a good cause.


What kind of coffee are you?
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This is deeply ironic . . .