BSG: Everyone Is So Angry

There's a lot of angst in the world, for some reason. No one really ever seems able to get rid of their angst. I assume that if we found a way to eliminate angst, then there wouldn't be either any entertainment or need for entertainment. In this respect, angst in a good thing.


Even in the future, there's a lot of angst. Cheif (who is no longer Cheif, but now Petty Officer Tyrol), Tigh, Adama, Roslin, Baltar - these are all very angsty people.


Take the Cheif for example. He's swamped with greif over his wife's suicide, thinking that it was his position as a Cylon that drove her to such (when really, it was not a suicide, but murder). So angsty is he that, in a dramatic turn from the beginning funeral, where he spoke up one side and down the other on how Callie was the light of his eye, the spring in his step, the dead skin cells in his hair, et cetera, he goes on a drunken tirade, and claims that Callie was a form of settling, that he was really supposed to be with Boomer and that Callie represented a life chosen from a limited stock, a life forced upon him. As a result of his defaming Callie, the Admiral demotes him.

Tyrol has always been one of my favorite characters, simply because his emotions were pretty well guarded. Besides one second season episode, detailing his fear that he, too, is a Cylon (which, wink wink, was true), he was very clouded - his relationship with Callie even more so. I'm not sure what to make of his ramblings - whether or not we're supposed to believe that Callie was settling, and as replusive as he described - but it was a speech I had been waiting for.

Tigh, still trying to find his way without anyone knowing he's lost, attaches himself to the Number Six. He wants to know how to cope with guilt, with everything from Ellen, the wife he murdered, to his own position as a Cylon. Guilt seems to be to Battlestar was fate is to LOST - the overarching theme. The show's supposed to be, underneath, about humanity dealing with guilt. Guilt equals angst, and so on. Six, instead, launches into a speech on her love for Baltar. Tigh hallucinates and sees his Ellen giving the same speech, making Tigh and Baltar interchangable, at least to the women they love.

Oh, and then Tigh asks Six to hit him as hard as she can.

Baltar, angst because his cult was being raided by the ominous sounding Sons of Ares, fights the man. He storms a local church service, acting like Jesus driving out the merchants, and points out something that many people gloss over: Zeus was, in fact, a serial rapist. But he's doing much of this initial stuff against his will. He's actually forced by his hallucinations to march upon armed guards, who beat him senseless. This experience, however, fuels his own Sermon on the Mount type speech. Baltar believing in himself? That's scary.

And I listed Roslin as angsty, but that may very well be simply because she is dying. Can't help that. And this episode she felt like she had to point out at every turn that she really was dying. Though this time it is carrying much more weight than last - look, this is a wig. Look, this is my funeral. Look, this is my love. Will Adama and Roslin ever get over their respect angsts to come out and say that? Maybe in the season finale.

IN OTHER NEWS, Tori thinks herself perfect and sans guilt, Tigh and Six start a fight club, Tigh and Six may have started a relationship, and there were three seconds of Starbuck because the producers could not think of any way to fit her in outside of montage.

Will the crew of Galatica ever get over their angst, make amends with their dads, and finally get the girl who's currently dating the cool kid in school? Only My Chemical Romance knows. But, again, I'm assuming everything will be just peachy at the end.

I Find Room In The Stables

Yesterday, I awoke at six in order to catch the first train out of Rome going to Cinque Terre, an Italian national park, which moonlights as the Italian Riviera. I wanted to spend my last weekend abroad in Cinque Terre, alone and all reflective like.

The train I rode on had compartments like a small house, with bedrooms of six seats each and a long hallway running beside. It was so full up that I rode the entire four hours in the hallway, on a makeshift seat in a long line of placeless people, feeling very much like a part of those pictures of rural buses with as many people and chickens sardined in as possible.

Cinque Terre, it turned out, was much the same. The park has five towns, all connected by hiking trails overlooking the ocean, but yesterday, people walked four abreast up and down the trails, so that those on the inside track of the trails couldn't even see the ocean. The trails were paved with people like cobblestones, from American and Germay and Japan and Italy and so on.

Yesterday was Liberation Day, which celebrates the end of the Nazi occupation of Italy. I watched a movie about it once - the occupation, not the end. It was called Open City. It was extremely good. However, my experience with Liberation Day was not so.

After spending the day hiking through a flesh forest of tourists, I turned to the hostel in Cinque Terre, in one of the five cities, Manarola. There was a sign on the door: FULL. Oh. On talking to the proprietor, I found out that there were no rooms to be had in all five towns; he directed me to the neighboring town of La Spezia. So I went to La Spezia, and found that they, too, were completely full up - not a room in town. I did meet two other students, Mack and Maggie, from UC Berkley, who were in the same situation. They suggested going to Florence, and, without any other ideas, I conceded.

I first found that there was no room in the hostel around 7:00. I boarded the train to Florence at 9:20. And it was on this train that someone, no doubt overwhelmed by an intense patriotism brought on by Liberation Day, stole my bag.

So, in addition to the MacBook Pro, RIP Mountain Smith Manny Pack, Jules Verne's Around the World in 80 Days, Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, another notebook, a camera, a nalgene, and my passport.

I actually feel a little bad for the thief, who went to so much trouble to snatch my pack, but who doubtlessly felt his heart sink when he opened the bag and found only a few novels, a notebook with notes on the narrative logistics of time travel, and my passport. What seems very precious to me probably didn't carry much weight with him. Thief, whoever you are, I am sorry I didn't have anything better.

Once in Florence, in true California kid fashion, Mack and Maggie abandoned me; I was left to my own devices, which were few now that I had no luggage. It was around midnight. After an hour I ascertained that there were no more rooms in Florence than in Cinque Terre or La Spezia. Liberation Day is a very popular holiday. So I took in as many cups of coffee as possible before being thrown out of a closing bar, and spent the night wandering the streets of Florence, attaching myself to various English speakers, and writing on a few napkins I nymmed from said bar. After the train station opened at 4:00, I found a quiet spot and remained there until my train back to Rome at 5:50.

And so that is how I ended up spending the low point of my semester in a window display case in the train station of Florence, writing on scrap paper and making basic conversation with another homeless man.

The passport will be reissued by the American Embassy, but not until Monday; my flight, which leaves Monday, will have to be changed. With all luck, I'll now be home on Tuesday.

I Cut A Greatest Hits

With only a few days left in Italy, I've already run the entire gambit of leaving sentimentality. I was eager to go home, then eager to leave, afraid to return to a world that passed me by, looking forward to reinserting myself into society, hungry for fried chicken, anxious to watch English television, nostalgic for Italian television, but I have finally come to terms with the separation. I think the mark of all good break ups are a Greatest Hits - not favorite moments or melodramatic cream clouds, but the actual entertainment that gets one through the entire debacle. So here is mine.

Whilst here, I've read around 8000 pages, watched and listened to countless hours of iPod, and I tell you this not trying to top any story, but so that you can understand my newfound position as ne're do well. As it turns out, when you take away my immediate friendset, I'm out of ideas.

I didn't include things like iTunes, the institution of writing, or Luke Holland, simply because they weren't mass marketed entertainment. A good rule of thumb is that the selections have to be able to be preformed in charades. Which is another thing I didn't include on the list, but might be an Honorable Mention.

I also didn't include my computer, because it left me, and I'm still bitter. Since it died, I've been having to post from an internet cafe that's more like a computer closet. I have an account here, under the name Donald Turbo, which is something that I did not instigate. It was an honest mistake by the Indian proprietor. I also didn't include psuedonyms and false prefixes, though I've used a lot of them in traveling, from Captain Cass to Doctor Donald.

And so on.

10) THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF KAVALIER AND CLAY; Michael Chabon. When my mother came to visit at the beginning of March, she brought this book. It won the Pulitzer or something. Whatever. It was not only a fantastic story about growing up, but it was thick as a stone when it came to the world it took place in. Years, literally years of research went into it before Chabon started writing. That's heroic. Plus, it was suggested to me by Seth Cohen.

9) THE SUMMER BUMMER; episode six of the fourth season of THE O.C. Pivotal episode in THE O.C. canon. It's the point where THE O.C. ceases to be THE O.C. anymore and becomes something wholly different. But I love it. It's the end of all the drama and the true beginning of the end, plus there are some great Seth Cohen moments, and a solid O.C. music montage at the end.

8) GALAPAGOS, BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS, and OTHERS; Kurt Vonnegut. I read Kurt Vonnegut's books simply for the prefaces - completely serious. Any Vonnegut books I could find in Rome, in English, I would sit down with and read the preface, where Vonnegut spins so many metaphors so quickly that it all goes over my head, and all I'm left with is what seems like a congenial conversation with a wise, innappropriate friend. I then bought the book. I've actually bought every Vonnegut book I could find in Rome.

7) BATTLESTAR GALATICA; seasons three and four. Though the fourth season only debuted a month ago, I have been watching BSG at intervals scattered across the semester. Before the start of this final season, I watched about half of the third season, choice juicy selections coming from the beginning, middle, and end. And you may ask, why didn't you go outside? You're in Rome! But at this point in the year it was too cold.

6) FEEL THE ILLINOISE; Sufjan Stevens. Stevens may have become my very favorite musician, which is a position I know he has been personally jockeying for, going on a year or two now. Well, congratulations, Sufjan. You did it. You impressed me, with your sly lyrics, your trumpets, and your sublte wisdom. Kudos to you, my friend.

5) HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY; Douglas Adams. I was looking for something else to do (you know, besides walk around Rome starstruck) in the Lionhead Bookstore, the big English bookstore near Piazza Popolo, when I found this box set of the five books of the series. It all went quick and so swimmingly - Adams has a masterful imagination but stops short of seriousness, and, as we all know, seriousness is what keeps science fiction out of the mainstream. Plus, the GUIDE was invaluable when I went to London, for various landmarks it provided.

4) ARMCHAIR APOCRYPHA; Andrew Bird. This album was declared the official album of Rome by the Pope a few weeks ago, right before he went to America and started a Catholic (read: universal) revolution. It has a string section like Bocelli's larynx, and lyrics that fall into the category of "Don't Mean Anything But Sound Like They're Very Deep," which are a favorite of mine. The song Scythian Empires was the official theme song of Rome (so said the Pope).

3) LOST; season four. So season three, yes, it might have drug a little. There were some misfires. And this season, too, has had a few misfires, and several miscues, but these do not usurp the show from it's position as the network arena's Zeus - it is the best show on television, and the Desmond episode early on, The Constant, proved it. Look for a strong finish.

2) DAVID COPPERFIELD and A TALE OF TWO CITIES; Charles Dickens. No one knows more about growing up than Dickens, other than, say, God. And he's a master at telling these type stories, any which way: with a slow moving, cuddly plot in COPPERFIELD or an action story in CITIES. Also, he may very well be the funniest writer that talks as if he's recently turned into Samuel Johnson's dictionary.

1) PUSHING DAISIES; season one. And there's only been one season so far. It returns in the fall. In fact, there's only been nine episodes so far, due to the strike, but I've seen them all. Three times. Yes, in my semester stay, I've watched the entire first season of PUSHING DAISIES three times over. And I love it. It's a fairy tale soap bubble that doesn't pop, and involves drama that provides little unwanted tension, so the show's climaxes can still be watched by smiling faces. If only so the world.

Reading over the record of my semester, it now occurs to me that I may not have gone out of doors much. Well - that may be true. I did visit some monuments, but all that is becoming hazy now. There was a great big...thing...you know what, these things don't matter. I can always look at pictures. I just want to be entertained.

I Am Finished

An hour ago, I finished my schooling here in Rome. At the end of four months, all I can remember now, after about an hour of slipping away, is that the painter Caravaggio killed a man and spent his artistic career on the lam. That's a fact you don't easily forget (neither did the authorities, who hunted him until he died at 35, immediately after being pardoned). However, all other knowledge not tied to interestingly colored anecdotes have passed away, lost in the swirling edies of unconnected thought - no, my mind isn't always disjointed, but it is on most occasions double jointed.

The point is, I've spent a semester learning a trade that I'll only remember by tidbits and fun facts. If I ever return to Rome, I foresee a future staring at various buildings and art pieces, knowing that at one time there was a place in the very back section of my brain, a section cubicle that held all the information pertaining to the art and artisan, yet I'll draw a blank. I will have previously spit out all the pieces that slowed me down and distracted me from distraction. But I guess that's what blank spaces really are: areas of information which we threw overboard in storms, to try and make our heads lighter and concentrate on the things that really interest us, like Caravaggio's off color life. Now that's entertainment.

I haven't lost it all; I have some records, notes and notebooks of what will seem, in a short while, jibberish, but which involve mostly all that I've learned. I've also my sketchbook, which I had to keep for the architecture portion of the program; I had to practice sketching one building and then the next, expanding my understanding of arches and supports and flying buttresses and such (there's something I will remember: the flying buttress. I won't remember what it did, but I sure will remember it).

I had to turn in twenty of those sketches as a part of my final. All the other students, who have been so sketching going on at least four years now, came off with sheets that I would hang on my walls. I cam off with some odder things.

This comes from Hadrian's Villa, in Tivoli, south of Rome. As you can clearly see, Boba Fett was there, flying over the main wall of the courtyard.

These are the apartments of the Garabatella, which people were put in when Mussolini demolished their neighborhoods to make way for his nationalistic boulevards. And yes, that is the Hamburgler there, on the balcony.

This is the view of the Tate Modern in London, from the Millenium Bridge. Honestly, this is as good as it gets. And you may say, that's not a true likeness of the sun, but, have you ever tried to sketch the sun?

And yes, I did turn these in as part of my final grade. Pity me, I dare you.

BSG: And There Shall Be No More Happiness

The Ties That Bind, the third episode of the season, pretty much killed all happiness and good will fostered by the previous showing. Since it's the beginning of the season, I can only guess that it's downhill from here. So, way to go, Battlestar Galatica.

Adama and Roslin made up the same way that they always do: by pretending that nothing ever happened. I swear, there are no apologies needed in the fleet; Lee expounded a little on this theory in Baltar's trial, but pretty much forgiveness is floating around in the air. There's probably a forgiveness ship in tow, processing sins and churning out saints. So, Adama and Roslin are back to buddy buddy old flames, though I'm guessing Adama's son will cause a little rough water. Real sons always have issues with step mothers.

Lee has finally made his last transition from pilot to politician, with was hailed with one of those, I don't know what I'm doing moments, a Mr. Smith Goes to Washington move of standing up in court and saying something that gets shoved right back. Lee here, however, is a little manipulated by Tom Zerek, the current vice president, ex subversive, and former Captain Apollo in the 1970s. Apparently, Roslin's turning the fleet into a facist state, with a Madonna at the lead. Doesn't fly with Lee, who lets freedom ring even with scumbags like Baltar. So he calls her out: with Zerek's help (which is undoubtedly fueled by selfish motivation), Lee reveals Roslin's preliminary plans for a tribunal answerable only to her, with powers to hold and try anyone. Just like the Cylons on New Caprica.

Needless to say, there is little love being lost between Lee and Roslin, at the moment.

Little love lost between the Cylons, too. (Where are these people losing love? Can they find it? Do they need help?) An all out civil war has erupted following the self aware status of the Centurions and the move to unbox D'Anna and find the Final Five. Brother Cavil, who is carrying on a May-December fling with Boomer, ugh...ugh. Oh man. Let me recover.

Brother Cavil pretty much broke bread all over the Six and her crew, in such a way that bread need not be broken no longer: he destroyed the Six controlled ships in an area where downloading, and thus resurrecting, is impossible. How will the wronged party return? Well, they'll find a way. Cavil's too creepy to win. Also, Cavil might in fact be the creator of the Cylon skin jobs. He seems so intent on keeping rank and law that he must have some sort of stake in this beyond what the other models see. But that's wild supposition.

Kara's sewage ship, which somehow hand picked the biggest brains on Galatica, is lost. Actually, it's dirty, and it's lost. The disorder might be the first problem. No one actually thought to clean up the sewage ship before heading out, or even in the down time while traveling. Sewage helmets, and I'm only assuming they are thus, cover the tables where these people eat. That rules out any form of a three second rule. Another explanation might be that there was a raging costume party the night before.

It has been three weeks since they launched, and everyone hates Kara except Sam, who has nothing but puppy love, and Helo, who is incapable of ill will. Kara sits in her private quarters on the space version of the ship from Heart of Darkness, painting pictures and changing her mind. She also likes to mess with Sam's heartstrings, but, let's be honest, he doesn't stand a chance. She's slipping, she tells him, as if her body is an alien form. Yes, she has a one way ticket to a climatic death come end season.

But the kicker to the show was Cally, Cheif, and Tori. Cliff notes: Cally commits suicide, Cheif becomes depressed, and Tori is a bad guy. But I have to get something off of my chest. Cally has always been the one character I hated. She has a fat face and a bad delievery. The producers were wise to keep her in the background, and I even began to like her innocent flirting and adrupt marriage with the Cheif. However, whenever she said anything or got angry or was shown at all as the center of a shot, I hated her. I so glad she's gone. Next, Tori has always been teh one character I strongly disliked. She always looks as if she's been drugged and she is not, I repeat not a looker. I thought I was to get a two-fer in that airlock, but no.

The question is, Tori? No doubt her motivation comes from Baltar, who she might have love at first sight with. His absence from this episode is a strong indicator that he instructed her to do so, which means he probably knows everything Tori does. He has his theories about Hera, the Cylon-human hybrid. Finding out that the Cheif was a Cylon, meant that his baby was also a hybrid, and fundamental to the future. Thus, Tori was sent to comandeer the child and knock off an annoying character.

This begins what would seem to be one big spiral for the Cheif. I loved the flashbacks, and the reminders of the happiness of the seasons past, and how young and thin he looked back then, but really, that's the happiest we'll see him till this show ends. He's in a corner, and dangerous in the same degree of Tori (who, still at Roslin's side, could be sowing much more damage than just one kill).

IN OTHER NEWS, all familiar faces not needed were exported to a sewage ship, Kara married Sam because he was pathetic, Sam got a very pathetic tattoo, I like Sam and Sam's tattoo, am I pathetic?

Like Cheif, I suspect that, given the relationships that have been destroyed (all save Helo, that mirror of constants), right about now is the time that characters are going through that unhappy stage that has to come before the happy stage in fiction. So, no more happiness until the end. I'm reminded of the point in The Muppet's Christmas Carol, where, when the action gets a little scary, narrators Gonzo and Rizzo peace out, telling the audience, "we'll see you in the lobby."

I Cook? Again?

After a month and a half of hitting the kitchen like I hit the weights, with an open palm, because, let's face it, if you hit the weights with a closed fist you'll break your hand, I took a brief hiatus from the hot plate in favor of someone else's cooking. For about two weeks now, I have been bouncing around from restaurant to restaurant, avoiding the act of preparing my own meals like someone who's fallen off the horse. But, I had Chinese food a few nights ago and the subsequent morning got sick directly in front of my departing guest, Mary Kate the Actress, who came to Rome after I visited her in London. I gave her quite a send off, with fireworks and everything.

So I've decided, especially in the light of my remaining funds, to recommit myself to the culinary arts. In fact, I've so recommitted myself that I'm going to go ahead and throw all of the suppositions and standards of cooking out the window and create something that truly reflects who I am. I won't be held by petty traditions. I will make meat sauce.

Meat sauce is about the only thing I haven't touched, and thus mangled beyond edibility. I have sauted mushrooms into peanuts, I have cooked fish into chips, I have swung three times at alfredo sauce and struck out. So I thought, why not screw up the meat sauce part, too.

Pretty much all you need, I was told, is a block of hamburger stuffs and possibly some spices. Put the hamburger in a pan and the pan on a hot plate for however long your heart tells you, then add those various spices, just like Emeril. Then probably some sauce.

Did you know that the grease that comes from meat hardens, real fast? DO NOT pour it down your drain. It is known to cause problems.

BSG: Wipe Those Tears Away, Soldier...Sailor...Whatever

For the second episode of the final season of Battlestar Galatica, Six of One, which concerned all those fickle space characters and their all important life goals, was pretty up ending. Not a whole lot of people died. In fact, only Cylons died, which doesn't exactly count. Considering that the producers have promised to kill off a great deal many people, I guess they're just storing up backpayments for the grand finale, which will be all madness and mayhem, plus just an inkling of hope.

No, as could have been guessed, Kara did not shoot Roslin, because that would have stopped about half the wheels in the story machine. Instead, Roslin tried to shoot Kara, and ending up shooting a picture of her and the admiral. Heavy handed foreshadowing? Okay, so it is. But at least they're going somewhere. Adama and Roslin haven't been at odds since the first season of the show, and have been lovey dovey since, making out like an old married couple. Well, now they are having drunken fights like an old married couple. I was almost afraid that Adama was to backhand Roslin, but it didn't come to blows. It just ended in Adama saying, "You can stay in my room, but stay out of my head." Ouch. I guess we won't be healing that wound in the next couple of episodes.

Yes, Adama's having a hard time. Roslin, his lady love, is dying and he is not the person to talk about such things. Plus, his psuedo daughter may be a Cylon and is on the fast track to execution, like Texas except in a space craft. Finally, his son is leaving the service after three seasons.

Yes, Lee leaves his job as CAG, which gets readily associated with JAG in my mind for some obvious connections, both in plot and name, in a move precipitated by last season, when he adruptly quit in yet another father son arguement. This time it stuck, however, and he went through a montage carbon copied from those times that soap operas waved goodbye to their departing stars. Lee will not be leaving the show, though, because he is yet another wheel in the story machine. He still has work to do. It was nice, though, to have that moment of happiness, to see he and his father in the happy moments in between, and all our favorite pilots (Hot Dog? Where have you been?).

In the Cylon fleet, everything went to bedlam, which, as we all know, was a famous English mental hospital. Three of the models wanted to lobotomize the raiders, the TIE fighter doohickeys: these are led by Cavil, who seems to be trying to keep the Cylons functioning as they are meant to, keep them honest. The three remaining, of course, oppose this. So the solution is to uninhibit the Centurions (read Storm Troopers) and let them off the offending parties. Mirror image of what happened to the humans to start this whole thing? The next step, involving the victors who are so keen on finding the Final Five within the human fleet, will probably be to unbox D'Anna, who has seen their faces. The reason I guess this is because D'Anna's still on the cast list. I know, genius.

The Core Four, in the fleet, are still searching for the fifth, though, and send Tori to use her womanly ways on Baltar, now the leader of a woman cult. You'd think he'd be able to withstand a little seduction, but Baltar is Baltar, and now he's seeing visions of himself, which (or who) gives him advice on what he would do. What? Exactly. Although I don't understand it, it's darned funny to hear the Brothers Baltar talk through his thought process and compliment one another. And nothing was really accomplished; they may or may not have made a baby, but that's to be seen. No information was exchanged, minus numbers.

Finally, when everyone thought Kara was to be thrown out the airlock, Adama gives her a ship, and crew, and Helo, the Man Mountain, to go find Earth her way. His reason was simple: he was tired of Roslin being right. Score one for masculinity! Stick it to the woman! Though now that I think of it, it kind of hurts, knowing Adama and Roslin, the very cute gerry atrics, are now at odds, and fighting one another in very diplomatic ways. Sigh.

IN OTHER NEWS, Lee and Dee went through a very civil divorce which involved no ceremony at all, Lee and Kara still have emotional baggage to sort through, Tori may be falling for Baltar, Adama and Roslin are on the rocks, and this really is turning into a soap opera.

Since it has taken me this long to watch and write about Battlestar, my comfort is a new episode is standing in the wings. So hurrah and good luck to you, my friend.

I Expound On Henry V

Henry V is what happens when Shakespeare watches Braveheart then says, "I could do better than that." Yes, in fact, that instance did not happen, due to time constraints, but Mel Gibson did watch Henry V, and then said, "I could do a version of this that's not as cool - but no one really watches Shakespeare any more, so no one would know."

FUN FACT OF THE DAY: William Wallace's "Freedom" speech in Braveheart is actually based off of King Henry's St. Crispin's Day speech.

Last Saturday, whilst still in London, Mary Kate the Actress took me to see Henry V in the Roundhouse Theatre. Yes, the theatre was named after a martial arts movement, and yes, theatre is spelled with the "e" and "r" reversed, but these are things I can abide. I still cannot abide the English driving on the wrong side of the road.

The Royal Shakespeare Company has assembled a crack team of thespians to put on all eight of Shakespeare's History Cycle plays in one stretch, using the same actors in the same parts, so that the King Henry in Henry V was also Prince Hal in Henry IV, I and II. That's a lot of lines to remember. But I guess that's why they're Royal. Another indication of their pedigree came immediately with the start of the play, when the Chorus began changing his lines, and further on, when characters swapped lines or cut them out. Once again, when you're aristocracy, I guess you feel like even Shakespeare isn't sacred.

Henry V follows this guy, whom we'll call Henry, in the first part of his reign. Formerly a surly youth, once he became king he shaped up and got his act together. The first act sees him calling for an invasion of France, which is everyone's favorite extracurricular activity. Subsequent acts see him breaking bread on some Frenchmen, wearing the blood of his enemies as make-up, and winning both the throne of France and the heart of the French Princess. Basically, he has a really good day.

Given my extensive experience in theatre, I can with a solid countenance delcare this the greatest Henry V ever told. The words, they never change, from production to production, but the Royal Shakespeare guys pulled out the rest of the stops. King Henry and the English spent most of the play past the first act covered in blood; they wore these Matrix uniforms of black trenchcoats and chainmail, which, along with swords, will be how my groomsmen dress. The French characters spent the whole play on trapeze, descending from the ceiling. In true French style, they even had the audacity to jerry rig a piano to be raised and lowered from the roof, a piano which was manned by the Chrous and spent all of its stage time in mid air.

It is commonly known that any play that suspends a piano in mid air is worth its weight in gold. The piano's weight, I mean, because there's no real way to weigh a play.

The explosions and lightning in the Harfluer and Agincourt scenes were icing on a already very delicious cake - given how the play was going, you knew the battle scenes were to be the cat's pyjamas. It was just a matter of waiting. Even in scenes with just two characters and their dialogue (who would emerge out of trap doors in the floor, like military trenches), extras still ran from side to side, in and out of the audience, at full speed, carrying barrels of gunpowder. Unsafe you might say, but I would say...yeah, you're pretty dead on. That is unsafe.

In a few days time the RSC performed a trilogy, Henry IV Part I, Henry IV Part II, and Henry V, which would not only be exhausting to the viewer, but one heap of exhaustion to the actors in it. But, again, that's why they're Royal.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: London

This weekend past I took my last flight until the flight home, and I took that flight to London. Traveling under the guise of Dr. Donald Trumbo, I went to London to visit my friend Mary Kate the Actress, who was in the British American Drama Academy, or BADA. I love acronyms.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday were the culmination of the semester for BADA, where, instead of finals, students acted in plays. I caught the Comedy of Errors on Thursday, which is a Shakespeare play about two sets of identical twins, so basically I didn't catch anything, and then Mariana Pineda on Friday, which is a play about a Spanish patriot's execution, so, you can guess how that ended.

Mary Kate was billed as Lucia/First Novice in Mariana Pineda, and for her performance I awarded her Baller Status, which is usually an award I reserve for great science fiction but which I also give out when I feel so moved by particularly deep emotions or beautiful people.

It was in London that I recently became cultured. On Friday, I went first to the National Gallery, and then to the Tate Modern. It seems like London has art up one side and down the other (wherever those sides actually are, I don't know); the National Gallery contains the great works of the world, whatever that means, and the Tate Modern in its turn has the great works of the modern era. I know what that means. It means a small guild of artists went into the Tate Modern, put on blindfolds, and started throwing paint around. It was in the Tate Modern that I, for the first time, left an exhibit in actual fear. Things in the Tate can get out of hand, pretty quickly.

The National Gallery, by the way, contains many paintings from Picasso's Blue Period. I can only hope that when I die, people will anthologize my writings and label one section of my life the Shenanigans Period, where I could not stop using the word "shenanigans."

I spent a lot of time in Hyde Park, on the suggestion of Douglas Adams. "Let's not mince words," Adams wrote, "Hyde Park is stunning." Spot on, Adams. I had planned out an entire day of activities, but ended up scrapping a good deal of it in favor of remaining in Hyde Park. One of the big differences in Rome and London is the space. Rome is extremely compact, and comes off as a Hollywood caricature of a big cities, with big roads that look like alleyways and no actual alleyways at all. London, however, loves its open space, and has alleyways aplenty. Hype Park, as well as other parks scattered across the city, are a testament to how much space they love. It's like a two way mirror, that from the outside looking in the city can see the park, but from the inside out the Park doesn't register the city. Love it.

I went to Westminister Abbey only to see the Poet's Corner, where all the great English figures of art are buried. Yes, Westminister is huge and gilded and a masterpiece, but by this time I have had it up to here, and though you cannot see it I am pointing to a point a little below my left ear, with architecture, so I get to pick and choose what I process as a tourist. So I saw the tombs of Shakespeare, Edmund Spencer, John Milton, et cetera (et cetera in this case encompasses Chaucer, T.S. Eliot, and others) and got repremanded for photographing the tomb of Dickens.

On Saturday, Mary Kate took me to Henry V. This requires a new post, because what I have to say on Henry V cannot possibly be shoehorned into this airport bookstore travel log.

P.S. Spending the night in an airport is a bad idea. Sometimes it is necessary, as if your flight leaves at seven, thus you have to be there at five, but then you have to leave the city at four, et cetera, but if you can avoid it, do, because the reason all benches in all airports have armrests is to prevent people from taking a good night's sleep.

I Smith Wonderful Puns

Coming off the great success of my very well received Otter Joke, I have set about to craft yet another blow to the funny bone of humanity. For quite some time now I have been testing the humors of the English language to create the ultimate in humor. Today, I believe I have found it.

I now unveil what will become known as, "The Moose Joke."

So two hunters where trapsing through the woods in search of prey when they heard voices beyond the trees. Thinking about acquiring tips on game or maybe just bumming a beer, the two hunters headed for the voices. Stumbling upon a clearing, the two beheld a group of four moose, sitting on lawn chairs taking their tea and talking about the abominable weather. Needless to say, both groups were taken aback by the sudden presence of the other. However, the moose were the first to act, swiftly moving to capture the two hunters.

One moose suggested that there was nothing to do except kill the two hunters, who would doubtless tell the rest of the humans that there were talking moose in the hills. Another moose said no, that killing was against the moose code. So on a suggestion from a third moose, the group sewed shut the mouths of the two hunters, and released them into the wild.

The two hunters stumbled as fast as they could back to civilization, and ran into the first bar they found. Once inside, they made a great scene, motioning to their lips, as if to say, please, someone remove these sutures so that we can speak on the talking moose of the hills. After the initial commotion, though, the bar's burly patrons turned back around in their seats, once more took up their beers, and ignored the two hunters entirely.

Why?

Because in this town of flannel and facial hair, moose stitches are nothing to get excited about.

DA DA CHING.

RIP MacBook Pro Model Number A1150

MacBook Pro Model Number A1150 died Wednesday night in it's sleep mode, in an apartment on Via Nicola Fabrizi, in Rome, Italy. It is survived by its owner, Cass Trumbo; it was shortly thereafter followed by Cass Trumbo's notebook and will soon be followed by Cass Trumbo's cell phone.

MacBook Pro Model Number A1150 was delievered by a stork of sorts in July of 2006, and enjoyed an aimless life of playing music and fiddling with the internet until it discovered its true purpose in word processing. Soon, MacBook Pro Model Number A1150 became a factory of words, churning out stories, limmericks, and nonsensical things that no one should ever be allowed to read. Luckily, those nonsensical things (along with all such sensical things) were taken by A1150 to it's grave.

Says owner Cass Trumbo, "My stupid computer's broken." It will obviously be missed.

Shortly after the death of MacBook Pro Model Number A1150 on the night of April 2nd, 2008, Cass Trumbo's notebook managed to slip out of its pocket somewhere between Campo di Fiori and Piazza Trillussa. The notebook, which originated the stories that A1150 inked, supposedly committed suicide in the grief caused by the loss of its writing partner. The notebook most likely jumped to it's death somewhere on the bridge of Ponte Sisto.

Cass Trumbo's cell phone will shortly be following the other two possessions: it has been struggling with a cancer of the circuts for many months. It will not die as the notebook, in grief, but simply because it is obstinate, and can't stand working properly.

BSG: Morning Glory And Hallelujah, Commander

After almost a year, I have thrown off my sack cloth and cleaned myself up (kind of), because Battlestar has returned. I breifly put said sack cloth back on after learning that the season will be split into two: one ten episode run this spring, and a final ten episode run either this fall or next spring, immediately preceding the Seven Trumpets and Jesus Christ's Second Coming, because, let's face it, after Battlestar goes off the air, God's work will be finished.

A week ago, my computer metaphorical exploded, leaving me in a literal stupor. Yes, the sack cloth came back out of the closet, but I recently put the Apple to rest under a tree in my Roman backyard. As Andrew Bird says, "ScotchGuard Macintoshes will be carbonized." Well said, Mr. Bird, whatever it is you meant to say.

So I had to watch the season premier on an old jalopy desktop in the school studio, the whole dragness of which I felt in the opening minutes. The initial battle that just flows out like the water that turns the turbines of a dam was amazing to watch even in a screen that would be forced to scale down my fist to fit it in (and I almost put my fist into the screen, at a point where I was having buffering problems). Talk about grabbing the audience by the horns, or, in the case of audience members who don't have horns, the hair.

So much for the people who weren't entirely read up on their Battlestar. I guess that means Joe Kane is the only person reading this post. High Five, Joe!

The Four, that being Tigh, Anders, Cheif, and Tori, spent the episode flopping like fish, trying to get ahold of their new existence as robots. Tigh day dreamed of killing Adama, and Anders was unable to engage the enemy in combat. There was a friendship pow-wow, where it seemed like Tigh said, "There shall be no more nonsense," and produced a gun for a group suicide party, which everyone heartily agreed to, but that was left as is. Figures there wasn't any resolution.

When flying, Anders did make awkward eye contact with a Cylon raider, in which Anders eye turned red, and the Cylons retreated. Basically, the Cylon raiders recognized a Cylon, but the human models can't; this is explained in the third season, where the Cylon toasters can't distinguish between the human models. Does this mean the Final Five are of the same makeup? And will Anders' Bright Lite eye come into play, as receiving some sort of orders?

Baltar has become a leader of a girls-only-plus-two-extra-guys-just-in-case cult, where they commune with their mathematically challenged god(s) through love. And Baltar thinks it sucks. What's up with that? Also, what is up with Baltar getting religious? The ultimate atheist fell to his knees with vulnerabilty to pray for a sick child - the only thing keeping the scene in character was the fact that he made a point that he didn't want forgiveness. This is as suspicious as the number of gods the cult worships.

Kara is back, and medical survey says not a Cylon (duh. Too easy). She claims to have some sort of Contact-esque experience, remembering only bits and pieces of the six hours she claims to have been gone; everyone else remembers the two months that passed since she died. So Roslin calls shenanigans on her and locks her up, but apparently with a doctor's note that says she can go wherever she feels like. She does have pictures of Earth, and a little voice in her head that tells her the fleet is going the wrong way. Roslin however believes in the saying, "ice in the knees, ice in the threes," which doesn't really apply to the situation, she just believes it. She also believes in being cold hearted and calculating, and continues on the fleets current course, till Starbuck puts a gun to her head. End Scene.

IN OTHER NEWS, Apollo quits the flying gig, ergo Apollo can't be called Apollo anymore, Anders confesses undying love to Kara and Kara pretty much says that at some point in the future, she will kill Anders, Helo just can't stop himself from being everyone's best friend, and for some reason Roslin is shacking up with Adama.

Next week will probably begin with Roslin not getting shot, and then Kara will probably be in big trouble. And at some point, Lee will probably have to have a reason to stay on Galatica. I mean, he can't really not live there and still be in the action, but he needs an excuse. Hey, Baltar found one (overlooked compartment? Questionable). Overall: Yeah for Battlestar!

I Test The Validity Of Wikipedia

All this talk of whether or not Wikipedia is a viable source of information just complicates the issue. If the information is true or not, or if even it is true, whether or not it is academically honorable to use such an information super-duper highway that receives it's maintinence from any which passersby. I say, if the USSR was still around, this is how they'd do it. And we all know how well that country ran, till the whole downfall thing.

In order to defend the integrity of Wikipedia, I have taken it upon myself to experiment with all sorts of information, in order to prove the hypothesis that when everybody voices their own opinion on the truth, it may get convoluted, but that doesn't stop it from being awesome. For instance, Wikipedia claims that the Oliver Typewriter Company created the first "visible print" typewriter at the turn of the 20th century. Experimentation: Check. Wikipedia claims that for a supernova to destory earth, it would need to be 25 million light years or closer. Experimentation: Check. Wikipedia claims that Patrick Swayze has cancer. Experimentation: Check.

A few spaces of silence for Patrick Swayze.

But this wasn't enough. I needed a live test. I found one in Joy Williams.

Joy Williams was originally Joy Williams until she became Joy Williams Yetton by a process known as marriage. This was invented long ago, probably by God. Wikipedia Experimentation: Check and Check. She and her husband Nate came through Europe into Rome and stayed with my friend, Dani the Perpetual Exchange Student (this was not on Wikipedia, but I saw it with my own eyes. Later this week I will add it to Wikipedia). I read over her Wikipage and Wikidiscography several times, and then let the scientific process run amok.

After a couple of dinners, I was able to ascertain from both Joy and Nate that the following Wikipedia claims are true: she did grow up in California, she was an overachiever in high school, as well as a varsity athlete, and she did release a "Best Of" album in 2004. I kind of got distracted after that.

EDITOR'S NOTE: The above photo is not of singer-songwriter Joy Williams, but of short story writer Joy Williams. It did not come from Wikipedia, but Google. Just another instance of why Wikipedia is better.

Why Nate himself doesn't have a Wikipedia page, I don't know. After I update Joy's, I'm creating him one as well.

Joy and Nate are pretty much the coolest people ever, and though that's not on Wikipedia, it soon will be. After they leave I'm going to start telling people that Joy is my half-sister, and that Nate is my third cousin (second cousin to my father), though these relations do not in any way mean there is mixed blood between the two. It's just one of those odd coincidences of the universe, I'll tell people. If I'm pressed further, I'll admit Joy isn't my sister, but I'll remain adamant that I am related to Nate.

BSG: A Brief Course

This one's for Joe Kane.

I like to backup my assertions about science fiction with hard science fact, so here it goes. In June, at a summit of the brightest minds on the face and body of the Earth, on a summit of a mountain, no less, a panel of scientists were asked what would happen in the final season of the television show Battlestar Galatica. After several hours discussion, the scientists admitted they had no clue, but they could guesstimate that it would look like all the worst parts of the Bible, but with a positive spin. Four of the five then voiced their opinion on Trident Gum.

Well, those scientists are about to find out.

This Friday, April 4th, Battlestar returns in its fourth and final season, going down in a blaze of glory after NBC told it to can itself. But Battlestar cannot be canned. Nay, it cannot be contained, because it is the greatest form of entertainment ever since Plato's Cave, and arguably better than that, because even Plato wasn't so high on that concept. It is certainly the best thing you'll ever see, so sit down and listen up.

The producers took a sheet out of LOST's playbook (unfortunately, said sheet didn't have any spoilers) and spliced up all three previous seasons into one eight minute short, found here on YouTube. They actually used the same narrator as the LOST promo, with the same deadpan (thank you, anonymous narrator, for pointing out that papers have no corners in the future).

In the past week, I've taken it upon myself to watch half of the 22 episode long third season, in order to give a full account and be well read, in a sense, before the final opener. So:

FINAL FIVE: The big one. There's twelve Cylon models, we only know seven, blah blah blah - in the previous finale, however, we found out four of the final five: Cheif, Anders, Tori, and Tigh, all of which scream irony, because they are all so vocal about their Cylon hatred. The real question is how Cylony are they? As opposed to many copies, there seems to be only one of each. In D'Anna's vision of the Final Five, they seemed more like demigods than Cylon brethren. So, yes, they're still good. They're meant to lead the humans to Earth.

FINAL FIFTH: The really big one. There's still one Cylon left, and undoubtedly he/she/it is the trump card of fate. I'm ruling out Adama - possibly Roslin, the dying president, merely because she is that dying leader who will take her people to the promised land. Sounds like someone's fulfilling their fate/programming...but the next robot is certainly not Starbuck.

STARBUCK: Not dead. Even though she died in the latter half of season three, she came back at the end, during the crescendo of Dylan's All Along the Watchtower (because, obviously, that's the Cylon theme song). She promised she had been to Earth, and would take the humans to their new home. Is she the fifth Cylon? Certainly not. Too easy. No, we're getting into some sort of metaphysical territory here. Angel/Spirit/Super intelligent shade of blue?

EARTH: Last shot of the last episode was that of Earth, or more specifically, America, because that's pretty much Earth in a nutshell. What time period will it be when the fleet arrives? Hopefully not present day, because that would be a cheese factory, and would only serve to date and hamper the Greatest Show on Earth (Not Under a Big Top). I think it will be primordial Earth, and the fleet will serve as our ancestors. Or something along those lines.

EVERYONE ELSE: Baltar's now a cult leader, Apollo's now a civilian, Adama and Roslin are now about to hook up like old people, and Helo's even yet still awesome.

MANNIE FRESH: As with LOST, rumors of a guest appearance as the Fifth have proven not 

true, and so with small powers of deduction one can assume he will not be performing his hit single, "Real Big," with all the pimps and hos of the fleet.

Friday, April 4th. Be there, or be a Cylon collaborator. And we wouldn't want that.

I Travel Through Time

Early Sunday morning - and I mean early early, two in the morning early - I found myself hurtling through time. No joke. I was lying in bed, when I felt a rumbling in the Venetian hotel room. I immediately sat up and looked about me and noticed a great big black hole in the room, right where the door to the bathroom used to be. I got out of bed entered the black hole, and was temporaly displaced.

Traveling through time is a lot like falling asleep. Images and perceptions from reality slowly blend with the thoughts of the mind, to create the sort of experience that no one can ever seem to remember clearly. In this case, though, instead of the memories of the day melting with my consciousness, it was the memories of the future.

However, I only traveled an hour ahead in time, so the visions that flashed before my eyes were pretty bland. I just saw myself sleeping. Plus, there were some monsters and aliens, Anna Friel, a dragon, postal workers, Viking beserkers, boxes, foxes, bagels with loxes - but the vision was mostly of myself, sleeping.

Traveling through time would be very exciting, if it didn't happen only at night. Can you imagine, going through twenty years of time? You'd see twenty years of your life, played in fast forward, or maybe cut up like a newsreel or the "Previously On" segments of television shows. You'd see the most significant portions, combined with the dream imagery that that flows in and out of your imagination without you knowing it (I believe they call it the subconscious).

Sadly, time travel only happens at night, and only at intervals of one hour. In the spring, we travel one hour into the future, and in the fall, we go one hour back in time.

When America set its own clocks back several weeks ago, the Italians did nothing. "Imperialist Swine," they said, "we will not follow their lead, no, no matter how practical." So in Italy we bided our time, waited until the Americans were not looking, and quickly set our clocks forward. Because, you know, it's a good idea, we just don't want to give credit where credit is due.