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.