Analog Nation

So here’s a weird sentence: I’m in a horror movie and we’re doing a raffle.

Here are some other weird sentences:

• I have a wheel barrow and these waffles are delicious.
• My house is on fire and your uncle called.
• The Dutch have a monarchy and some plastic is not recyclable.
• Several dishes are chipped and the children are scared.
• He enjoys ice-fishing and the measuring tape is in the basement.
• There is water on the moon and the floor is covered in leaves.

But the first sentence is a real thing that is actually happening. I have been cast in an independent horror movie produced by 221 Films, and there is a raffle to help raise funds. On the How-Independent-Is-Your-Movie scale, “holding a raffle” rates a solid nine.

Among other things, the money will go toward cabin rental, gas, coffee, makeshift bone weapons, the procurement of a fake deer, and the purchase of cardboard boxes to break a Russian stuntman’s fall. All of these things are also true, and not made up. Come to think of it, I’m starting to have second thoughts about this.

We need to talk about the undead for a second, because they’re getting to be kind of a problem.

It would be one thing if they were openly invading, because then at least we could bust out some chainsaws and makeshift flamethrowers. Shit could, as they say, get real. Sadly, there is no such invasion. Not that I know of, anyway. No, this is an invasion of love, a war to win hearts and minds — and it’s targeting specific people. Certain combinations of demographic and undeath go together like wine paired with artisanal cheese. It goes like this: Teenagers love their vampires, and twenty-somethings love their zombies.

The truth hurts.

Vampire fascination is not exactly new. Portraits of the fang-bearer as a debonair seducer trace their roots to the 1819 short story “The Vampyre,” and from there travel a road marked with familiar sign posts: Bram Stoker –> Nosferatu –> Bela Lugosi –> Blacula –> Ann Rice. The past few years have been different, though. Something has changed. Very quietly, the vampire story became the de facto genre that all people between the ages of fourteen and twenty must read. Maybe there was a piece of legislation, a rider tacked on to some low-profile appropriations bill for re-paving prison parking lots, that became a law without anyone noticing. Basically, I woke up one day and 35% of every bookstore was vampire novels aimed at readers who only recently traded their braces for retainers. Shelf after shelf of gaunt, angst-tacular faces compete for the mall paychecks of passing teens, beneath titles like “Vampire Academy” and “The Vampire Diaries.” And I know what you’re thinking — there’s an elephant in the room, one whose name rhymes with “Shmilight.” But there’s no way we can pin this entire thing on Stephanie Meyer, regardless of how many books she sells, or how many acting careers she helps launch. J.K. Rowling is the first person to become a billionaire writing books, and I don’t see Barnes & Noble teeming with Dickensian tales of orphans discovering magic powers.

(Spoiler alert, the true magic power is friendship.)

(Also, speaking of Ann Rice, has anyone seen her lately? If we sent a sheriff to check Stephanie Meyer’s basement, would he get a shotgun in the back like Richard Farnsworth in “Misery?”)

Lemme guess — brains?

The zombie thing, on the other hand, is a bit more puzzling. The modern shambling corpse, as sculpted in the 1960s by George Romero, is hardly something one aspires to become. Rise from the dirt, lumber relentlessly towards the living, eat said living, and then … well, that’s pretty much the whole gig. It’s not supposed to sound like fun, it’s supposed to sound like target practice for a grenade launcher. Who the hell would want to be a zombie? No one, of course, and that’s the thing — while the youngsters want to be vampires, their older siblings want to dress up as zombies. And holy shit on a pointed stick, do they ever dress up as zombies. Twenty-somethings (and yes, early thirty-somethings like myself) have figured out more ways to express their zombiephilia than Google can keep up with. Zombie parades. Zombie kickball. Zombie bowling. Zombie karaoke. Zombie survival guides. And “Thriller” reenactments, sweet mercy, so many “Thriller” reenactments. YouTube groans under the weight of those videos. Curiously, none of these folks seem too concerned about the fact that, historically speaking, people react to zombies by setting them on fire. Try listening to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs now, burning zombie hipster genius.

Kristin Stewart and Robert Pattinson canoodle on the set of “New Moon”

So where is all this coming from? Teens will always love vampires, I get that. Secret societies that imbue acolytes with power are undeniably appealing, particularly for those pushed to the margins by their peers. There’s also, you know, the sex. But why so popular now? Is it because they live in a far more advanced sexual culture than we did growing up in the 90s, and are looking for ways to parse that information? I’ve never read “Twilight,” but I’m told that there’s a great deal of will-they-won’t-they tension surrounding the blood/sex consummation, but they never do, then they go to the prom or something. (Listen, Angel may have shown up at Buffy’s prom, but at least he traded his soul for one torrid night with her. And then had his soul re-restored. Mere seconds before Buffy killed him to undo the evil he wrought while his soul was at the pawnbroker. Okay so I have a slight Whedon fixation, what’s your point?) As for the zombies, I think it says something that we celebrate the mindless dead with a sense of ironic detachment. Like it or not, we’re grown-ups who are about to inherit a fairly messed-up planet. We need to be able to laugh at the Apocalypse, because it might actually happen on our watch. This might also help explain why I know so many people who are genuinely terrified of zombies.

Then again, it could just be that the lens of popular culture is pointed at the undead right now, and will drift away to a new target, without warning, without explanation.

Hopefully the new target will be aliens. Or samurai. Fingers crossed.

Having grown up in the 80s, I know a thing or two about witnessing an arms race. After blowing things up for a thousand years or so, we as a species had finally gotten truly excellent at it, to the point where there was an actual chance that we might blow up every single thing, person, and place on Earth. Basically there would be no nouns left. Only verbs, and the occasional adjective.

The arms race has always been Exhibit A in the case against humanity, so it was nice to learn that some other species is doing it for a change. A coalition of nerds from Wake Forest and Colorado State has discovered that certain moths deploy a hi-tech defense system in their war against bats. The technology? Sonar jamming.

Bats have been using echolocation to stalk the night sky for like a billion years or something. Scanning their hapless prey at frequencies no organism can detect — it’s not even really all that fair, if you ask me. It’s like they can lick the air and taste fear. Well it turns out that these particular moths, a species of tiger moth called Bertholdia trigona, emit a series of ultrasonic clicks as they fly around at night. The clicks serve as auditory chaff, concealing the moths in a cloud of please-don’t-eat-me goodness. They are, in short, stealth moths. This leaves them free to drift into an open flame and burn to death.

Who knew moths had their own little version of Northrup Grumman? Do the bats even know they’re being outwitted? Have they any intelligence assets in place to find out?

One of these is Bertholdia trigona, the other is an F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighter. Can you even tell which is which?

BEGIN TRANSMISSION — CODE LEVEL: TOP SECRET
I shall be swift, for I do not know how much time I have before they find me. SIGINT was correct, the moths have using echostealth technology. Do you realize what this means? If other moth factions were to get their hands on the technology … well, you are too young to remember the Fruit Bat Famine of ’79, and I shall spare you the gory details. The Colonel was right all along. What fools we were to have stripped him of his rank. I will try to get this out through the Prague station chief. I fear I shall not see you again. Also, I asked around, and the others like to hang upside-down in caves as well. Does everyone do this? I honestly thought I was the only one.

Sadly, history provides a road map for what will come next. The bats will use stronger echolocation, at higher frequencies. The moths will waterboard bat operatives to learn the new frequencies. The bats will develop infrared vision. The moths will cloak themselves in styrofoam to mask their heat signatures. The bats will deploy air-to-air missile systems. The moths will flood the sky with decoy drones. The bats will build an A-bomb. The moths will sneak their missiles into Cuba. Suddenly it’s October 1962 all over again, and the Doomsday Clock is hitting one minute to midnight.

This is just like what happened with the fire ants and their ICBMs.

Let me tell you about the time I died.

Not actual death, of course. This isn’t a Spoon River tale from beyond the grave, and it’s not a Nikki Sixx “I was clinically dead for two minutes, man” sort of thing. No, this is just a heart-warming tale of friendship run amok that happens to involve me being dead.

Before we proceed, I have to establish a bit of background: I am what you might call “thoroughly punctual.” You might also go with “terrifyingly punctual.” “Slavishly robotic when it comes to the sway of time” wouldn’t be too far off the mark either. If you tell me to meet you somewhere at 8:30, odds are pretty good that I will wander through the door at 8:30. It isn’t even intentional, it just happens that way. For years I went without a watch or a cell phone, and still I magically arrived on the button. “You’re two minutes behind schedule,” a friend of mine once joked. “We were starting to worry.” One time I tried to show up late to a party, in an effort not to look like a dweeb — turns out I had read the Evite wrong and showed up extra-early.

The side effect is that I’m a real joy to be around if we’re running late for a movie, but that’s a conversation for another time. Let’s get to me dying.

[Read the rest →]

[10:12] Andy1976: Morning.
[10:12] Status_Busy: hey.
[10:13] Andy1976: How are things?
[10:13] Status_Busy: my nose keeps running
[10:13] Status_Busy: and my arm’s pretty sore today, i need one of those carpal tunnel braces
[10:15] Andy1976: That sucks. Sorry to hear it. My brother had carpal tunnel problems.
[10:15] Andy1976: Logging on a bit late, aren’t you?
[10:16] Status_Busy: meh. i overslept.
[10:16] Andy1976: Drag.
[10:16] Status_Busy: yeah, well, i wouldn’t have minded so much, but there was no hot water
[10:16] Status_Busy: it was like showering in a mountain stream
[10:17] Andy1976: Hey, at least it woke you up.
[10:17] Status_Busy: true.
[10:18] Status_Busy: i was out of cereal, though.
[10:18] Andy1976: LOL Not your day, is it.
[10:21] Status_Busy: oh, and get this. so i get to my desk, and there’s an email to my whole team from the CFO
[10:21] Status_Busy: they’re bringing in a consultant to evaluate us
[10:22] Andy1976: That is NEVER good news.
[10:22] Status_Busy: whatever, they can bite me.
[10:24] Status_Busy: man, i really wish i’d had time to get coffee on the way in.
[10:24] Andy1976: I thought you said your office has a pretty decent coffee machine?
[10:25] Status_Busy: it does
[10:25] Andy1976: So?
[10:25] Status_Busy: so what?
[10:25] Andy1976: So get up and go make some, freak.
[10:25] Status_Busy: my foot is caught in a bear trap
[10:26] Andy1976: Of course it is.
[10:26] Status_Busy: hurts more than i would have thought
[10:26] Andy1976: And no one’s helping you because … ?
[10:26] Status_Busy: they’re all in a meeting, talking about the consultant. i volunteered to man the phone because i didn’t feel like listening to them panic for half an hour.
[10:26] Andy1976: Seems like you might consider using that phone to call for help.
[10:27] Status_Busy: phone line went dead, problems with the VoIP server
[10:27] Andy1976: Ah. Cell phone?
[10:27] Status_Busy: forgot it on kitchen counter in my haste to get to work and step in a bear trap
[10:27] Andy1976: Things just keeps getting worse, huh.
[10:28] Status_Busy: i guess
[10:28] Status_Busy: this also means there’s an untrapped bear around here somewhere
[10:28] Andy1976: My goodness.
[10:28] Status_Busy: and i never should have worn this sweater, too itchy.
[10:29] Andy1976: Then take it off.
[10:29] Status_Busy: can’t, i’d only be wearing a t-shirt and that’s against dress code
[10:29] Status_Busy: dammit, just gave myself a paper cut.
[10:31] Status_Busy: whoops, now the fire alarm’s going off
[10:31] Status_Busy: aaaaaaand it doesn’t appear to be a drill.
[10:32] Andy1976: Man, did you kick a gypsy on the way into work or something?
[10:32] Status_Busy: it’s new york – you expect me to keep track of the people i kicked this morning?
[10:32] Andy1976: Well you must have at least a vague idea.
[10:32] Status_Busy: do not presume to dictate which vague ideas i must have.
[10:32] Andy1976: Fair enough.
[10:34] Status_Busy: what the fuck??? the consultant just emailed me directly and says that my position will be “significantly restructured”
[10:34] Andy1976: Shouldn’t you be trying to evacuate?
[10:35] Status_Busy: what does that even mean? how can a restructuring be anything BUT significant??
[10:35] Andy1976: With the running? And the evacuating? Yes?
[10:35] Status_Busy: to restructure is, by definition, to CHANGE STRUCTURE
[10:36] Andy1976: **HELLO?** Is the building on fire?
[10:36] Status_Busy: oh, yeah i think it is. everyone ran outside straight from the conference room. but i’m stuck in this thing, can’t pry it open
[10:37] Status_Busy: hang on, lemme see if i can reach the window
[10:40] Status_Busy: nope. gave myself another paper cut.
[10:40] Status_Busy: there goes the bear, fleeing the fire
[10:41] Status_Busy: hey did i tell you? i’m pretty sure sarah is sleeping with that guy she’s been doing improv with.
[10:42] Andy1976: That’s ridiculous, no one sleeps with guys who do improv.
[10:42] Status_Busy: son of a bitch – i just realized i forgot to drop my netflix dvds in the mail.
[10:43] Status_Busy: i really do wish i hadn’t overslept.
[10:44] Status_Busy: listen, the flames are closing in, and I’m starting to feel faint from blood loss. can you swing by my place later and feed my cat?
[10:51] Andy1976: Wait, you ARE joking about all this, right?
[11:16] Andy1976: Dude?

• On September 27, 1951, a team of anthropologists from Indiana University discovered the oldest shopping cart ever found. Working at a dig site in Egypt, the team believed at first that the relic was some sort of bronze cage or basket. Once they unearthed the handlebar and wheels, they realized the magnitude of their find. The cart was strikingly similar in dimension to its modern equivalent, and even featured an infant seat with openings for the legs. A hieroglyphic on the seat flap depicted two children with jackal heads — a clear warning that children should not be allowed to stand within the cart and should remain safely seated and buckled. A structural analysis of the cart showed that it was in remarkably good condition, though the front left wheel swiveled uncontrollably. Further examination of the dig site strongly suggested that it had in fact been a parking lot. A nearby chariot had been dented, very likely by a direct impact from the cart.

• On September 28, 1971, the United States Bullion Depository at Fort Knox was robbed of every last ounce of gold. The crime was never solved, and the facility has stood empty ever since. It is still rigorously guarded, to keep up appearances.

• On September 30, 1902, Cardinals rookie phenom Reginald Dixon mistakenly took the field wearing the wrong uniform pants. Until then, the twenty-year-old fireballer had been unbeaten in twelve career starts, and was touted as the savior of the franchise. Outfitted in pants that were the wrong color and several inches too short, Dixon was visibly flustered by the fans’ amusement and ribbing from his teammates. He gave up nine runs over two innings for his first loss, at one point beaning his own mother in the stands with a wild pitch. The St. Louis papers dubbed him “Pants,” and Dixon never regained his form.