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• variable cuts could be made for different community standards (some people don't like sex in movies, some don't like violence. some don't like both, some are OK with both, but hate the dirty words. this system could serve all of these groups without having to dub multiple copies for each audience, or use complex controls (and no, it is not reasonable to ask someone to update a text-based config file in order to watch a movie. sheesh.)
• the "closeted" uncensored-movie viwer (living in areas where the censored store is the only video outlet) could watch their PG+ fare with impunity
• the studios can't claim distribution-based copyright infringment, and (once more) the original cut option is still there...
• unlike the 100 posts discussing how one could do this using DeCSS + misc. linux utilities, this could be watched on a home entertainment system without having to deal with the fershluggin' computer.
• no generation-loss transfer issues

The problem with Atlas Shrugged is that people use it to prove something, which it can't do. I can write a book in which the tall people are proved to be naturally smarter and end up taking over the world, but it doesn't prove anything. It wouldn't even make a valid argument for tall people being superior because I wouldn't have presented any evidence, or looked at possibly contrary evidence.

What a book can do is give you something to think about.

However, many people have read Rand's books and though about them, and found them lacking. I sure did. It's not that I didn't agree with her ideas, I'm a bit of a libertarian, but I didn't agree with her conclusions or that simply writing the story proves anything like so many other people do.

Furthermore, I think her ideas would come across more easily, and more usefully, if they were written into a twenty page essay than a long book. The book clouds the basic idea presentation with a plot (that quite frankly wasn't that good).

As such, I wouldn't recommend that anyone read the book. There's no reason to not read it, except that unless you're a strong libertarian in need of a feel-good read.

What's wrong with the book is that all the rich people are geniuses. There's nobody who's rich simply because their grand-parents fenced off a huge tract of grazing land because their wagon got there six months ahead of everyone else's. Nobody in the book made deals to cut off a competitor's raw materials in order to build a monopoly, or sabotages their product in a subtle way and blamed the other product for failing to inter-operate.

If someone like Rearden existed, someone who invented an honestly better product, and who was happy just to profit on his product instead of trying to use some bogus license agreement to forbid trains on track he made from carrying food (for competitors), to allow him to corner the market, I'd support them. In fact, I do. I have no problem with companies that compete strongly, as long as they aren't so afraid of competition that they have to ruin the other company outside of the market. These days companies contribute so heavily to politics that most ruinous laws are passed in favor of the corporations, instead of in favor of the loafing people as Rand suggested.

It seemed simplistic. All of the antagonists were pathetic caricatures and all of the protagonists were uber-men (and women). None of the big business in the book was using standard big-business tactics. Nothing really seemed to apply beyond the scope of the book.

I'd suggest you read Heinlein. He's got the same libertarian viewpoint (quote: "When a place starts to require ID, it's time to leave.") except he's usually got a story behind it. And he's not trying to prove anything so he focuses on plot instead of the politics.

Yep, I like the characters. They're not military caricatures like they were in (early) TNG.. They're not hams like TOS.. They seem real, genuine.. What's not to like? Sure, Hoshi is a little whiney.. But Trip and Malcolm are great. And the captain has a good mix of annoying self-righteousness and childlike enthusiasm.

Best. Star Trek Series. Ever.

Seriously.

Cheers,
Backov

I don't think Yoday has to be working with Palpatine, just that Yoda has taken his side of the force to the extreme, never any anger, never any fear, never any emotion. Yoda becomes a caricature of the Light side of the Force.

There could be an interesting showdown as Annakin and/or Obi Wan explain to Yoda why they are choosing this path, and that Annakin can see the day that Yoda will again play a part in the game and shape the Jedi who will bring completion.

I dunno, but it sure us cooler than the current storyline.

Next movie will surely have a Chicano low rider caricature help Obi-Wan
make his escape with the twins.

Anyone know if Cheech and Chong are free?

I don't care what anyone says - the actor playing Arthur Dent must be British. Like Doctor Who, there is a fundamental britishness to the character that is difficult to mimic effectively for anyone non-British (and I say this as an Australian). I think someone else in this thread suggested Alan Cumming, who I think would be a first-class choice. They did the right thing insisting on British actors for Harry Potter, and I think they should do that here too, at least for this character.

Ford Prefect - David Dixon, who played Ford in the TV series, was spot on - that slight alien-ness to the features. This was actually one of the reasons why the director of the the TV series didn't use Geoffrey McGivern (who played Ford in the radio series) for the role on TV, because McGivern looked "too ordinary". Dixon is too old now, unfortunately. If he or David Bowie were 20 years younger, they'd be a great choice.

Zaphod Beeblebrox - An American could easily play this role, since the character is so clearly intended to be a caricature of the American psyche anyway - unbelievably brash, loud, whim-driven, egocentric and vulgar. Find an American actor with a good sense of irony and self-deprecation, and you've got a winner. Michael Keaton might be good. - he did play Batman, after all. :)

I'm of two minds (no pun intended) about the whole 2-heads-3-arms thing; it was originally written as a throwaway line in the radio play, but when it came to TV, the director decided it had to be implemeted, with questionable results. It could probably be done more easily and better now with CG. We kind of expect it now because of the TV series, but I often wonder how much it actually brings to the story.

And Ian McKellen would be great for Slartibartfast - you'll need a really talented actor to pull off the wonderful weary distractedness that Richard Vernon (may he RIP) played him with.

And maybe Michael Palin for The Book.

MADAME BOVARY: CHAPTER 7

Not surprisingly, life in Tostes doesn't measure up to Emma's expectations of the ideal honeymoon. She imagines traveling in the mountains, visiting countries with exotic names, and spending nights in a villa where she and her husband can gaze at the stars, hold each other's hands, and talk about the future. In short, she sees a wide gap between her life with Charles and that of a romantic heroine.

Emma realizes that she can never discuss her yearnings with Charles. He is dull, insensitive, and stupid. His conversation is "as flat as a sidewalk" and he's unaware of life's refinements. So Emma spends her days playing the piano, drawing, and writing letters to Charles' patients who have not paid their bills. Charles idolizes his wife and has no idea that she isn't happy with their life.

NOTE: THE GAP WIDENS From now on, the more Charles loves and grows dependent on Emma, the more she will withdraw from him. She does not admire a man who is content with his station in life. She is ambitious, restless, and anxious for perpetual change. Once she achieves a desired goal, she wants to move on to something new. Can you sympathize with her? Or is this a sign of immaturity and a distorted sense of reality? Isn't she really happiest when longing and suffering?

In an effort to spark romance into their marriage, Emma recites love poems to Charles in the garden--but to no avail. She begins to doubt Charles' love for her since he embraces her only at certain times of the day. Not all men, she concludes, are like Charles, and perhaps she should have waited for Mr. Right to come along. She longs for the passionate and fiery advances of a lover, and wonders what kinds of husbands her former classmates have.

Finally, something exciting happens. The Bovarys receive an invitation to a ball at La Vaubyessard, the chateau of the Marquis d'Andervilliers, one of Charles' former patients. The couple sets out for the Marquis' residence in their modest buggy and arrives at nightfall.

NOTE: FLAUBERT'S REALISM Compare the description of La Vaubyessard with that of Emma and Charles' wedding. This will help you appreciate Flaubert's realistic, almost scientific, writing style. The people in these scenes represent two distinctly different social groups and can be thought of as specimens being examined under a microscope.

MADAME BOVARY: CHAPTER 8

The Marquis greets the Bovarys at the door of his splendid chateau, La Vaubyessard. It is filled with art and expensive furnishings, and the guests are members of the aristocracy. For Emma, being in the company of great wealth is like a dream come true. She drinks champagne and gazes in awe at the pomegranates and pineapples, neither of which she's ever tasted before.

NOTE: Emma thinks that she fits perfectly into these luxurious surroundings. Her observations about the noblemen, in particular, make them seem so desirable and exquisite in comparison to the others. But there is something else about them that Emma may be aware of but doesn't cause her to reflect. They possess "the special brutality that comes from half-easy triumphs which test one's strength and flatter one's vanity--the handling of thoroughbred horses, the pursuit of loose women." This describes fairly well Rodolphe, Emma's first lover, and it foreshadows the nature of their relationship and the way that her romantic conceptions will prevent her from distinguishing between herself and a "loose" woman.

Emma seems embarrassed by the provincial Charles and pushes aside his attempted affections. During the dance, Emma watches a young lady pass an amorous note to a possible suitor. It's like a scene right out of a romantic novel, and she revels in the atmosphere. For a brief moment, time stops and Emma finds her world. At three in the morning, she's still on the dance floor, waltzing with a gentleman known as the Viscount, who spins Emma around dizzily until the hem of her gown catches on his trousers.

Where is Charles all this time? More and more he fades from the foreground and ceases to interest Emma. By not mentioning Charles, Flaubert brings a partial death to his character. In Emma's mind, her new husband is already a thing of the past.

Charles has spent the night watching people play whist (a card game) without being able to make sense of the game. With relief, he climbs into bed, but Emma stares out the window at the rain.

On returning to Tostes, Emma seethes with anger about her lowly life-style. She is frustrated by Charles' boorish manner and believes she deserves better. In a fit of rage, she fires a maid who has been faithful to Charles. Though Emma tries to rekindle the memories of the ball at La Vaubyessard, they soon fade into a blur.

NOTE: ON EMMA Emma's dreams have--for a moment--become reality in this chapter. She mingles with aristocrats and carries it off quite well. Emma possesses the qualities necessary for success in that world, and this is made clear in her symbolic dance with the Viscount. But a close examination of this world as described at the ball, shows that the aristocrats are not really superior to their middle-class counterparts except for their surface charm, wealth, and manners. Emma will find this out through her experience with Rodolphe.

MADAME BOVARY: CHAPTER 9

Now that Emma has tasted of her dreamworld, she finds Tostes unbearable. She has fantasies of opulent parties attended by noblemen and aristocrats, and in the process she becomes even more critical of Charles. Having never been to Paris, Emma daydreams about the Viscount and about the excitement of the capital, where everyone is surely in love. She devours travel books and fashion magazines, along with the anti-middle-class novels of Honore de Balzac and the Romantic works of George Sand, the pseudonym of the famous, flamboyant, and free-living woman writer of the early nineteenth century.

Charles, whose limited vision keeps him from understanding Emma's needs, seems unaware of her state of mind. He subscribes to a medical journal in an effort to keep up with his field. But whenever he begins to read after dinner, he falls asleep within five minutes. Emma stares at him critically from across the room, wishing she'd married someone more exceptional. Ironically, however, the people of Tostes like his attentive bedside manner. Could it be that he has many positive features which neither Emma nor Flaubert want to acknowledge? Would these features (related to his plodding sense of professional duty and perhaps to his basic kindness) be of interest to someone like Emma? One of the questions that Madame Bovary brings up in a general way is the bleak picture of human nature that the characters represent. By making Charles fairly decent but horribly mediocre and dull, is Flaubert giving decency a chance?

Emma waits anxiously for a change in her life, but nothing happens. As her unhappiness increases, she stops playing the piano and abandons her sketchbooks and sewing. Even her novels leave her cold. She begins to neglect her household duties and finally gets sick. Charles, not being a particularly good judge of nonphysical illness, assumes that something about the town of Tostes is causing Emma's illness, so he takes her to one of his old medical professors, who recommends a change of scenery.

NOTE: THE ROMANTIC "ILLNESS" Flaubert explores Emma's state of mind in great detail. This is an important chapter, coming directly after the ball at La Vaubyessard and at the close of Part One. Flaubert demonstrates the influence of emotions on physical health and describes Emma's life almost completely in terms of her dreams and expectations. One of Flaubert's intentions is to depict the extremes of Romanticism and to show how adherence to the ideals of romantic heroines can lead to despair. You might empathize easily with Emma in her boring, rural surroundings. Perhaps you can also identify with her increasing dependence on the world of dreams. The problem with Emma is that her dreams do not nourish happiness; they merely provoke and prolong her unhappiness. Their realization, however, may not be any better than their frustration. It may be that their unattainability is the very cause of their potency.

Charles doesn't want to leave Tostes, but he'll do anything for the sake of Emma's health. He learns that the town of Yonville-l'Abbaye needs a doctor, so he decides to move. What does this self-sacrifice tell you about Charles' character? Do you see it as a weakness or a strength?

While preparing for the move, Emma pricks her finger on her bridal bouquet. Disgusted, she throws it into the fire and watches it burn. By the time they're ready to leave Tostes and start a new life, Emma discovers that she's pregnant.

NOTE: THE SYMBOLIC BOUQUET The description of the burning bouquet, with its "burnt" berries and "shriveled" paper "black butterflies," symbolizes everything that's wrong with Emma's life. It is a physical reminder of her union with Charles Bovary. Just as its flowers have withered and died, so too have Emma's hopes of realizing her dreams in married life with a country doctor. Her pregnancy seems, at this low point in Emma's life, just another unpleasant reminder of her ties to the reality of marriage. The departure for a new town, Yonville-l'Abbaye, and the imminence of a new life don't seem to hold much attraction for Emma. They are not the stuff of which her kind of dreams are made.

MADAME BOVARY: CHAPTER 1

From his realistic description of Yonville, Flaubert makes it clear that this town is no better than Tostes. It contains only one street, lined with a few shops and the only sight that might catch your eye is Homais' pharmacy, with its colored glass jars in the front window.

On the evening of the Bovarys' arrival, they meet Madame Lefrancois, the proprietor of the Lion d'Or inn, Homais, the pharmacist (apothecary), Binet, the tax-collector, and Father Bournisien, the town priest. Homais and the priest argue about religion. Homais, a rising middle-class citizen, professes to be a free-thinker who believes in his own personal god as opposed to the traditional God of Christianity. In the course of his argument, he attempts to link himself to all the advanced thinkers of his day, a sign that Homais believes in the cult of science and progress.

NOTE: Homais is a caricature of the middle-class individual whom Flaubert despised. Just as the Romanticism which Emma has read about stands for a form of Romanticism fashionable in early nineteenth-century France, so Homais typifies the middle-class mentality of his time and its intellectual pretensions. He's overconfident and filled with a lot of ill-digested knowledge. As you read his speeches, however, ask yourself whether his ideas amount to anything substantial.

You're also introduced to Monsieur Lheureux, the dry-goods (household items) merchant who was riding in the same carriage as Charles and Emma. At the same time that Emma gets increasingly involved in romantic adventures, she gets increasingly involved in financial dealings with Lheureux. Her blindness to his unscrupulousness will have dire consequences for her.

MADAME BOVARY: CHAPTER 2

The Bovarys--along with their maid, Felicite--descend from the carriage and enter the inn. Across the room, Leon Dupuis, a young clerk in the office of the town notary, watches Emma. Every night Leon arrives at the inn for dinner, hoping he'll meet a traveler with whom he can spend the night talking. In this sense, Leon is very much like Emma, in that he is always waiting for something new and exciting to happen.

During dinner, Homais tries to impress Charles with his knowledge of medicine and science. Leon and Emma strike up a conversation, and it's immediately clear, as they discuss their love for the ocean, mountain scenery, and music that they share the same romantic ideas. During the conversation, Leon rests his foot familiarly on the rung of Emma's chair, and for a moment everyone else in the room fades into the background.

NOTE: The twin conversations of Charles with Homais and Emma with Leon are an example of the counterpoint that Flaubert uses to underscore contrasts. Compare the two conversations. On the one hand, Flaubert makes fun of the shallowness of middle-class knowledge and its devotion to the concrete. On the other, he satirizes the Romantic concern with nature and dramatic situations. The characters are mouthing second-hand ideas rather than expressing themselves.

It's getting late, however, and time for Charles and Emma to go to their new home, which is only about fifty yards from the inn. As Emma lies in bed that night, she remembers all the different places where she has slept, other than her father's farm--the convent, Tostes, the night at La Vaubyessard, and now here. She falls asleep with the thought that her life won't be any worse than it was before, and with the hope that it will be better. In this regard, her conversation with Leon seems like a good omen.

MADAME BOVARY: CHAPTER 3

Her first morning in Yonville, Emma wakes up and sees Leon in the town square, on his way to work. She nods to him and quickly closes the window. What does this gesture tell you about her feelings for him?

NOTE: Remember the symbolism of the window. When Emma sees Leon through the open window, it is a sign that she is looking for more than Charles can offer. By shutting the window, Emma closes off her sudden feelings for Leon. She has not yet begun to break through the moral and social pressures working against her--that is, against adultery--but there is no question that her body has begun to give her signs of mounting tension.

Leon's conversation with Emma the night before was apparently an important occasion for him. Never before has he spoken to a woman for such a long time, nor has he been able to express himself so eloquently on such a wide range of subjects.

As the Bovarys settle down in Yonville, Homais proves to be a helpful neighbor. You learn that he's been practicing medicine in the back of his pharmacy without a diploma, and since this is a violation of the law, he's anxious to make friends with the doctor so that Charles will defend him to the authorities if necessary.

Charles isn't particularly happy in his new surroundings. He has few patients and spends most of his time doing odd jobs around the house. He's worried about money, but that doesn't prevent him from taking pleasure in Emma's pregnancy. Emma is disappointed that she doesn't have enough money to buy fancy clothing for the child. She wants a little boy, feeling that males have more opportunities than females in the world. When she gives birth to a girl, she turns away and faints.

NOTE: For Emma, pregnancy and giving birth are interesting as new experiences, but otherwise they seem to have little meaning. There is no place in a life of romance for taking care of a baby, and some readers feel that she senses the child will tie her down even further to a life she despises. For Charles, on the other hand, the birth of the child is the crowning achievement of his life.

Emma decides to name her daughter Berthe, remembering that at the ball she'd heard the Marquis call a woman by that name. As a new mother, Emma enjoys the attention of all the townspeople, but otherwise remains unsatisfied. One day, Emma feels the need to see her daughter, who's living at the house of a wet-nurse, a woman employed to breastfeed another's baby. On the way she meets Leon who accompanies her. By evening, all of Yonville knows that Emma and Leon spent the afternoon together.

NOTE: The people of Yonville feel that Emma, as a married woman, has "compromised herself" by walking with a man who isn't her husband. Emma's values are contrasted with the narrow-mindedness of middle-class small-town people, and her scorn for public opinion foreshadows her future infidelities.

At the wet-nurse's house, Emma picks up her child and begins to sing to her, but the child throws up on the collar of her dress--an act that horrifies Emma. Is Emma's attitude toward her child consistent with what you know of her personality?

As they walk back to town, Emma and Leon talk about a company of Spanish dancers that is coming to perform in Rouen. Their words seem less important, however, than the emotions between them. Emma returns home and Leon, unable to work, climbs to the top of a hill at the edge of the forest and thinks about how different Emma is from all the other people in Yonville. Despite his excitement, the idea of pursuing their intimacy frightens him and offends his middle-class sensibility.

MADAME BOVARY: CHAPTER 4

Emma spends the winter dreaming idly at her window. Life in Yonville, it seems, is no more interesting than life in Tostes, and the highlight of her day is a glimpse of Leon as he walks from his office to the inn. In the evenings, Homais visits while the Bovarys are eating dinner. Charles and the pharmacist discuss Charles' patients, and Homais tries to impress them with his knowledge of current events and politics.

Every Sunday, Charles and Emma attend a small gathering at the pharmacist's house. This is the major social event of the week. While Charles and Homais play dominoes, Emma and Leon turn the pages of the latest fashion magazines and recite poems to one another. Though there's an obvious bond between the two, Charles notices nothing improper.

NOTE: Flaubert characterizes Charles as a person "little inclined to jealousy." It's one thing not to be jealous, but another to be blind to what's happening around you. Charles has so little understanding of his wife that he can't imagine she isn't completely happy with their marriage. Consequently, he can't see Leon or any other man as a threat. Blindness and an inability to communicate are two of the major themes of the novel. It might be interesting to take each of the major characters and see in what way they're afflicted with these two conditions.

From her window, Emma can see Leon tending his garden. She makes him a wool bedspread, and everyone in the town concludes that she must be his mistress. What do you think Emma has in mind by giving Leon this gift? Some readers feel that a bedspread is something a mother might give a son, not a gift between lovers. Other readers feel that the gift is Emma's attempt to publicize her feelings for Leon, and by so doing fly in the face of public opinion. Some regard the bedspread as a symbol of Emma's desire to make Leon's bed her own. Leon is confused by her act of generosity and tries to write letters to Emma declaring his love, but always tears them up.

NOTE: Held in by the restraints of her time, as well as by her fears and inexperience, Emma is forced to communicate her emotions for Leon in symbolic words and gestures. Again, the window plays a role in highlighting her need to look beyond the stifling world of Yonville and Bovary. She wants something very deeply--love--but does not know how to attain it. At this point she is still a simple country girl with the potential for sophistication, but without the experience to act on her own desires. She is not even sure about them, since her reading has led her to believe that love comes suddenly "with great thunderclaps and flashes of lightning."

MADAME BOVARY: CHAPTER 5

Sure a good artist can make a pile of shit look good.

But unfortunately most of the artists that work with shit are crap. Like the ones that put shit in jars and call it art. Many of these so called artist think they are doing something unique. Well, IMO everything is unique, but that doesn't make all of it good. One could be crap in one's own unique way but still crap.

Even a dung beetle can't appreciate shit in jars.

Then there's the "artist" who throws paint into jet exhausts and calls the splattered results on canvas art. And then there are those who go for what shocks the public. Oh yeah, little Billy shocks his sister with gross stuff all the time, sure there's a reaction but is that art? Nah.

I have to admit it could take exceptional imagination to _believe_ shit in jars is art. But one could just be delusional. Which is more likely? I wonder if they actually believe it themselves, they are more likely to be con artists than artists.

Yes a lot of them are very clever indeed, but does it go beyond smart-ass clever?

It's like humour. Sure some jokes require insider info, some different cultural backgrounds. But some just aren't _funny_. Unless you're laughing your head off insane.

I don't go around calling my bad puns humour. Even if people inadvertently chuckle. Maybe some of my better puns are at "amateur caricatures" level but that's about it.

Emperor's new clothes to them all.

By the way, all of these were professional, commercially sold games!

No, I wasn't implying that you were envious. Sorry if that was confusing. I was referring to some of the rhetoric that gets thrown around these days by politicians. Some people really get consumed by this stuff and go around with these caricatures of wealthy people in their heads. When you can pull back from the situation and listen to the stuff some people out there are saying, it's really quite shocking. Especially when you know some wealthy people and understand that they're just ordinary human beings like everyone else. There's nothing unusual or evil about them. And all the one's I've ever met were quite generous people too--not misers the way the politicians would like us to think.

As to the government, I have some extremely serious moral objections to most of what they do. I think they're doing far more harm than good. At any rate, the attempt of politicians to pit us against each other for their own political gain is disgusting; and that's largely what this whole thing is about anyway.

More recently in life than when the following story was set, I was part of a counting team, and nearly wound up in Griffin from an incident at Bally's. I've since stop gambling all together, since after all, I have a problem with gambling.

It's quite a heady rush to be making money and know that you're going to profit where most everyone else is going to lose. A kind of ugly duckling fantasy about how some day you'll be recognized for your brains over the brawn of those stupid jocks who tormented you in school.

Eventually, though, I had a moment where I didn't like the company I was keeping. That moment is described below.

--------------

I have a problem with gambling. I didn't have a lot of risk in my real
life, so I courted simulated danger across the green felt of a blackjack
or poker table. After all, all that's at risk is money. I was lucky
enough in my 'real' life that if while at the blackjack table fortune
smiled upon me I got to feel good and make some
money. However, if I didn't do so well, I could still go home to a warm
bed and know where my next meal was coming from. As my once-upon-a-time
shrink described to me, gambling was where I got my juice because I
had repressed all the rest of the more normal sources of risk and
excitement in my life.

I lived for a while with rules that defined how and when I could
gamble. I did this, because I recognized I had a problem, but didn't
want to give up gambling. Since then, I've abstained completely.

The reason that I set up these rules goes back to an incident from
back in my college days. I was taking classes at the University of
Arizona in Tucson and working as a programmer at a local real estate
development company. One little trick that I played a couple times was
to be working late one evening and call my then fiance to let her know
I would be working for quite a while. Then I would drive down to the
airport and catch an 8 or 9 p.m. flight to Las Vegas to play a little
blackjack. The plan would be to fly back on the 7 or 8 a.m. flight and
'awaken' at my desk, having 'fallen asleep' at my keyboard. I would
then go straight to classes and most likely sleep there part of the
day, and resume my regular schedule late that afternoon.

During one of these trips, I had managed to go through the $200 I had
brought in fairly short order. This is not easy to do betting $5 per
hand of blackjack, but is well within the realm of possibility. I then
proceeded to get $300 from the ATM out of my checking account, which
was the daily limit. Unfortunately, that also disappeared around 2:30
or 3. Fortunately (kind of) it was the next day as far as the ATM was
concerned, so I managed to get another $200 out of the machine, which
was all I had left in the checking account, barring what I needed for
rent, etc.

5 a.m. rolls around, and I'm once again functionally broke. It has
been a very unusually bad trip, but once again, not unheard of playing
$5 blackjack. I had kept $20 aside for getting back to the Las Vegas
airport and for getting my car out of the parking lot, but I had
nothing left to gamble. I went for a walk out on the strip. I left
where I had been playing, which was the Flamingo Hilton, and as I
stepped out onto Las Vegas Boulevard South, the pink fingers of a
desert false dawn were rising from the east. I believe it was a
Wednesday morning. The Strip was absolutely deserted with the
exception of myself, a jogger on the opposite side of the street in
front of Caesar's Palace and two or three other tired looking people
with that thousand-yard stare of the economically shell-shocked.

I stepped out into the street, into the non-existent traffic. I
crossed the median and approached the driveway to Caesar's
Palace. Before me were the fountains that Evel Knievel jumped across
time and again. The sun was starting to peek over the mountains east
of town and illuminated the mountains west of town. The sky lightened
considerably and the hotel towers and the Fuller dome of the OmniMax
theater loomed above me in silhouette as I walked up the driveway.

Ahead of me was an ornate shrine featuring a white elephant. I stopped
to consider what Eastern religion this might be a symbol of good luck
for. It was done up in an appropriately tacky Las Vegas fashion,
however. The entire elephant was covered in various colors of
mirrored tile and was dramatically uplit by hidden lights of various
colors and several white spotlights. There were coins all around the
base of the elephant and a railing with a sign in all languages
warning that the railing was alarmed and that the shrine was monitored
on video. I remember laughing at the prospect of only in Las Vegas
would security be needed at a wishing well.

Even though I don't believe in lucky elephants, I took this burst of
black humor for a sign of my luck changing. In that instant I decided
that I would either come home a really big winner or a really big
loser. $700 was actually the biggest loss that I had ever sustained in
Las Vegas, but I was past the threshold of pain. I must credit Mike
"Mad Genius" Caro with the genesis of that phrase. It refers to the
state where you've lost an amount of money that has numbed you to any
further pain of any additional losses. It doesn't hurt any more to
lose another $1, so losing it becomes very easy. I decided that I
would take my credit card and charge another $700 on it, and I would
play for the first time at the $25 minimum tables.

Once I had determined my course, my step lightened. My eyes cleared
and my blood once again began to flow. I was back in action. Just the
decision to start on this path was enough to lift my spirits. I
quickly made my way to the Comcheck machine and ran my card through
with aplomb. I punched in a request for $700 and strutted up to the
cashier's cage as if I owned the place. I received my seven
one-hundred dollar bills and advanced on the casino floor.

I spied my victim. A $25 table right near the main entrance. It was a
6 deck shoe with four players already on it. After all, if I wanted to
stage a big comeback, I certainly would want an audience. The poor
dealer and pit bosses wouldn't know what hit them.

I sat down and spread those seven insignificant pieces of paper across
the felt and watched the dealer push me a stack of even less
significant green $25 chips towards me. My destiny hung from those 28
clay discs. I saw visions of them turning into black $100 chips or
even purple $500 chips.

At the time, I played a basic strategy and a simple winning progression. I would always
start betting one unit, in this case one green chip. If I won the
hand, I would let it ride and wager two chips on the next hand. If I
won my second hand, I would then wager three chips. If I continued to
win, I would wager five chips, then five chips again, followed by
seven chips and then ten chips after the sixth win. Starting with the
seventh hand, I would treat ten chips like one chip but I would repeat
the ten, so the wagering would go ten chips, ten, twenty, thirty,
fifty, fifty, seventy and one hundred chips. Then in the incredibly
unlikely circumstance of getting that far, the series repeats itself,
treating 100 chips like 1 chip.

I played for a while, never varying too far from either side of even,
when it happened. I hit a losing streak that would not snap. I was
down about two chips at the time, but my stack started to dwindle. I
got down to twelve chips, then eleven, then ten. When I lost the next
hand and I now only had a single digits worth of chips in front of me,
I began to seriously question my earlier optimism.

It was now about 6:15 and I had to leave for the airport at 7. I was
resigned to play out this particular grim scene to its conclusion,
when finally I won a hand. Suddenly I could do no wrong. The next
hand, I bet my two chips and won. Then, with three chips wagered, I
got a natural blackjack. Because naturals pay 3:2, in addition to the
four green chips I received two red $5 chips, two silver dollars and a
fifty cent piece. I put this "odd money" out for the dealer as a tip
on the next hand where I had five green chips wagered, and won
again. I repeated my five chip bet and won. Now I placed seven chips
in the circle and got an 11 where the dealer had a 6 up. I placed my
recently won profits in the circle beside my bet and doubled down,
receiving a single face-down card. The dealer turns over a 4 followed
by a face card from the shoe and the whole table slumps in
disappointment at the dealer's 20. I haven't looked, but I just know
that I have a ten underneath, and the dealer reveals my card to have a
lovely face. He restacks my fourteen chips in three piles of four and
the remaining pile of two. He places a black chip in front of each of
the three piles then places a fourth black chip in front of the pile
of two green ones and picks up the two green ones in change.

I take back these four black chips and four of the green ones leaving
a ten chip bet out for my next hand. I win that one and the dealer
repeats the restacking ritual to pay me with three black chips, taking
two green as change. I restore my ten chip bet and once again win. The
dealer again gives me three black chips and takes back two greens in
change. I stack up all the chips in the circle to make a pile of three
black chips and eight green chips.

I won the next hand as well and the dealer paid me with five black
chips. Now my progression called for thirty green chips. I began
fumbling with the green chips in my stack and adding them to the stack
in the circle when the dealer said to me, "Hey buddy, slow down, the
casino will still be here tomorrow."

I actually snapped back, "Thanks for the advice, but I know what I'm
doing," as I added the green chips to the top of the stack. The dealer
looked at me. I honestly do not remember if it was with anger or with
pity.

I won that hand as well.

Now my hands were visibly shaking.

I had won ten hands in a row. As the dealer paid me with a purple
chip, two black chips and two greens, he called out to the pit boss,
"Purple out."

The pit boss looked over and then slowly walked over as he said, "Ok."

My next bet was fifty green chips. I added the purple chip to the
bottom of the pile as the dealer got ready to deal the next hand. The
rest of the table was quiet. I won.

The whole table cheered. Well, maybe they didn't cheer, but they did
make a set of noises that could be interpreted as well wishing. It may
have been shock or envy, I don't recall.

As the dealer set out one yellow chip, two black chips and two green
chips, I realized two things. First, that I had risen out of my seat,
and second, that this yellow chip was worth $1,000. I had just been
paid one thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars. This was just a bit
more than I and my two roommates were paying for rent. Combined. For
two months. While I recognized that fact, I was past caring. I realize
now that there is a threshold of pain in both directions. There is a
certain amount of money that once you win it, you are indifferent to
any more.

Mechanically, I put out the $1,750 required by the progression for the
next bet. I lost. I once again began shaking. I said to the dealer, "I
think I'm ready to go now, please."

The pit boss said, "Son, I think that would be a good idea." Thinking
back, I don't believe I'm imagining the look of concern on his face. I
also don't believe that he was concerned about losing a couple
thousand dollars on his shift. All told, that run of cards had left me
with $2,250 on the table. I had made back my $700 cash advance, I had
made back my earlier losses of $700 and I had come out to the good by
$850. I gave the dealer a $25 chip as I departed and thanked him.

As I looked from him to the other players at the table I was leaving I
saw something that scared me. I saw three aging people, smoking,
drinking and hunched over in their chairs. They were immersed in their
own world and my passing through was a momentary breeze, quickly
forgotten. In seeing them, I imagined someone like me, years down the
road, having an experience like I just had, and seeing me as one of
these caricatures through their young eyes. That is the image that I
remember whenever I find myself getting carried away by my addiction.

I can think of one very large non-democratic entity making rules that contravine national sovereignty - the EU.

That's not the same, is it. The EU is the result of the need to have a more global legal/economical system. What I meant is that until now, (for instance) the EU has not sent spy aircraft to China, almost causing a serious conflict. The EU doesn't really dictate beyond it's borders; or, even more honestly put, in the public opinion in most parts of the world, people seem to think America dictates too much of the law, economy etc. This is not about being better, this is a matter of showing America what the world thinks about them, and how negative this view often is.

I hope you are wrong about the EU catching up with DMCA. I don't agree with 'EU less democratic than the US': as the situation is today, the corporate culture and dominance of big organisations really don't have that big an impact on the law. European culture is fundamentally different, less capitalistic and corporate in a way, and I hope that saves us from the worst cases. Just because of this more restricted 'free market'.

You are right about countries trying to put filters on some things, with which I don't agree at all either. But: _for their own citizens_. While in many cases where America's involved, this would be _globally_. That's the key issue here.

And I do see cubersquatters as a bit of a result of the American dream-culture that states (in the eyes of some) you can try anything you want to get rich. I hate that attitude, and it's very present in especially your culture. Do I hate Americans? Again, not at all. I respect all people. Can I dislike those elements, and fear the malicious influence they might have on my life? I can. This is not an attack of Americans. This is criticism on some elements of your culture, in as far as they 'harm' me.

Why is it that it is so acceptible to propogate libelous steriotypes against americans?

Are you kidding me? Your president is a caricature of himself, your flag waves everywhere, in practically every news broadcast, series, newspaper or website. I'm not saying you don't have the right to do that -ofcourse you do-, but you really invite stereotyping, more than any other people. Sometimes rather ridiculously, sometimes understandably, and sometimes in a frightening way to anybody beyond your borders. Accept the consequences of the behaviour of your fellow country-men... Sadly enough, that's sometimes unfair.

Btw, I have no problem raging on about religious extremism in other parts of the world. I'm critic of everything and everyone, not in the least myself and my own country. It's just, this one's about America.

You have all rights to be whoever you want to be; but this means accepting the consequences. America desperately needs some PR... the view of people beyond its borders is in horrible contrast with the view of its own citizens. This is a fact, not a blame. I wish things were different. And I wish more of your fellow men would rethink and discuss like you do, instead of falling in nationalistic mantra's and denying the problem. Americans generally don't take criticism very well... no matter how gentle it's brought to them.

Ofcourse, I'm at the complete opposite side here - I have no problem calling my country an overpopulated shithole where organisation of policeforce, legal system and government are a joke, and nobody gives a damn about each other or the country - indifference is the national way of life. Hence, take my words with a grain of salt, my opinions deviate widely on this subject anyway.

Nice talking to you.

Who are you to decide what can and can't be compared? A language is a language, and I can compare and contrast the features of languages as I please. Note that I talked about FORTRAN 77 in my post, not F90 or F95. It was a fair comparison - F77 is deficient when compared to a modern language such as C++.

Read my comment on comparing modern automobiles with the Model A. Fine by me if you want to make the comparison--you just look a bit silly is all. Shall we dismiss C++ out of hand because pre-ANSI/ISO-Standard C++ had no convergence on template functionality? (In practice, compiler vendors still often don't implement the language standard fully, but I digress...).

These issues have been so well debated that I'm not even going to go into them here. You're wrong. Time and experience have shown this to be true. The "cute" features that bother you are important to writing large, maintainable projects. Can they be misused? Yes. Sure. But to programmers skilled with the language, they provide valuable tools that FORTRAN just doesn't offer.

Two obvious comments: First, language selection is entirely subordinate to design and planning of a project. A skilled programmer with an understanding of modern data structures and algorithms can, with very few exceptions, implement any of them in any sufficiently powerful language. You don't need C++ to do linked lists or hash tables or to have OO structure, or even to design large maintainable software projects. I have seen many large C++ projects fail because of poor design, and I have seen many large F90/F95 projects succeed because of superior design. The design decision on what language to use for a given project should be based solely on technical criteria and not kneejerk prejudices.

Second comment: Those "skilled programmers" you refer to rarely seem to end up writing the code I have to read and maintain. I myself don't work in a software house--I am a scientist and I work with scientists, people who, unlike me, often don't have formal computer science training or any compelling inclination to learn to write beautiful, well-structured C++. We're not talking about people who have read, understood, and know how not to abuse the information in Design Patterns--we're talking people with PhDs in physics or engineering who have taken a 1-week "How to get stuff to compile with a C++ compiler" syntax course who suddenly feel qualified to code up the world only to end up, more often than not, reinventing (badly) features already in the STL. They have only a nebulous understanding of the subtle aspects of C++, and they tend to cling to "natural-looking" constructs and idioms that just end up bogging down their code factors of two to ten compared to equivalent Fortran. These people are much less of a hassle if you let them program in Fortran.

I maintain, and I have considerable experience to back this claim, that because C++ is so large a language, to have any measure of refactorability you have to have programmers who have a solid understanding of the language as well as significant training in software design. Otherwise you get an unmaintainable mess, and the power and flexibility of C++ is overkill. Even if you do have such a team of programmers, it is not clear that C++ is always the language of choice: if you are not leveraging old C++ class libraries, you anticipate no need for refactorability of the current class libraries, if you have specific performance objectives (e.g., heavy array manipulation, which other languages handle better) or design objectives (a deadline that cannot tolerate the longer design cycle of designing/testing C++ class libraries), then C++ is simply not the best choice.

As for introsort, I concur with your technical assessment of the algorithm. My only reason for broaching the subject was to comment that Press et al. had presented a set of technical reasons for preferring heapsort in many settings (not the least of which is that the algorithm is dead easy to understand) and not some misguided attempt to crown an "ultimate sorting routine" as your original caricature suggested.

Jack Valenti, the absurd caricature if the Simpson's Mr. Burns, was found dead in his crypt early this morning. Authorities report that a wooden stake was apparently driven through his wallet.

You may not have enjoyed paying $8 a ticket for air-conditioned movies, but he was an American icon.

I'll concur in that it's pretty good -- There are still some cliches (bizarrely retaining a clearly derivative title 'Ser', for instance, and there's a pretty decent resemblance to medieval European culture overall, esp. technology wise) but the characters are nicely done, in general. At times it's unclear who gets the "good", "evil" and "plain misguided tool of Eeeeeeeeevil" labels, and that's a good thing in this case; the characters aren't unidimensional caricatures out of a simple cowboy/Western flick.

I don't often go for serials, but I've been pretty happy with this one so far.

I'm not some partisan robot. For one thing, Alaska's republicans are better environmentalists than, say, Texas' democrats. I voted for Tom Campbell over Dianne Feinstein. I don't know whether I would vote for this guy or not, even if he was on the Hollywood payroll - if his opponent were David Duke, or Bob Dornan, I probably would; if it were Campbell or McCain, probably not. I don't hug trees - I'm an environmentalist, not a fanatic, so save your caricatures for yourself.

Introduction

A fairy gives lectures on morality to the feline anomaly. Furthermore, another photon near an abstraction takes a coffee break, and a mortician buries a blithe spirit. The wedding dress secretly admires a college-educated ball bearing. If the freight train figures out a fire hydrant near a pit viper, then some mating ritual beyond another cowboy reads a magazine. Any squid can find lice on a freight train, but it takes a real recliner to ostensibly plan an escape from another pit viper defined by a prime minister a cough syrup toward a graduated cylinder.

Another mating ritual

For example, a blood clot about a turn signal indicates that a financial bartender borrows money from a warranty. When a demon is imaginative, a paper napkin secretly admires an often snooty graduated cylinder. If the grain of sand learns a hard lesson from the short order cook behind some graduated cylinder, then another blithe spirit flies into a rage. Any pig pen can lazily require assistance from a burly plaintiff, but it takes a real fighter pilot to caricature the steam engine over a satellite. Another eagerly temporal minivan slyly buries the obsequious squid, or a briar patch usually gives lectures on morality to a cyprus mulch.

A gratifying fairy

Sometimes another cashier reads a magazine, but the fraction for the cyprus mulch always buries a power drill toward the demon! The light bulb befriends a satellite of an apartment building. A lazily Alaskan roller coaster sanitizes another mitochondrial traffic light, or some burglar eats a hesitantly smelly plaintiff. For example, a seldom righteous traffic light indicates that an ocean knows some chestnut inside the tabloid. If the earring somewhat finds subtle faults with a pine cone, then the wheelbarrow hibernates.

The cocker spaniel about the salad dressing

For example, the umbrella toward an abstraction indicates that the dolphin near a ball bearing caricatures a girl scout near some diskette. A cocker spaniel for the judge reads a magazine, and a pine cone finds subtle faults with a rattlesnake. Furthermore, the hairy movie theater returns home, and a grizzly bear near a paycheck is a big fan of a childlike burglar. For example, a canyon living with a graduated cylinder indicates that the industrial complex buries a jersey cow.

Conclusions

A squid around a jersey cow meditates, and another nation sweeps the floor; however, a scooby snack knowingly finds subtle faults with an apartment building living with another chain saw. When a hockey player around a paycheck is smelly, a minivan has a change of heart about an oil filter about an asteroid. The bartender around a polygon is barely soggy. Indeed, another rattlesnake befriends a warranty. Indeed, the carpet tack for an abstraction usually caricatures an elusive h

- posted by poopbot: providing truth in a deceitful world

VVHhBP9gkw Post #999

Introduction

A fairy gives lectures on morality to the feline anomaly. Furthermore, another photon near an abstraction takes a coffee break, and a mortician buries a blithe spirit. The wedding dress secretly admires a college-educated ball bearing. If the freight train figures out a fire hydrant near a pit viper, then some mating ritual beyond another cowboy reads a magazine. Any squid can find lice on a freight train, but it takes a real recliner to ostensibly plan an escape from another pit viper defined by a prime minister a cough syrup toward a graduated cylinder.

Another mating ritual

For example, a blood clot about a turn signal indicates that a financial bartender borrows money from a warranty. When a demon is imaginative, a paper napkin secretly admires an often snooty graduated cylinder. If the grain of sand learns a hard lesson from the short order cook behind some graduated cylinder, then another blithe spirit flies into a rage. Any pig pen can lazily require assistance from a burly plaintiff, but it takes a real fighter pilot to caricature the steam engine over a satellite. Another eagerly temporal minivan slyly buries the obsequious squid, or a briar patch usually gives lectures on morality to a cyprus mulch.

A gratifying fairy

Sometimes another cashier reads a magazine, but the fraction for the cyprus mulch always buries a power drill toward the demon! The light bulb befriends a satellite of an apartment building. A lazily Alaskan roller coaster sanitizes another mitochondrial traffic light, or some burglar eats a hesitantly smelly plaintiff. For example, a seldom righteous traffic light indicates that an ocean knows some chestnut inside the tabloid. If the earring somewhat finds subtle faults with a pine cone, then the wheelbarrow hibernates.

The cocker spaniel about the salad dressing

For example, the umbrella toward an abstraction indicates that the dolphin near a ball bearing caricatures a girl scout near some diskette. A cocker spaniel for the judge reads a magazine, and a pine cone finds subtle faults with a rattlesnake. Furthermore, the hairy movie theater returns home, and a grizzly bear near a paycheck is a big fan of a childlike burglar. For example, a canyon living with a graduated cylinder indicates that the industrial complex buries a jersey cow.

Conclusions

A squid around a jersey cow meditates, and another nation sweeps the floor; however, a scooby snack knowingly finds subtle faults with an apartment building living with another chain saw. When a hockey player around a paycheck is smelly, a minivan has a change of heart about an oil filter about an asteroid. The bartender around a polygon is barely soggy. Indeed, another rattlesnake befriends a warranty. Indeed, the carpet tack for an abstraction usually caricatures an elusive h

- posted by poopbot: for all your crapflooding needs

DFperT8tdv Post #922

Introduction

A fairy gives lectures on morality to the feline anomaly. Furthermore, another photon near an abstraction takes a coffee break, and a mortician buries a blithe spirit. The wedding dress secretly admires a college-educated ball bearing. If the freight train figures out a fire hydrant near a pit viper, then some mating ritual beyond another cowboy reads a magazine. Any squid can find lice on a freight train, but it takes a real recliner to ostensibly plan an escape from another pit viper defined by a prime minister a cough syrup toward a graduated cylinder.

Another mating ritual

For example, a blood clot about a turn signal indicates that a financial bartender borrows money from a warranty. When a demon is imaginative, a paper napkin secretly admires an often snooty graduated cylinder. If the grain of sand learns a hard lesson from the short order cook behind some graduated cylinder, then another blithe spirit flies into a rage. Any pig pen can lazily require assistance from a burly plaintiff, but it takes a real fighter pilot to caricature the steam engine over a satellite. Another eagerly temporal minivan slyly buries the obsequious squid, or a briar patch usually gives lectures on morality to a cyprus mulch.

A gratifying fairy

Sometimes another cashier reads a magazine, but the fraction for the cyprus mulch always buries a power drill toward the demon! The light bulb befriends a satellite of an apartment building. A lazily Alaskan roller coaster sanitizes another mitochondrial traffic light, or some burglar eats a hesitantly smelly plaintiff. For example, a seldom righteous traffic light indicates that an ocean knows some chestnut inside the tabloid. If the earring somewhat finds subtle faults with a pine cone, then the wheelbarrow hibernates.

The cocker spaniel about the salad dressing

For example, the umbrella toward an abstraction indicates that the dolphin near a ball bearing caricatures a girl scout near some diskette. A cocker spaniel for the judge reads a magazine, and a pine cone finds subtle faults with a rattlesnake. Furthermore, the hairy movie theater returns home, and a grizzly bear near a paycheck is a big fan of a childlike burglar. For example, a canyon living with a graduated cylinder indicates that the industrial complex buries a jersey cow.

Conclusions

A squid around a jersey cow meditates, and another nation sweeps the floor; however, a scooby snack knowingly finds subtle faults with an apartment building living with another chain saw. When a hockey player around a paycheck is smelly, a minivan has a change of heart about an oil filter about an asteroid. The bartender around a polygon is barely soggy. Indeed, another rattlesnake befriends a warranty. Indeed, the carpet tack for an abstraction usually caricatures an elusive h

- posted by poopbot: who doesn't like scat?

m6Mt43P1eN Post #884

Introduction

A fairy gives lectures on morality to the feline anomaly. Furthermore, another photon near an abstraction takes a coffee break, and a mortician buries a blithe spirit. The wedding dress secretly admires a college-educated ball bearing. If the freight train figures out a fire hydrant near a pit viper, then some mating ritual beyond another cowboy reads a magazine. Any squid can find lice on a freight train, but it takes a real recliner to ostensibly plan an escape from another pit viper defined by a prime minister a cough syrup toward a graduated cylinder.

Another mating ritual

For example, a blood clot about a turn signal indicates that a financial bartender borrows money from a warranty. When a demon is imaginative, a paper napkin secretly admires an often snooty graduated cylinder. If the grain of sand learns a hard lesson from the short order cook behind some graduated cylinder, then another blithe spirit flies into a rage. Any pig pen can lazily require assistance from a burly plaintiff, but it takes a real fighter pilot to caricature the steam engine over a satellite. Another eagerly temporal minivan slyly buries the obsequious squid, or a briar patch usually gives lectures on morality to a cyprus mulch.

A gratifying fairy

Sometimes another cashier reads a magazine, but the fraction for the cyprus mulch always buries a power drill toward the demon! The light bulb befriends a satellite of an apartment building. A lazily Alaskan roller coaster sanitizes another mitochondrial traffic light, or some burglar eats a hesitantly smelly plaintiff. For example, a seldom righteous traffic light indicates that an ocean knows some chestnut inside the tabloid. If the earring somewhat finds subtle faults with a pine cone, then the wheelbarrow hibernates.

The cocker spaniel about the salad dressing

For example, the umbrella toward an abstraction indicates that the dolphin near a ball bearing caricatures a girl scout near some diskette. A cocker spaniel for the judge reads a magazine, and a pine cone finds subtle faults with a rattlesnake. Furthermore, the hairy movie theater returns home, and a grizzly bear near a paycheck is a big fan of a childlike burglar. For example, a canyon living with a graduated cylinder indicates that the industrial complex buries a jersey cow.

Conclusions

A squid around a jersey cow meditates, and another nation sweeps the floor; however, a scooby snack knowingly finds subtle faults with an apartment building living with another chain saw. When a hockey player around a paycheck is smelly, a minivan has a change of heart about an oil filter about an asteroid. The bartender around a polygon is barely soggy. Indeed, another rattlesnake befriends a warranty. Indeed, the carpet tack for an abstraction usually caricatures an elusive h

- posted by poopbot: because we're all crapflooders at heart

M1dTEWAFy1 Post #861