Tonight at 7: a seasteading meet-up at Gossip (more on that topic tomorrow, most likely).
Tonight at 9:30: Jen Dziura, recovered from food poisoning and doing comedy at People’s Theatre (154 W. 29, 2nd floor).
I’ll attend both, getting a dash of seafaring politics and comedy-philosophy — but let’s get back to Native American mysticism for a moment, alluded to in Wednesday’s first entry.
I don’t know if it portends the end of the world, but Dave Whitney mentioned the existence of the terrible-sounding horror movie The Suckling (about a monstrous aborted fetus running amok), which in turn reminded me of the 70s thriller The Manitou, about a woman who checks into the hospital with what appears to be a tumor, which turns out to be an evil Native American spirit-fetus eager to be born into our world (a health fear).
Somewhat classier — and even more disturbing to my young mind — was the thriller The Demon Seed (parodied on a Simpsons Halloween episode) about a mechanized house that imprisons the woman who lives there, while her husband’s away, and eventually figures out how to impregnate her, giving birth to a house/human cyborg (I watched this at about 1am one night, having no idea what I was in for, and it was quite creepy).
Only days ago did I learn that popular (libertarian) master-hack Dean Koontz wrote the original novel, from the woman’s perspective, and two decades later, rewrote it from the house’s perspective. But what’s really weird is that just two days ago I then discovered, upon walking into Barnes & Noble, that the new edition of that later version of the novel has just been released, with an afterword from Koontz about the moviemaking experience — and a final line about real-life governments being even creepier.
In a further coincidence, I was in Barnes & Noble in the first place buying one final gift for the thirteenth birthday of the only child I’ve been buying presents for, the first child born of any of my college pals. I figured I’d treat him as unique to avoid going broke buying gifts for everyone — and by cutting him off at age thirteen, I not only commemorate the transition to manhood in the traditions of (one quarter of) his ancestors, I get out of this gift-giving pattern before his four year-old sister notices I’m not giving her anything.
The lad in question has good taste, I think, since he recommended to his dad this video of Coach Z rapping — and his dad noted it reminded him of this new piece from the Onion I enjoyed. The kid also shares my birth-month, and remember that you can celebrate it with me this Sunday, August 9, at Doc Watson’s at 11:30am.
I hope and expect to see many more years — and I do not expect the imminent end of the world, but I gotta say, there’s something weird going on with the dragonflies in Manhattan, which seem to be getting as big as Twinkies and occasionally thudding loudly against my office window. I almost suspect that some dragonfly-gigantism gene suppressed since prehistoric times may be reasserting itself. Certainly, the size of these beasts makes it easier to believe their ancestors had two-foot wingspans.
Perhaps to really observe the evolution of the dragonflies, I should pay for one of the meditative “time travel” sessions my very New Agey acquaintance Diana Ferrante is offering, which she now offers over the phone to save time — but then, if you can do time travel — well, best not to think about it too much, to paraphrase the second Austin Powers movie.