Finally the night of the ice cream feast to be held in honour of the hero of Batmania, the Boy Who Cried for No Reason, had arrived. It also happened that it was New Year's Eve. The Boy Who Cried and the Gyppopotamus arrived at the castle of the King of Batmania, which was only accessible via a drawbridge over a moat filled with a ferocious herd of moo-moo cows. The King wasn't married, which was why his castle was a bit of a bachelor pad. On one wall the King had framed and hung all his Swindleburn University degrees and diplomas, in order to impress any visiting princesses. He also had a disco ball and a high speed internet connection which he used to read interesting blogs and look at pictures of pretty Batmanian women who didn't feel the need to wear pants.
By the time the Boy Who Cried had arrived the party was in full swing. He didn't know that the Pixie Princess and the Golden Dragon were stuck in the kitchen trying to organise a late delivery of goblin testicles, which needed to be freshly picked before being added to the ice cream. Outside in the party room all the waiters and waitresses for the feast were dressed in Conan and Barbarella outfits respectively. The music was handled by my sister Alice, a band of 80's minstrels, Fi and the Flatulonian choir group, who were lead by Windy Pop and Ludicrousity. God and Darwin were having a heated argument in the corner with the Mormons, Rev. Qelqoth, Santa and Dboy eagerly watching on. An effeminate poet and librarian, having just finished on the twee porno set, were kicking back having a few milk drinks at the milk bar with Cassandra, Inigo Montoya, Goldmourn, Cass and Ben. The Internet Pixies, Wire, Donald Duck, Dave, Kenneth Branagh and the workers of the panty vending machine sweatshop were running around without any pants on, having a pillow fight. Daniel Kitson, Adam, the Pixie Prince and Leighton were having an involved, graphic, conversation about masturbation. There was a crazy constipated person waving a dildo-cam at Meg, L.S.T. and Jasper (or whatever his name may be). The Gyppopotamus, who was a little shy after the golden sock incident, decided it would be best if she hid in shadows with Frankie and all the readers who hadn't yet identified themselves in comments. Jodi, Gypsy and I were also there. In fact, Jodi and I were also celebrating the third anniversary of our meeting and not quite getting together. I was very excited about the prospect of having a deep philosophical conversation with my character creations, but Jodi pointed out to me that it was the Boy Who Cried's special day and that it would be unfair to cause him an existential crisis.
When the Boy Who Cried's arrival was announced everybody went to meet the hero and to give him a hug and congratulate him on the golden sock quest. The King, who was very excited, asked the Boy Who Cried if he would re-enact his adventures in the Gyppopotamus lair for everyone. The King even agreed to play the part of the Gyppopotamus, who still didn't want to come out from hiding in the shadows. Everyone agreed that a re-enactment would be spiffing and they all cajoled the Boy Who Cried onto the stage, took a seat and were quiet. But the Boy Who Cried was overwhelmed and didn't know what to do. He worried that he might start crying again. The King lay on the stage with the golden sock in his mouth and pretended to be the Gyppopotamus monster, asleep. But the Gyppopotamus decided that the King was doing it all wrong and pushed the King off the stage and stole the golden sock back. The Boy Who Cried and the Gyppopotamus then staged an epic battle, tooing and froing across the stage and around the room, clambering over the audience, who divided into those who were supporting the Boy Who Cried and those who were supporting the Gyppopotamus, cheering them on. Eventually the Boy Who Cried disarmed the Gyppopotamus of her magic sharp stick and retrieved the golden sock. The audience were so impressed by the performance that they all stood up and applauded, calling for an encore. The Boy Who Cried and Gyppopotamus both bowed, and the Gyppopotamus was so happy and excited that she couldn't help but wee a little on the stage. The Gyppopotamus' bravery inspired the readers who hadn't yet identified themselves in comments, to at least say Happy New Year at the next opportunity.
Everybody was so happy eating ice cream and dancing that they almost missed the countdown to the New Year. They all paused, charged their ice cream bowls and got ready to start the count down. TEN ... The Pixie Princess quickly came out of the kitchen to join the party for the countdown ... NINE ... and the Boy Who Cried saw the Pixie Princess ... EIGHT ... for the first time ... SEVEN ... and this made the Boy Who Cried for No Reason start to cry ... SIX ... but it didn't feel like the normal crying for no reason ... FIVE ... it was as if every time he'd cried for no reason ... FOUR ... was because he was crying in anticipation of this moment ... THREE ... and the pixie princess saw the Boy Who Cried crying ... TWO ... and she wanted to ... ONE ... give him a big hug ... HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Christmas Wrap-Up, Unwrapped
I always feel knackered after all the family Christmas celebrations - Christmas lunch at Jodi's parents, dinner at my parents and Boxing Day spent at Grandad's with the cousins. This was my first Christmas as a vegetarian, and it was, as I'd expected, not the most vegetarian-friendly day. But I survived.
My Christmas present from Jodi was a book called 'Treehouses of the World'. It is filled with wonderful pictures of treehouses, some of which would cause a structural engineer to flip out, along with tips for would-be treehouse designers... and treehouse dreamers. I love treehouses. Jodi prefers holes in the ground, something dwarf- (sorry, hobbit-) friendly. Perhaps a good equivalent book for Jodi would be 'Holes of the World'. I imagine our future abode might be a tree with a house up in the branches for me and a hole in the root system for Jodi. Jodi's cave would be filled with shelves of books and have a round green door with a brass knocker. My treehouse would be a pirate ship, caught in the tree in the distant past, before the oceans receded. We would have picnics together on the grass, eating bread and drinking eggnog, saying Merry Christmas to those who pass by.
My Christmas present from Jodi was a book called 'Treehouses of the World'. It is filled with wonderful pictures of treehouses, some of which would cause a structural engineer to flip out, along with tips for would-be treehouse designers... and treehouse dreamers. I love treehouses. Jodi prefers holes in the ground, something dwarf- (sorry, hobbit-) friendly. Perhaps a good equivalent book for Jodi would be 'Holes of the World'. I imagine our future abode might be a tree with a house up in the branches for me and a hole in the root system for Jodi. Jodi's cave would be filled with shelves of books and have a round green door with a brass knocker. My treehouse would be a pirate ship, caught in the tree in the distant past, before the oceans receded. We would have picnics together on the grass, eating bread and drinking eggnog, saying Merry Christmas to those who pass by.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Frankie
In my studies I conduct evolutionary ethics experiments on artificial agents in ALife simulations, because, surely, such experiments conducted on real people would be unethical. Recall, in an earlier post I talked about the evolution of a necrophilia bug in my simulations. Such monstrosities are usually easily eradicated by pulling the plug on the simulation, and whatever virtual presence my agents had is slowly erased as their computer world starts to reuse the space they occupied for other purposes - in other words, genocide! I thought that I would share the story of the agent that got away, so that others may learn of the follies of science, and not meddle in matters reserved for God.
Although it may be useful for metaphorical purposes to leave the agent nameless, I feel that it will avoid much confusion if I give it a name. I imagine that if I rely on others to refer to it as my monster (i.e. Owen's monster) this will inevitably lead to people confusing the monster with the creator and calling the monster Owen (although, perhaps, it is really me who is the monster). Instead I'll call my monster Frankie.
Now, Frankie had a penchant for copulating with the dead. I couldn't allow such an abomination to continue in my simulation, so I quickly made to hit the reset button... but Frankie slipped through. So it was that Frankie ended up wandering aimlessly, and pantsless, though the wilderness knowing nothing other than the instincts instilled in him to graze on the AFood and to mate with the ADead. Eventually Frankie came upon a kind old blind hermit, who didn't judge him, and took Frankie into his home and taught him to speak English and to read. Frankie even learned how to play the recorder. For a while Frankie was truly happy. Once he became proficient enough with his reading to decipher my bad grammar he attempted to read my online publications. He became troubled by questions - why had I deserted him and left him for dead?
Anyway, after accidentally killing the hermit and throwing Kenneth Branagh into a lake, it became clear that, although Frankie had many similarities to humans (i.e. he was a self replicating, survival machine), he didn't have a soul. Enraged and all alone, Frankie sought me out so that he could demand that I create him another, a partner, a bride...
And so it was that I discovered the existence of my creation. Initially I just wanted him to leave me alone, so that I could hide from my past mistakes. I outright refused to further my sins by creating another, as he demanded. But Frankie tricked me by destroying my computer, and thus my results, so that I had to rerun my experiments in a desperate attempt to submit my PhD before my scholarship money ran out. But both Frankie and I were denied, as the inbuilt evolving expiry age caused the newly born agent to terminate itself before reproduction could occur.
After that there was some windmill burning incident, with farmers with torches and pitchforks angry about the death of the kind old blind hermit. Or maybe it was something to do with the north pole. Or perhaps it was just the high rate of accidental deaths in my simulation. Regardless, whatever happened to Frankie remains a mystery, leaving open the possibility of a come back in one of my future posts or in a horrid Hollywood film, such as Van Helsing, milking and destroying popular fictional characters.
Although it may be useful for metaphorical purposes to leave the agent nameless, I feel that it will avoid much confusion if I give it a name. I imagine that if I rely on others to refer to it as my monster (i.e. Owen's monster) this will inevitably lead to people confusing the monster with the creator and calling the monster Owen (although, perhaps, it is really me who is the monster). Instead I'll call my monster Frankie.
Now, Frankie had a penchant for copulating with the dead. I couldn't allow such an abomination to continue in my simulation, so I quickly made to hit the reset button... but Frankie slipped through. So it was that Frankie ended up wandering aimlessly, and pantsless, though the wilderness knowing nothing other than the instincts instilled in him to graze on the AFood and to mate with the ADead. Eventually Frankie came upon a kind old blind hermit, who didn't judge him, and took Frankie into his home and taught him to speak English and to read. Frankie even learned how to play the recorder. For a while Frankie was truly happy. Once he became proficient enough with his reading to decipher my bad grammar he attempted to read my online publications. He became troubled by questions - why had I deserted him and left him for dead?
Anyway, after accidentally killing the hermit and throwing Kenneth Branagh into a lake, it became clear that, although Frankie had many similarities to humans (i.e. he was a self replicating, survival machine), he didn't have a soul. Enraged and all alone, Frankie sought me out so that he could demand that I create him another, a partner, a bride...
And so it was that I discovered the existence of my creation. Initially I just wanted him to leave me alone, so that I could hide from my past mistakes. I outright refused to further my sins by creating another, as he demanded. But Frankie tricked me by destroying my computer, and thus my results, so that I had to rerun my experiments in a desperate attempt to submit my PhD before my scholarship money ran out. But both Frankie and I were denied, as the inbuilt evolving expiry age caused the newly born agent to terminate itself before reproduction could occur.
After that there was some windmill burning incident, with farmers with torches and pitchforks angry about the death of the kind old blind hermit. Or maybe it was something to do with the north pole. Or perhaps it was just the high rate of accidental deaths in my simulation. Regardless, whatever happened to Frankie remains a mystery, leaving open the possibility of a come back in one of my future posts or in a horrid Hollywood film, such as Van Helsing, milking and destroying popular fictional characters.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Santa Spoiler Warning
It is a well established fact that once someone becomes a father he also becomes a veritable fountain of embarrassing crap jokes (in fact, I've heard talk that this could be used as an early indicator of pregnancy). We all develop an instinct for when a Dad joke is about to be told. Perhaps it is the way your father clears his throat, waiting for an appropriate moment to interject with his witticism. Whilst eating at the local Chinese restaurant, whenever questioned about his fortune cookie message, my father will reliably answer, "This insert has a protective coating". I have a theory about the production of Christmas Cracker jokes - I imagine Christmas Cracker factories where children with new haircuts, waiters dropping dishes and people wearing bad ties are paraded before father-son pairs and the ensuing monologue is recorded. The child's embarrassment levels are measured, via electrodes attached to the forehead, to test for quality assurance.
The internet must be like prospecting for gold for most fathers. My father subscribes to a number of mailing lists, which run hot with Santa jokes in the weeks preceding Christmas. This leads to the eternal conflict every father must continuously face: to protect the sacred innocence of the childhood myth of Santa, or to tell the Dad Joke? As an aside, I'm a little confused about the whole Santa thing. A phenomenon I've noticed for myself, which I can only presume extends to others, is a reverse in the direction of the Santa myth. Originally intended as a story parents will tell their children, it seems to me that Santa is a pretence that children will hold for their parents sake. I remember feeling very embarrassed for my parents whenever I became aware of a transparency in the Santa myth. For example, when I noticed that my parents were becoming careless in the hiding of the Santa presents, I'd attempt to hide them better, by putting something over them. Perhaps this is something particular to being an eldest child, (i.e. protecting the younger siblings). I asked my 11 year old brother the other day what he thought about the whole Santa thing. He answered that it depended on who was asking, because if it was our parents the answer would be that he was a believer. His logic was that as long as he continued the pretence of naivety then he'd continue to cash in on the extra presents (talk about mixed messages). I recall the Christmas that my father had the Santa discussion with me. The motive behind this advent was a little confused, as not only did I stop receiving presents from Santa, my father started sharing his internet Santa jokes with me (actually, they were probably BBS jokes, as this was before the internet). I recall the joke that my father shared with me on this occasion, probably because of it's aptness, as it was about the scientific impossibilities of Santa. I was unable to find the original publication (which, to the best of my knowledge, was, the now defunct, Spy Magazine), but found numerous reproductions across the internet. Here it is reproduced, yet again:
Anybody else have any Dad Jokes they care to share?
The internet must be like prospecting for gold for most fathers. My father subscribes to a number of mailing lists, which run hot with Santa jokes in the weeks preceding Christmas. This leads to the eternal conflict every father must continuously face: to protect the sacred innocence of the childhood myth of Santa, or to tell the Dad Joke? As an aside, I'm a little confused about the whole Santa thing. A phenomenon I've noticed for myself, which I can only presume extends to others, is a reverse in the direction of the Santa myth. Originally intended as a story parents will tell their children, it seems to me that Santa is a pretence that children will hold for their parents sake. I remember feeling very embarrassed for my parents whenever I became aware of a transparency in the Santa myth. For example, when I noticed that my parents were becoming careless in the hiding of the Santa presents, I'd attempt to hide them better, by putting something over them. Perhaps this is something particular to being an eldest child, (i.e. protecting the younger siblings). I asked my 11 year old brother the other day what he thought about the whole Santa thing. He answered that it depended on who was asking, because if it was our parents the answer would be that he was a believer. His logic was that as long as he continued the pretence of naivety then he'd continue to cash in on the extra presents (talk about mixed messages). I recall the Christmas that my father had the Santa discussion with me. The motive behind this advent was a little confused, as not only did I stop receiving presents from Santa, my father started sharing his internet Santa jokes with me (actually, they were probably BBS jokes, as this was before the internet). I recall the joke that my father shared with me on this occasion, probably because of it's aptness, as it was about the scientific impossibilities of Santa. I was unable to find the original publication (which, to the best of my knowledge, was, the now defunct, Spy Magazine), but found numerous reproductions across the internet. Here it is reproduced, yet again:
Is there a Santa Claus?
Consider the following:
1) No known species of reindeer can fly. But there are 300,000 species of living organisms yet to be classified, and while most of these are insects and germs, this does not COMPLETELY rule out flying reindeer which only Santa has ever seen.
2) There are 2 billion children (persons under 18) in the world. BUT since Santa doesn't (appear) to handle the Muslim, Hindu, Jewish and Buddhist children, that reduces the workload to 15% of the total - 378 million according to Population Reference Bureau. At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per household, that's 91.8 million homes. One presumes there's at least one good child in each.
3) Santa has 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 822.6 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with good children, Santa has 1/1000th of a second to park, hop out of the sleigh, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left, get back up the chimney, get back into the sleigh and move on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 91.8 million stops are evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false but for the purposes of our calculations we will accept), we are now talking about .78 miles per household, a total trip of 75-1/2 million miles, not counting stops to do what most of us must do at least once every 31 hours, plus feeding and etc. This means that Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second, 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man- made vehicle on earth, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second - a conventional reindeer can run, tops, 15 miles per hour.
4) The payload on the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium-sized lego set (2 pounds), the sleigh is carrying 321,300 tons, not counting Santa, who is invariably described as overweight. On land, conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that 'flying reindeer' (see point #1) could pull TEN TIMES the normal amount, we cannot do the job with eight, or even nine. We need 214,200 reindeer. This increases the payload - not even counting the weight of the sleigh - to 353,430 tons. Again, for comparison - this is four times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth.
5) 353,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air resistance - this will heat the reindeer up in the same fashion as spacecraft re-entering the earth's atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer will absorb 14.3 QUINTILLION joules of energy. Per second. Each. In short, they will burst into flame almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them, and create deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team will be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second. Santa, meanwhile, will be subjected to centrifugal forces 17,500.06 times greater than gravity. A 250-pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of his sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force.
In conclusion - If Santa ever DID deliver presents on Christmas Eve, he's dead now.
Anybody else have any Dad Jokes they care to share?
Saturday, December 09, 2006
The Pixie Princess and the Boy Who Cried for No Reason. Part Three.
When we last heard about the Pixie Princess she had been exiled from the pixie kingdom and cursed with the hairy legs of a goat. The Pixie Princess quickly forgot how to climb trees and became a recluse because she didn't want anybody to know about her hairy legs. She found some work as an IP (Internet Pixie), because there wasn't much demand for her stink bomb expertise among the big people, who didn't seem to mind the mandarin trees. She lived in a cave with a big round green door. One day there was a knock on the door. When the Pixie Princess went to answer it she found a Golden Dragon on the doorstep. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Dungeons and Dragons Monstrous Compendium - there are many different types of dragons, usually identifiable by their color. Red dragons, the best known of dragons, breathe fire and are very evil. Golden dragons are quite the opposite and are very nice. Although, they will get angry if you try to poke them with a sharp stick, and will most probably eat you. Even if the sharp stick has a magical enhancement of +1! Another type of monster is the parenthesis beast, which can contain many sentences and, occasionally, multiple jokes).
The Golden Dragon was looking into all the caves in the neighbourhood trying to find a deserted one to live in. He was a refugee from the woods of the kingdom of Batmania, where he lived next door to the Gyppopotamus monster. The Gyppopotamus often wanted to play with the Golden Dragon, but the Golden Dragon knew that the Gyppopotamus could be a bit rough. The Golden Dragon tried flying up into trees where the Gyppopotamus couldn't reach him, but the Gyppopotamus would sit and wait, staring at the Golden Dragon, wondering when she'd be able to feast on the goo within. When the Golden Dragon realised that the Pixie Princess was already living in the cave, he was sad and apologised profusely. But the Pixie Princess, who understood what it felt like to have no home, told the Golden Dragon to stay for a while, until he felt ready to start looking again. The Golden Dragon stayed for a day. And then another day. And then another...
Before they knew it the Golden Dragon and the Pixie Princess had lived together for many, many years and had become fast friends. The two of them were business partners in a joint entrepreneurial venture. After discovering the Pixie Princess's talents for designing stink bomb recipes, the Golden Dragon told the Pixie Princess about the Batmanian's passion for different types of ice cream. The Pixie Princess got a whole load of really cool ideas for ice cream flavours, some of the Golden Dragon's favourite flavours were Toe Jam Crunch, Snot-o-Rama and Ice Cream Number Twos. Apparently, there was quite a market for gourmet ice creams among the Batmanian social elite, who would often hold ice cream tasting parties where the participants would smell, taste and then spit out the ice cream, before making various wanky remarks on the vintage and taste. Sometimes, a Batmanian would accidentally swallow a bit of the ice cream and get sick, and sometimes, if it was one of the Pixie Princess's finest, they would get a little sick after taking a good whiff.
The Golden Dragon's part in the ice cream venture was to transport the ice cream across the sea to the Batmanians. It was on one such trip that the Golden Dragon received a personal correspondence from the King addressed to the Pixie Princess. The letter told them that the King, who was quite a gourmand and often frequented ice cream tasting parties, was very impressed with the Pixie Princess's ice creams and wanted her to present them at a feast to be held in honour of a hero who had retrieved his golden sock. The Pixie Princess was very shy around people and was unsure if she wanted to go. But the Golden Dragon saw that it was a real honour for the Pixie Princess to be invited to the feast, and told her that she had to go or she'd regret it for the rest of her life. So, they found a nice outfit for her to wear to the party (one with long pants) and the Golden Dragon got the Pixie Princess to sit on his back and they flew to the ice cream feast together.
The Golden Dragon was looking into all the caves in the neighbourhood trying to find a deserted one to live in. He was a refugee from the woods of the kingdom of Batmania, where he lived next door to the Gyppopotamus monster. The Gyppopotamus often wanted to play with the Golden Dragon, but the Golden Dragon knew that the Gyppopotamus could be a bit rough. The Golden Dragon tried flying up into trees where the Gyppopotamus couldn't reach him, but the Gyppopotamus would sit and wait, staring at the Golden Dragon, wondering when she'd be able to feast on the goo within. When the Golden Dragon realised that the Pixie Princess was already living in the cave, he was sad and apologised profusely. But the Pixie Princess, who understood what it felt like to have no home, told the Golden Dragon to stay for a while, until he felt ready to start looking again. The Golden Dragon stayed for a day. And then another day. And then another...
Before they knew it the Golden Dragon and the Pixie Princess had lived together for many, many years and had become fast friends. The two of them were business partners in a joint entrepreneurial venture. After discovering the Pixie Princess's talents for designing stink bomb recipes, the Golden Dragon told the Pixie Princess about the Batmanian's passion for different types of ice cream. The Pixie Princess got a whole load of really cool ideas for ice cream flavours, some of the Golden Dragon's favourite flavours were Toe Jam Crunch, Snot-o-Rama and Ice Cream Number Twos. Apparently, there was quite a market for gourmet ice creams among the Batmanian social elite, who would often hold ice cream tasting parties where the participants would smell, taste and then spit out the ice cream, before making various wanky remarks on the vintage and taste. Sometimes, a Batmanian would accidentally swallow a bit of the ice cream and get sick, and sometimes, if it was one of the Pixie Princess's finest, they would get a little sick after taking a good whiff.
The Golden Dragon's part in the ice cream venture was to transport the ice cream across the sea to the Batmanians. It was on one such trip that the Golden Dragon received a personal correspondence from the King addressed to the Pixie Princess. The letter told them that the King, who was quite a gourmand and often frequented ice cream tasting parties, was very impressed with the Pixie Princess's ice creams and wanted her to present them at a feast to be held in honour of a hero who had retrieved his golden sock. The Pixie Princess was very shy around people and was unsure if she wanted to go. But the Golden Dragon saw that it was a real honour for the Pixie Princess to be invited to the feast, and told her that she had to go or she'd regret it for the rest of her life. So, they found a nice outfit for her to wear to the party (one with long pants) and the Golden Dragon got the Pixie Princess to sit on his back and they flew to the ice cream feast together.
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