From: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org (fegmaniax-digest) To: fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Subject: fegmaniax-digest V7 #122 Reply-To: fegmaniax@smoe.org Sender: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk fegmaniax-digest Saturday, March 28 1998 Volume 07 : Number 122 Today's Subjects: ----------------- what the fu@k? [dwdudic@erols.com (David W. Dudich)] Re: Southland [100% mall content] [KarmaFuzzz ] Re: Mitchell Froom [KarmaFuzzz ] Re: Mitchell Froom [Eb ] Re: Feg Hootenanny (you must attend.) [Bayard ] The Door Opens..... [Alex Martin ] Froomful of Noise [The Non-Prophet ] SH [Eb ] Re: Froomful of Noise [KarmaFuzzz ] Re: SH [Ross Overbury ] killing many birds with one... [dwdudic@erols.com (David W. Dudich)] The Last Notes of Carl Sagan [The Great Quail >Well, Fegs, I just thought you might like to know. I should add though, >that if the Gnostics are right about the Demiurge, we could all be in >very big trouble. . . . > >So I repeat again: > >Do not go to the Quail's Party! Death or worse awaits you there!!!!! OKKKK....THis is starting to get mentally ill.... SOme of these things are a little too wierd for my tastes... :-) - --------------luther - best produced Robyn? easy: NO ONE! The egyptians live ruled! > ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 21:04:05 EST From: KarmaFuzzz Subject: Re: Southland [100% mall content] Eb wrote: >It has long been my contention that the phrase "Southland" is purely a >convenient invention of local TV news programs. I have NEVER heard the word >"Southland" used in conversation. well, i have, but only in referrence to a particular gang-ridden suburban SF mall called Southland. strangely, there is nothing partifularly southern about it's location..... ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 21:16:39 EST From: KarmaFuzzz Subject: Re: Mitchell Froom MARKEEFE@aol.com writes: > He's way too gimmicky for my tastes! On albums like Suzanne Vega's "99.9 > F" and Los Lobos' "Colossal Head", the production is practically ALL you hear. > He's not quite as bad with Richard Thompson -- in fact, I kind of liked the > gritty production on the electric disc of "You? Me? Us?". But I'd be worried > about him producing a Robyn album. I'd hate to see some of the delicacies > lost to heavily filtered drum loops. actually, i like the layers on 99.9F (it's the only Vega album i still bother owning), but i do mostly agree with you. personally, i think EC's Mighty Like a Rose & Brutal Youth would've been better for the most part with Froom being less involved; same with the three Crowded House records he did (Together Alone squashes them like grapes, and it's not just that the songs are better; it's Youth's more apprpriate touch). > I think Mitchell Froom produces the wrong kind of people. I mean, if he > wants to create his own creative pastiche, he should be working with Luscious > Jackson or Beck or some other artist/band that's less about fundamental > songwriting and more about creating an interesting tapestry of hip sounds. I > can appreciate what he does; I just thing he does it to the wrong kind of > artists. well he did work with Cibo Matto.....i don't necessarily think he shouldn't work with singer/songwriter types at all, but he should be more a co-producer on certain tracks where his touch is well-suited rather than just working on the whole album. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 19:32:52 -0700 From: Eb Subject: Re: Mitchell Froom >well he did work with Cibo Matto..... Yeah, and his style worked PERFECTLY with them! Not so much, when he's working with traditional singer-songwriters.... Eb ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 23:00:17 -0500 (EST) From: Bayard Subject: Re: Feg Hootenanny (you must attend.) On Fri, 27 Mar 1998, The Great Quail wrote: > So far the Great East Coast Feg Party is looking good for Memorial Day > Saturday, though there are still some people who are iffy, so I hesitate > to lay complete claim to the date. Can you give me one week -- to next > Friday? Then I will decide, based on the people you mail me. No problem-- I'd be glad to help. I'd rather mail you American fegs though, to save on postage (perhaps this is an economical way to get Tom to come?) (np: "the gift") > So far Woj, LJ, Bayard, the Quail, Dr. Fane, and luther have indicated > their presence will be felt. Also, Dede and Doug are very likely to come, > and Scary Mary will hopefully be in attendance with her retinue of > horrors! Aaron is still on the fence, and Eb will fly in only of he is > allowed to stay out of sight upstairs and send down dry witticisms every > hour or so. Lang's impudent joshing aside, I'd just like to say I'd love it it Eb could come, and I volunteer to climb the stairs of the north tower if he'd care to whisper his wisdom through the key-hole. > *** AND: Some special guests who have said they are seriously considering > making the trip: > > Mike Runion, Natalie, and Tom Clark! > > Woo-hoo! Please please please come. I promise to bring great rare robyn tapes and other items of more mysterious origin, to pass out as party favors. I'm talkin' exclusive stuff here, gleaned from the darkest corners of Lobsterman's vaults. I also have some great ideas for feg party games: 1. The aforementioned fegscrabble, in which each feg gets 13 tiles instead of the traditional 7. Fegmania or feglist content only, please. 2. "The Game". You remember, this is the "Magic the Gathering"-inspired game in which we have feglands, fegspells and fegcharacters. I can see only a few problems with this one: 1-- it doesn't exist yet; 2-- um... ok, i guess there's only one problem. 3. FegTrivialPursuit, with the following categories: Sex, Death, Sea Creatures, Love, Sex and Oblivion. (all robyn-related questions obviously.) Just one small problem (see game 2) 4. Spin the bottle with LJ. (did someone else mention this..?) If these options are all too geeky even for us, we'll just get roaring drunk, drag Eb down from his obsidian tower, and have a monumental fegsingalong of mellow together, furry green atom bowl, sleeping knights of jesus, etc, etc. (Hmm, _trains_ seems like a good disc to get polluted to, come to think of it.) > So please, if you plan to attend, email me privately as soon as possible. > After I set it for sure, I will post the gorey details. . . . fun fun fun Do so, feggies, I entreat you. Gloster, I want to see your butt there (speaking figuratively, of course....) > PS: And I swear that I will remove *all* my Cthulhu statues from the > living room, just to be safe. . . . And since Dr. Fane has sent his regrets, I won't be wheedled by dear old Oswald into helping him build some Cthulian beasts in Quail's basement (though you *know* the bird has all the ingredients...) I can provide transportation for DC fegs, especially if your first name is an adjective (having a noun/adjective for a last name is optional) =b ps. Don't be fooled by "Lex" Luther's 'oh it's all too weird' ploy. He's the whackiest feg I've met [and I've met more than anyone]. You'll see. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 21:31:43 -0800 From: Alex Martin Subject: The Door Opens..... and a rumpled looking figure enters, his stride somwhwere between ooze and march his shoulders welded into a slouch. A casual glance at him reveals this, he is male, clad entirly in black and has brown , clean, slightly curly hair crying out for a barber or a brush. He sits down sipping something steaming from a souveneir Sun JAVA mug and looking up occaisionally from Ubik listens to the din around him, seeming to take note, and remaining silent except for his presence. I don't love computers... Thats just something I say to get them into bed. - Terry Pratchett. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 1998 22:54:56 -0800 (PST) From: The Non-Prophet Subject: Froomful of Noise fegs, Am I mistaken, or did Mitchell Froom have a hand in producing something for Paul McCartney? Seems to me it was "My Brave Face" -- one of Macca's best, IMNSHO. I would check the liner notes but I don't seem to have it around anymore. - -g n.p. Nick Lowe _Pure Pop For Now People_ ----------==========**********O**********==========--------- Glen E. Uber uberg@sonic.net "Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible." --Frank Zappa ----------==========**********O**********==========--------- ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 28 Mar 1998 02:29:58 -0700 From: Eb Subject: SH Rocktropolis allstar daily music news: March 27, 1998 http://www.allstarmag.com Edited by Carrie Borzillo MOVIE REVIEW: JONATHAN DEMME'S STOREFRONT HITCHCOCK In a world where we like our answers provided to us with the ease of picking up a Big Mac at the drive-thru, the pairing of counter- culture icon Robyn Hitchcock and Academy Award- winning director Jonathan Demme (The Silence of the Lambs, Stop Making Sense) doesn't appear to make much sense. Although both started out on the fringe, Hitchcock, who says, "I'm never going to break on contemporary hit radio," has clung to that edge for so long his fingers are probably blue, while Demme's Oscar win gave him a permanent key to mainstream city. Beneath the obvious, though -- where both still prefer to reside -- the symmetry that brought the pair together comes into focus. Watching Storefront Hitchcock, (allstar, Sept. 11, 1996), a filmed 14-song live Hitchcock performance (with the film not scheduled to be released until October, the final song count, down from 22, has not been determined) compiled from four shows in New York last year, is like being in the live audience of one of Hitchcock's unique "cabaret" blends of erudite songs and Monty Python- styled stand-up bits between numbers. Demme, who says he wanted to work with Hitchcock because "of Hitchcock's natural ability for pacing," has captured the feel of the concerts in the best manner possible, by just letting Hitchcock be himself. Still, Demme's influence can be subtly felt in the various backdrops, which range from pure black to rainbow- colored windows, and the ever- changing lighting. Talking with the two of them at Austin's Hyatt during last week's South by Southwest conference, where Storefront Hitchcock had its premiere, was akin to talking to a philosophical '90s Abbott & Costello. Demme plays the foil to Hitchcock's Lou Costello: Demme: "You know the whole tormented story of the people who financed it, loved our film, and then they went bankrupt." Hitchcock: "Just because they financed our film." When the subject of how Austin was chosen as the locale for the screening, they hit a groove. Demme: "There's no greater gathering of people to hear music and see films than in Austin, Texas. It's an amazing synergistic place." Hitchcock: "There's a lot of groovers here... There's 'seedy groovers,' 'ratty groovers,' and a third strain just coming to light, 'nerdy groovers.' Well, put those three together, and boy..." There's a bit in the movie between songs where Hitchcock describes time as slowing down and speeding up. When addressing the subject of the current pace of his life, he pulls off the line for which -- if there is any justice -- he will be remembered. As he is explaining that time is whizzing past you, Demme says, "It makes you feel like the guy in the [Maxell] ad, sitting in the chair." He then holds on to the side of the couch and makes a motion of something speeding by your head. To which Hitchcock responds, "Time is drying your hair." - -Steve Baltin ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 28 Mar 1998 06:53:58 EST From: KarmaFuzzz Subject: Re: Froomful of Noise In a message dated 98-03-28 02:02:50 EST, uberg@sonic.net writes: > Am I mistaken, or did Mitchell Froom have a hand in producing something > for Paul McCartney? Seems to me it was "My Brave Face" -- one of Macca's > best, IMNSHO. I would check the liner notes but I don't seem to have it > around anymore. yerp. and a few others on flowers in the dirt. definitely one of the better macca songs of the past 20 years. i blame his co-writer (some bloke named declan mcmanus). ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 28 Mar 98 10:28:54 EST From: Ross Overbury Subject: Re: SH Eb offered: > > Demme: "There's no greater gathering of people to hear music and see > films than in Austin, Texas. It's an amazing synergistic place." > > Hitchcock: "There's a lot of groovers here... There's 'seedy groovers,' > 'ratty groovers,' and a third strain just coming to light, 'nerdy > groovers.' Well, put those three together, and boy..." Now who would the "nerdy groovers" be? - -- Ross Overbury Montreal, Quebec, Canada email: rosso@cn.ca ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 28 Mar 1998 16:30:31 GMT From: dwdudic@erols.com (David W. Dudich) Subject: killing many birds with one... On Fri, 27 Mar 1998 19:29:26 -0500 (EST), you wrote: > So, what do you Fegs think are the best- and worst-produced RH albums, >and why? My vote for best-produced is "Element of Light" because the songs >really shine through and have either a lot of energy ("Somewhere Apart", "If >You Were a Priest") or are really immediate ("Raymond Chandler Evening", >"Never Stop Bleeding"). Of course, "Eye" is also well-produced, but that >seems to easy. As I've said before, I dislike the production on "Perspex" -- >too muddy. "Groovy/Gravy" doesn't sound too good, either, but I think was >more of an engineering problem than a production problem. Or maybe it was a >non-production problem. Anyway, I'm done talkin' now. I'm surprised! No body has said "fegmania" is a standout for it's production! I thought a lot of us thought that was the 'perfect' Robyn record (I know the Man himself likes it quite a bit). I'm partial to the sound of BSDR, but I also think Leckie did a nice job with Respect (I know I'm in the minority here). And I thought "Globe of Frogs" captured the Egyptians true sound pretty well. Go Pat Collier. Black snake...is very good too...I have used it to convert fegs in the past. I've had similar debates about Dylan's "Oh Mercy", and I'd say roughly the same thing about it, though I'm willing to entertain arguments from the other side. I think the general contention is that "oh mercy' could have been the last record of Dylan original material, and no one would have complained...the production fits the songs PERFECTLY. the fact that "Time out of mind" exists is a pleasant follow-up....think about it...we complain about about the rate Robyn puts out albums... we had to wait A DECADE for a new decent (Under a blood red sky doesn't count; it sucked- all his other decent material at the time went to the Wilburys) Dylan album. So far the Great East Coast Feg Party is looking good for Memorial Day Saturday, though there are still some people who are iffy, so I hesitate to lay complete claim to the date. Can you give me one week -- to next Friday? Then I will decide, based on the people you mail me. So far Woj, LJ, Bayard, the Quail, Dr. Fane, and luther have indicated their presence will be felt. Also, Dede and Doug are very likely to come, and Scary Mary will hopefully be in attendance with her retinue of horrors! Aaron is still on the fence, and Eb will fly in only of he is allowed to stay out of sight upstairs and send down dry witticisms every hour or so. Well, I first need to know where the hell it IS before I can definately commit myself! -luther ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 27 Mar 98 17:31:45 -0500 From: The Great Quail Subject: The Last Notes of Carl Sagan Hello, Valiant Fegs! This is professor Oswald Fane, unfortunately posting with another dire warning. There has been a lot of talk lately on the list about some sort of Quailspiracy -- and none of that from the Great Quail himself, who has opted to remain mum on the subject! Now, some might attribute this to false modesty, or even that the Quail himself is sick of hearing his name constantly mentioned! Ha! Nothing can be farther from the truth. Just because that vile creature has refrained from venting any "quailspew" recently does not mean that he has quit his membership in the so-called "Surreal Posse." As a matter of fact, I would be willing to bet that the bastard is lying low, maybe planning to *finally* finish all those idiotic threads he started and never completed, like what happened to the old server, and what is the destiny of Dan-Yell and Ebcorp? Idiot. But just so you know the Minions of Darkness are never far from the door, I found this. A recent screening of the movie "Contact" has lead me to the sci.discovery newsgroup, where there has been much discussion about the differences between the movie and the book. Then . . . this. A frantic excerpt from a diary, found among Carl's papers and written in his familiar script. Ah, they all thought it was a hoax, but I fear we all know too well. . . . ********************************************* I cannot keep hiding this. I find myself in a unique position, one that brings me even closer to my childhood heroes: Galileo, Kepler, Copernicus. Those valiant men who stood fast in their knowledge of the Truth against the derision of their peers, their whole society. . . . and yet I know that if I publish my findings I shall be laughed at. I will face a trial harder than my attempts at making the governments of the world see the truth about nuclear winter, more difficult than obtaining my grants for the SETI project. I will be the laughing-stock of Cornell University. . . . and yet their great names drive me on, reminding me of what I found noble in the spirit of man when I was a child: nights in starless Brooklyn when the only constellations were these shining points of reason, like bright talismans against the rising tides of ignorance. So publish them I must. I shall hand my body over to the stakes of the modern inquisition, I shall be that Giordano Bruno of the modern age. Let that bastard Hans Bethe laugh his way to my academic gallows: I shall stand tall. I shall not hear their taunts. For I have discovered the origin of the cosmos. And I am afraid. . . . Ironic enough that, in the seventies, I thought I had a unique perspective on the universe. I now look back at those years and realize that I was dwelling in the house of an almost Nietzschean arrogance. "Cosmos" I called my show, my book -- as If I could bind the Infinite and the Absolute in the walls of 300 pages; call the Ineffable to my summons with seven hours of PBS programming. Yes, yes . . . The Ineffable Mysteries Unpeeled between Masterpiece Theatre and Big Bird. Fool that I was. Ah, I had no idea. . . . I understand now that I must have been stabbing towards the Truth even then; but my first real glimpse into the numinous came with "Contact," my much misunderstood attempt at Science Fiction. (And the lowest book sales I have ever had. Morons, Fools! Should I have added a laser gun? Clad my heroine in a chain mail thong and crowned her queen of Mars? Idiots!) In that work I postulated that the Universe was indeed a Creation, an Artifact . . . and that the Creator could leave a *signature.* I confess the idea was originally not mine. I confess this now, as I near my death, for the truth -- the terrible truth -- must take precedence over my academic reputation. Yes, the idea was not my own, and that is a small story in itself: I was drinking in a bar in Sacramento one cloudy afternoon, and there I saw this unusual man, tall, ectomorphic, with a most bizarre look in his eyes. He was cutting paper napkins into little crescent moons. . . . interesting. So in the name of good will, I walked over and asked him his name -- there was an unusual cast to his features, he had the lonely face of a man who needed some companionship. He looked blankly at my simple question, then shook his head and answered, "Um . . . Reg," in a skewed English accent. I noticed that his plate was covered with geometric cut-outs: circles, crescents, little cones he stuck together with some mashed potatoes as ersatz glue; even a few triangles, smug in their semblance of Isoscelean perfection. I commented on it, for he seemed to be worried about something. I asked him what he was doing, and his eyes shifted nervously, glancing at random corners of the air itself. "I'm looking for God," he muttered, and then began rambling on about tentacles and squid and hedblades. I stopped him and asked for clarification. He hedged a bit, but the gentle pressure of my hand on his arm must have compelled him. "I learned something recently. I just bought a computer, you know. And . . . I logged on. And . . . " he drifted off, his fingers twitching their way through another circumlocution of napkin and scissors. Suddenly a perfect spiral dropped out from the plane of the napkin, dangling in the air like a pre-schooler's attempt at fabricating DNA from construction paper. He eyed it eagerly, almost expectantly; but the revelation must not have come, for he quickly dropped it with a sigh, and his attention drifted again. "God," he whispered, almost pleadingly. "God." "What?" His eyes closed. "That damn Bird . . . . What have I been doing?" He then opened his eyes and fixed me with a haunted gaze. "The cave . . . Debbie . . . The Woj-Thing." He punctuated each word with a small tap of his finger on the table. Paper hexagons scattered like leaves. He watched one fall off the table, tumbling slowly to the floor. It landed, the focus of his absent attention for a full minute. Suddenly he blinked, "They *are* fiends, you know." With that enigmatic comment, he got up to leave. Troubled, but intrigued, I paused him -- but he shook me off. "God is not who we think . . . or rather, is not the one we think. They are old, as old as the stars, and the Demiurge of this Universe. . . ." "What?" I asked, sensing his sudden apprehension. "Trancedental numbers. Signatures. The Seal of the Author. His -- no, *Its* -- terrible . . . its terrible *claw.* Scratching its mark into the very canvas of the cosmos." Suddenly he shook me off, and before I could protest, he was gone. I got to thinking about what the eccentric Englishman had said, and I wondered -- could I write a book around that idea? That God would leave a signature? Yes. S/He could sign the work, insert a code deep in the very architecture of the universe itself, hidden so far into -- into what? Oh, say the ratio of pi -- so deeply embedded that it would take a computer to reach it. And so I did. ******************** But I was so ignorant. I had no idea what it would cost me. My first instinct was to look in a circle. I requested ungodly amounts of computer time, and began my work . . . months passed, but I was finally rewarded! There it was. Deep into the wilderness of the irresolvable 22/7 ratio, the zeroes began popping up in any way that was decidedly not random. In fact, when plotted on a matrix of 220 by 70 units, a perfect circle appeared, the very signature of the author of a circle itself, embedded deep in the mathematical text of the Universe. Ingenuous. . . . Except for the very center, where there was an annoying glitch: a sequence of ones that formed a tiny spot, almost shaped like the letter Q. . . . A mote in God's eye. . . . was there more to go? Was this flawed circle only the first Incarnation? Was there more, even deeper? Or worse: was the circle indeed - I shudder - Random? Soon that glitch began to haunt me. Why would God, or the Creator, place such a flaw in the perfect circle. . . .or maybe . . . no. It couldn't be. In my dreams I began glimpsing a new truth. *Could* it be? Could it be the *pupil of a vast eye?* Sleepless nights I spent worrying about that Great Eye. How it stared at me, denying me entrance through the portal of sleep by its stern and staring interdiction. And my machines cranked on, spending all my resources on Cornell's supercomputers. . . . was there *another* circle, a more perfect circle, tucked away even deeper in the ratio? Years passed under that mocking gaze. . . . Nothing. ******************** Then one day I had a sudden inspiration. Out of the billions and billions of digits of pi, only *one* nonrandom message had materialized. What about other transcendental numbers? What about e? What about the ratio between the speed of light and the rest mass of an electron? What about the ratio between the atomic mass of Hydrogen and Helium? And so on. . . . It was in "e" that I found the next message . . . two smaller circles, side by side. . . . And each with that pupil-like flaw in the middle! My mind reeled. I tried other constants, other numbers. The next message came when I set the computers to divide the speed of light by Planck's constant . . . and weeks later, deep in the numerical ratio the message was repeated, but there was a pair of strange curves framing the "eyes!" Almost as if they were set in some terrible face. . . . Two years later the next revelation was at hand. The ratio between the half life of Tritium and Uranium 238 brought me closer to -- what I was now calling, despite myself! -- the Face of God. And . . . and . . . . . . the eyes were in a perfectly roundish face, devoid of features . . . except, placed directly under the eyes was a great and terrible *beak* A beak? The horror. . . . . ??? My mind was close to a complete fracture. All types of questions played themselves out in my fevered brain. Was I truly progressing in some sort of preordained order? Why should *I* be granted the vision of this . . . this God, this beaky Creator . . . as something moving *away* from me? Bringing itself further into resolution with each iteration? What if . . . what if I was *working backwards,* and if I was supposed to be APPROACHING closer to the face of God, and if the next ratio beyond pi was to be a final revelation? Was I moving *away* from Grace? And *why* was there an order at all? Could it really be Coincidence that I was finding the correct order of sequences? After ten years of searching? Impossible! What if -- and here was my most terrible thought -- what if it did not matter what order, that no matter where I started, the visions would be the same? Was that even possible? A blasphemous utterance, to be sure. Implying -- I don't know, a quantum God, watching my experiments with amusement and tweaking the minutiae of the Cosmos (His beak curled in a snide expression of gleeful malevolence) -- purposefully manipulating the Universe to keep the sequence nonrandom? As if each constant of nature were really -- as seen from His distance -- pawns on some great mathematical chessboard? What if I had *started* with e, and *ended* with pi -- would the sequence of images, of messages, still be exactly the same? This idea was, paradoxically, both the most disturbing and the most comforting. Questions of free will against a benevolent deity struggled to resolve themselves. What was the next discovery? And would the final Body of God look like? Surely not that of some demented bird? I pressed on, one month blending into another. My life was becoming a haze, an arrow shot from a bow and aimed at an uncertain future. I was Heisenberg's prophet. I stopped returning phone calls from colleagues; I forgot even to send Christmas cards to Linus and Stephen. In vain I struggled to find the next golden ratio, searching high and low. . . . In the meantime, I found myself becoming possessed by the images I had so uncovered. Could the Face of God really look like some giant bird? Was it possible that we lived in some strange . . . "avianiverse?" I began to experience odd events, incidents which I can only describe as hallucinations . . . I began hearing bizarre "cheeping" noises every time I allowed myself to relax. I couldn't even walk outside; all I found myself aware of was birds -- the birds everywhere. What kind of secret were they hiding? Did they *know?* Was there some sort of hermetic message coded into their random chirping? My research in this direction led me to discover that I was not the only one to ever pursue this course. I learned of a man named Abd Al-hazred, the so called "Mad Arab." A mathematician in the dark ages, a time when the world of Islam was inventing algebra, the precursors to calculus, and bringing chemistry and medicine from the dark European cesspool of ignorance. . . . This Abd Al-hazred claimed to be able to interpret the sounds of tiny birds in the desert night, and he started to diagram the hieratic glyphs that he contended were their messages. The language of birds? He focused on desert birds such as the Frilled Sand Eb and the Tewed Titmouse, the Ubertweak and the Fretless Nicksucker; but could it not be *all* birds -- the Yellow-eyed Penguin, the Lynn Jackhurst, the enigmatic Glosterpigeon, the Gnat-a-Lee and the lowly quail? Could they really be communicating the secrets of the universe, openly, *mockingly?* This so-called "Mad Arab" then penned a book of circular symbols, a coded grimoire that he insisted contained the true shape of the universe. Called the "Qayl-Azif," this book was considered "blasphemous" by the strict Shiite critics of his day, and he was torn to shreds for his work, much like Jamis Qamer-On was before him in the City of Feglistia. . . . . Would I, too, be torn to (somewhat less literal) shreds? Was my reputation up for a public desecration? Would I be demoted to the status of crank, of charlatan, of quack? (How ironic, I thought, about that last one.) Was I to fall from grace, and dwell in a hell of Beakerman Jacks, Mr. Wizards, and Bill Nye the Science Guy? Or -- and I shudder to pen this -- was I fated to become another Erich van Daniken? Then came the most unsettling thing of all. One night, my wife and I were planning on going to the movies on Campus. And as I walked out to my car, my heart was struck in my chest by a sight I will never forget . . . there, scrawled into the layer of dust on my car, was -- was -- A CRUDE PICTURE OF A QUAIL. And there, in plain sight, underneath this horrifying image, were the words: "Hi Carl! I love your work. Just visiting a friend and seeing a Robyn Hitchcock Concert. Signed, your friend TGQ." Hi Carl . . . . My mind reeled. I staggered back, and darkness swirled down around my eyes. . . . when I came to, I was in Ithaca Polyclinic. . . . What was happening to me? Then I met my doctor. The man was positively condescending, an ugly little man with the face of a . . . . . . . of a mole. A mole? Avagadro's Number????? Idiot! ******************** How can I have never considered this? I immediately rushed out of the hospital and made my way back to my lab. All my previous work was suspended, and I set all my resources to finding Avagadro's Number to the umpteenth significant figure. . . . my eyes surely must have possessed the glazed light of the madman. When I went to call up Linus, I was told that he died a few years back. My God! Have I been in a fog that long? Certianly my wife and children believed me mad - I came perilously near a divorce more than once, particularly after the insane fits of giggling at the Italian Market. ("Avacodos? Ha. Ha ha. ha ha ha, heh heh. NYAHHH ha h ha h hhhaaaa. . . ") Then the day neared . . . the zeroes and ones, the binary systems that I had spent so long anticipating, began showing up. All that was left was to plug them into the matrix, to check their alignment. . . . Silence enshrouded me as I began my work. You could have heard the sound of an electron quantum tunneling through Hawking's vocoder battery. The numbers began filling the screen. No. My God, no. NO!!!! Could it all be a joke?!?!? NOooooooo. . . . . For this is what I saw: 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111110111111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111110111111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111011101111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111100001000011111111111 1111111111100101001011111111111 1111111111100001000011111111111 1111111111101100011011111111111 1111111111110110110111111111111 1111111111111010101111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111101011111111111111 1111111111111011101111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111100111110011111111111 1111111111010111110101111111111 1111111110110111110110111111111 1111111100110111110110011111111 1111111010110111110110101111111 1111111010110111110110101111111 1111111010110111110110101111111 1111111010110111110110101111111 1111111010111011101110101111111 1111111011011100011101101111111 1111111100101111111010011111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110000000111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111111110111110111111111111 1111111110000111110000111111111 1111111111100111110011111111111 1111111111010111110101111111111 1111111110110111110110111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1011010001111111111111111111111 1011011011111111111111111111111 1000011011111111111111111111111 1011011011111111111111111111111 1011010001111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1000100010001011111011111111111 1011101010101011111011111111111 1011100010001011111011111111111 1011101010011011111111111111111 1000101010101000011011111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 1111111111111111111111111111111 Could it be? The horror . . . the horror . . . . not only was the Divine Signature one of . . . those HIDEOUS birds, but Author of our Universe could only manage the most crude sketch of himself - no, of ITSELF. And those final words . . . a personal address to me? No . . . no, take it away, I cannot bear any more . . . No. . . . . I must publish this, I must. . . . ***************************************************** Well, Fegs, I just thought you might like to know. I should add though, that if the Gnostics are right about the Demiurge, we could all be in very big trouble. . . . So I repeat again: Do not go to the Quail's Party! Death or worse awaits you there!!!!! - --Professor Oswald Fane ------------------------------ End of fegmaniax-digest V7 #122 *******************************