Plenty of Nothing

Yakuimon

Mito was once a stronghold of the Tokugawa clan, so obviously there's a castle, right? Unfortunately, Mito Castle was bombed to pieces in WWII. This gate did survive, however, and you can see it today on Mito Castle Ruins Street, right next to the high school. See here for a tour of the castle site. Photo.

A yakuimon is a specific type of gate, described here. For defensive purposes it was not the best design, because the large overhanging roof tended to block the defenders' view of the enemy's approach.

The character 門 is pronounced mon, and means gate. It is probably the easiest Japanese character to remember because it looks just like what it describes, and is the basis of a lot of kanji related to doors and coming and going. Good word to know at the airport too.

The soccer season is half over in the places where they play from March to November. After 21 games Mito HollyHock sit eleventh out of twenty-two clubs, with 9 wins, 4 draws and 8 losses, and a goal difference of +2. This is an improvement on last year, when they finished 17th.

Our men in Ireland, University College Dublin AFC, find themself in eleventh place as well, which is a bit worse for them because there are now only eleven clubs in the Premier Division, twelfth-place Monaghan United having dropped out at the half for financial reasons. But it means that UCD and everyone else in the division are safe from relegation this year.

Pohang Steelers are off last year's pace, and currently sit in seventh place in the K League.

Montreal Impact are eighth out of ten clubs in the MLS Eastern Conference, but they're ahead of Toronto FC, which is the main thing.

Today is Fair Saturday in Greenock.

The Annotated Door Repair Guy, episode 47

 

Martians

     We're on the busy bridge of a Federation starship.  The

camera pans across the intent helmsman, the grave captain making

a log entry, up to the perimeter of the upper bridge where the

first officer paces supervising the junior officers at their

work.  The first officer offers some advice to the communications

officer, exchanges words with the science officer, then pauses

over a suspiciously inactive orange-clad ordinary crewman, folds

his hands behind his back, and mutters, "This must be the only

ship in Starfleet with a door monitoring station on the main

bridge."  He leans down and adds pointedly, "As soon as we get

two days at a starbase I'm going to transfer this station down to

Engineering if I have to tear it out and rewire it myself."

     The door tech gives a mild sarcastic smile.

     The camera rises over the first officer's shoulder toward

the flight information on the viewscreen.

     Captain: "Project parabolic course to avoid entering Neutral

Zone."

     The camera returns to its previous point of view between the

officer and the crewman.

     1st officer: "And just what is that in your ear?"

     Crewman: "This?  An ADMD."

     "What does that stand for?"

     "Audio door monitoring device."

     "Let me get this straight.  You're listening to the doors

all over the ship?"

     "That's right.  You should try to keep up on developments."

     "Let me listen to that."

     The first officer pulls the device from the crewman's ear,

goes to insert it into his own, stops, inspects the end for wax,

puts it in his ear, and jerks his head sideways at the sudden

volume of sound.

     Meanwhile:

     Communications officer: "I'm receiving a message on the

distress channel."

     Captain: "On speakers."

     Static-y British voice: *. . . imperative.  This is the

Kobayashi Maru, nineteen periods out of Altair Six.  We have

struck a gravitic mine, and have lost all power.  Our hull is

penetrated and we have sustained many casualties*  Static.

     The first officer takes out the ADMD.

     "That's Kool and the Gang.  You're on report, mister."

     Crewman: "No way.  Listen.  Somebody's standing next to a

door grooving on Kool and the Gang on Deck 14, and I'm picking it

up with this.  It's a very sensitive instrument."

     The first officer looks sceptical, but tries it again, this

time manipulating some of the controls of the console.

     Computer: *Subject vessel is third class neutronic fuel

carrier.  Crew of eighty one.  Three hundred passengers.*

     1st officer: "I don't know.  Now I'm getting some kind of -- 

Wait a minute, that's Funkadelic!  You hooked in to the music

library!  You're in deep, buddy.  It's the brig for you.  I'm

going to get a recording of this for the hearing."

     He punches up the commands, holding the ADMD in his ear with

one hand.

     Helmsman: "May I remind the Captain . . . ?"

     Captain: "I'm aware of my responsibilities, mister."

     Helmsman (shrugging): "Entering Neutral Zone."

     The first officer takes out the ADMD.

     DRG: "Look.  Didn't you ever see Hunt for Red October where

the sonar guy is broadcasting Pavarotti into the ocean to

practice listening to unusual sounds in the watery medium?"

     "Yea-a-a-h."

     "This is just like that."

     "How?"

     "Well look.  Suppose someone's partying on Deck 7, they're

pumpin' the tunes, got the bass up, and I'm supposed to log an

entry on the door next door?  I have to be able to make out the

threshold event."

     "So you're simulating the party?"

     DRG holds up his hands in a gesture of misunderstood genius.

     The first officer makes a face, then puts the ADMD back in

his ear and listens again.

     Computer: *Klingons on attack course and closing.  Klingons

on attack course and closing.*

     Captain: "Helm, get us out of here!"

     Boom!  The helm blows up.

     1st officer: "What the --?" 

     Boom!  The communications console blows up.  Boom!  Boom! 

Boom!  The ship's doctor, science officer, and counsellor blow

up.  The chief engineer patches in just in time to pipe in the

sound of him blowing up.  The captain blows up.  The first

officer has time to give Door Repair Guy a really evil look

before he too blows up.  

     The bridge is a shambles.  DRG gets out of his chair and

moves through the wreckage to the smoking communications station,

surveys the mangled sparking circuitry, screws open the ADMD with

a twist, wires its innards into the comm system using a couple of

lengths of dangling optical cord, holds the device to his mouth

like a microphone, and shouts:

     "tlhIngan HoD.  Dejpu'bogh Hov rur qablIj."  ["Klingon

captain.  You face resembles a collapsed star."]

     Cut to Klingon ship.

     Klingon captain: "nuH?  DaH mutIchta''a' ghaH?  puqloD ngeb! 

DIvI' HoD!  Hab SoslI' Quch!"  ["What?  Did he just insult me? 

The bastard!  Federation captain!  Your mother has a smooth

forehead!"]

     DRG: "buD mIn be'nI'ra'."  ["Your sister has a lazy eye."]

     An appreciative grunt from Klingon bridge crew makes it

through the comm channel to the damaged Federation bridge.  Cut

to ST:TMP-vintage viewscreen view of three Klingon vessels

holding their position.  Dissolve to:

     DRG: "mangghom DaSmey tuQ SoSlI'."  ["Your mother wears army

boots."]

     Klingon captain: "Hahahahaha!!  bIboghpu'DI' SoSlI' qIpta'

Qel!"  ["Hahahahaha!!  When you were born the physician slapped

your mother!"]

     DRG: "bIboghpu'DI' vavlI' qipta' SoSlI'!"  ["When you were

born your mother slapped your father."]

     Klingon captain: "Hahahaha!  Hahahahaha!  jIHeghnIS.  HIbach

vay'.  bIboghpu'DI' vavlI' SoS qIpta' vavlI' vav."  ["Hahahaha! 

Hahahahaha!  I have to die.  Somebody shoot me.  When you were

born your paternal grandmother slapped your paternal

grandfather!"]

     DRG: "bIboghpu'DI' vavlI' SoS qIpta' vavwI' SoS."  ["When

you were born my paternal grandmother slapped your paternal

grandmother."]

     Klingon captain: "Hahahahaha!!  Hahaha!!!  Ha ha!!"

     Outside at the simulation monitoring console, two Special

Unit analysts glance at each other over an array of visual

readouts.

     "Four hours, twenty-one minutes.  That's a record."

     "I've never seen the Kobayshi Maru played out to a stalemate

before."

     "It's not chess!  Any minute now the Klingons have to

deliver on their threat."

     "Okay."

     "All right."

     Roar of Klingon laughter from the simulator.

     "Any minute now." 

 

     "Crawlspace.  The final frontier.  These are the voyages of

The Door Repair Guy.  His mission: to install and maintain

proximity-activated entranceways, to stake out new rooms and new

service conduits -- to boldly go where no one with a pass key has

gone before."

 

                    Star Trek: Door Repair Guy

 

                              Starring 

 

                         Door Repair Guy as

                              Himself

 

                              Also Starring

 

                         Some Other Actors

 

[Commercial:

     "Terrorist gas attacks in New York and Baltimore bring the

casts of Law and Order and Homicide: Life on the Street together

in the most suspenseful police crossover of the season.  Be

there."

     Baylis: "Frank takes Manhattan."

     Pembleton: "What was that."

     Baylis: "I was just saying . . ."

     Pembleton: "You spoiled the take."

     Baylis: "Well, I . . ."

     Pembleton: "Do you think I have all day to stand around here

and do promos?"

     Baylis: "Look."

     Pembleton: "Because I have other things to do."

     Baylis: "Frank . . ."

     Pembleton: "No way.  I'm gone.  Where's my hat?  Have you

got my hat?  So long.  I'm outta here."

     Baylis: "Frank . . ."]

 

     "Next file.  Special Operative (Maquis Unit) Trainee Door

Repair Guy.  Has completed 95 percent of the intensive course. 

Cumulative score to date: 50.4 percent."

     "Hm.  It's a pass."

     "90 percent is the usual requirement for graduation."

     "Usual?"

     "This file is flagged STREAM."

     "There was some political pressure, wasn't there?"

     "Affirmative.  It's a complex deal, many favours being paid

off.  Which is fine.  Starfleet occasionally sends through a dud

to confuse the Maquis intelligence people."

     "Surely an agent so ill-prepared stands a high chance of

mortality."

     "Virtually immediate."

     "I see.  How does this score break down?"

     "Galacticopolitic Analysis: 0.  Precision throwing: 100. 

Combined in-class test results: 0.  Rope-climbing: 100.  Alien

languages: 52."

     "52?"

     "Catches on quickly, but can't resist importing xenocultural

references.  Makes bilingual puns."

     "What about these zeroes?  Zero in GA?"

     "He believes in a race of subspace Swedish ski-instructors

who occasionally interfere in galactic events to rescue deserving

maintenance technicians.  Then there's the Chipmunk Universe.  He

wrote us forty pages on that."

     "I see.  What about the in-class test results?"

     "We caught him cheating."

     "We're spies.  Should we be punishing cheating?"

     "We're punishing getting caught."

     "Ah.  What's your recommendation?"

     "Proceed to alien saloon simulations."

     "Out of system?"

     "I recommend Mars.  We want to play this one close to home. 

Sector 001 is one of the few places no one has heard of Door

Repair Guy."

     "Very well.  Security Above All."

     "Well said, sir."

     Door chime.

     "Yes?  Who is it?"

     "Horticulturist."

     "Enter."

     The two security officers continue their review while the

green-overalled horticulturalist waters the aspidistra in the

corner, plucks a dried leaf off the plant and exits.  In the

corridor outside she holds the leaf over her mouth to cover a

smile and whispers into it, "Audio Plant Monitoring Device

retrieved.  Transmitting now."

     Shot of Vulcan trading vessel in earth orbit.  Cut to the

cockpit.  Two pointy-eared smugglers exchange satisfied glances. 

     "Transmission received."

     "Phototsynthetically-powered surveillance devices.  The Tal

Shiar have had them for eight years.  It must be true what they

say about Starfleet Security.  It really is all brawn and no

brain."

     "Complete idiots.  We Romulans shall rule here yet."

     "Ha ha ha.  How true.  Have you a cigarette?"

     "My pleasure."

     They light up, inhale deeply, then blow blue smoke.

     Both: "Ahh-h-h-h-h! *Cough* *Cough* *Cough*"

 

[Commercial:

     "Four kids, and he never changed a diaper.  And he has a new

hit movie.  Be there as Oprah joins forces with Regis and Kathie

Lee to get to the bottom of celebrity slacker dads."]

 

     View of a shuttlecraft cruising past at sublight speed.  Cut

to the interior.  Agents Baumgartner, McSorley, Braun and DRG are

aboard, dressed in civilian clothing.

     Braun (at helm): "Mars intercept in twelve minutes."

     McSorley (turning and looking DRG up and down): "So, ever

been to Mars before?"

     DRG: "Nope.  But I've always wanted to see the Old Country."

     Baumgartner: "Old Country?"

     "Nepean 2 was on Mars, like 150 years ago.  Pro'ly got

cousins there now."

     All three turn sharply.

     Braun: "Will anybody recognize you?"

     He thinks.  "Naw."  He thinks some more.  "Naw."

     McSorley: "Are you sure?"

     DRG: "Sure."

     McSorley: "You sure you're sure?"

     DRG: "Sure I'm sure I'm sure."

     Baumgartner: "He doesn't look Martian."

     McSorley: "Tsk, tsk."

     Baumgartner: "It's not racist."

     McSorley: "I disagree.  I think you dislike Martians."

     Baumgartner: "You're so full of it."

     McSorley: "And you're ugly.  You get it from your mother."

     Baumgartner: "You're uglier."

     McSorley: "Yeah maybe.  But not as ugly as a Martian."

     Baumgartner: "Ha."

     Braun: "Gentlemen.  Please try to remember you're

professionals."

     DRG: "The Martians are the pioneers of terraformation.  The

Fundamental Declarations of the Martian Colonies are one of the

great milestones in the progress of human rights."

     McSorley: "What is that?  Nepean 5 history, fourth grade?"

     "Fifth.  They do England in Grade 4."

     Baumgartner: "The English.  A handsome people."

     McSorley: "Ha."

     DRG: "It's not the fault of the Mars Colonists that they had

the Accident.  They were inventing terraforming.  Madame Curie

died of radiation poisoning.  There was nobody to warn her."

     McSorley: "Which the Martians might have taken into

account."

     DRG: "It takes a while to build up an ozone layer."

     "And until you do you wear your sunscreen."

     "It's not like they mutated or something."

     Throats are cleared.

     Agent Braun: "Well, actually, it is."

     DRG sits there, annoyed.

     Baumgartner: "And how about those voices?"

     DRG: "Hey!  The atmosphere does that."

     Braun: "Speaking of which."

     Shot of shuttlecraft entering Martian atmosphere.

 

[Commercial:

     "Phoebe's dating Detective Sipowicz?  Find out on an all-new

Friends/NYPD Blue."]

 

     Shot of the planet Mars, say from 40 degrees north latiude

to the pole.  Terraforming and two centuries of colonization have

gone some distance in transforming the planet from the windswept

red desert we know -- but not that far.  Red is still the

predominant segment of the colour palette.  There are a hundred

variations of red-brown, brown-red, red-red-brown, brown-red-

brown, rust, ochre, terra cotta, salmon and jasper to be seen. 

But here and there we discern a spot of blue -- a crater become

lakebed.  And what's that reddish green swatch?  Lichen National

Park?  One of the planet's tenacious crabgrass plantations?  

Perhaps the scrubby coniferous forest, four feet tall at its

highest, knee-deep in drifting sand and every limb pointing the

direction of the prevailing wind which began life as the

greenbelt around Nepean 2.  And how about that silvery line

dissecting the landscape and glinting in the sun?  Could it be

one of the fabled canals of Mars, filled at long last with sun-

spangled mountain waters?  No, not really.  It's Interstate #6,

connecting New West Australia to the Rectangular Territory by way

of the Hecates Interchange.  Truly, humanity in its unending

march has left its mark upon the Bringer of War.  (Warbly loose-

sprochetted travelogue soundtrack music.)

     The shuttlecraft lands.

     McSorley turns in his chair and shares out sticks of gum.

     DRG (chewing): "Winterfresh.  They don't care for bad breath

on Mars?"

     McSorley: "Yeah.  That's right."

     Baumgartner: "You got it."

     Braun: "Keep chewing.  Ready doors."

     She reaches over and hits the door release.

     DRG: "WOW.  MY EARS JUST POPPED.  OH."

     Braun: "THE CONTACT SITE IS IN A BAR ON THE NEAR EDGE OF

THAT SETTLEMENT."

     DRG: "MAN OH MAN.  YOU SOUND LIKE A FOGHORN."

     McSorley: "YEAH?  CHECK THIS OUT.  DOH, TEE, LAW, SO."

     Baumgartner: "FAW, ME."

     Both: "RAY, DO-O-O-O-O-O-O-H."

     DRG: "DO-O-O-O-OH.  TIBETAN MONKS.  COOL."

     Braun: "COME ON, YOU CHOIRBOYS.  GRAB YOUR STUFF AND GO. 

IT'S HALF A KILOMETRE TO TOWN.  AND WATCH YOUR STEP.  THE

GRAVITY'S DIFFERENT OUTSIDE THE --"

     DRG (climbing out): "OW!"

     McSorley: "WHAT?"

     DRG: "I BIT MY TONGUE."

 

     A Romulan centurian appears on screen.

     *Report.*

     First smuggler: "We have learned from our sources that a

Federation prisoner named Door Repair Guy who was listed as

killed in a meteor shower three months ago has shown up in

Starfleet's anti-Maquis training programme and is on his way to

Mars now for final alien saloon simulations."

     *This is startling news.*

     Second smuggler: "We recommend that you order us to alert

our Maquis contact.  This information will greatly enhance our

standing with the insurgents and shift our tobacco marketing

campaign in the Cardassian border sales area into high gear."

     *Permission denied.  You have stumbled on a sensitive Tal

Shiar operation.  Under no circumstances are you to alert your

Maquis contact.  If the Maquis discover he is a Federation spy it

will be the worse for you.  Stand by for further orders. 

Transmission ended.*

     The smugglers sink back in their seats, crestfallen.  They

reach automatically for their smokes.

     Second smuggler: "Nobody respects the man in the field."

     First smuggler: "Sad but true."

     Close-up of index finger punching in the console cigarette

lighter.

     Cut to Tal Shiar headquarters on Romulus.  The centurian

turns from the viewscreen and remarks, "Your analysis was

correct."

     Cut to Subcommander T'Rul emerging from the shadows.

     "So it would seem."

 

[Commercial:

     "Shaquille, Olajuwon, Al Bundy.  It's a Married . . . With

Children/NBA All-Star extravangza."]

 

     The four agents tred along a dust-blown country road.   High

above them ruddy plumes of windborne dust arc across the blue sky

sprinkling fine streamers of grit on the red hills.  The agents

already look like they've been walking for days and sleeping in

their clothes, which is not bad for their cover because they're

supposed to be travelling disciples of Sybok, the laughing

Vulcan, proselytizing the Martian backcountry.

     DRG pushes his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying

to get out the sand, leans sideways and spits.  By coincidence

the other three let fly at the same moment. 

     McSorley (glancing up again): "LOOK!  RABBIT!"

     He draws and fires.  A hundred metres away a rabbit flips in

the wind.  McSorley runs out, stoops, and saunters back with the

partly baked bunny.

     Baumgarnter: "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU."

     McSorley: "THERE'S A BOUNTY."

     Braun: "WE'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEVOTEES OF SYBOK.  WOULD

DEVOTEES OF SYBOK TAKE TARGET PRACTICE ON THE LOCAL WILDLIFE?"

     McSorley holds the rabbit up and contemplates it.

     "I FEEL YOUR PAIN."

     DRG: "SOMEWHERE RABBITS ARE SHOOTING AT HUMANS."

     Braun: "SEE?  HE KNOWS THE COVER."

     DRG: "NO, IT'S TRUE."

     Baumgartner: "YEAH, RIGHT."

     McSorley: "GOT IT, HAREBRAIN."

     Braun: "GIVE IT A REST, WILL YOU?  WE'RE NEARLY IN TOWN."

     They come up to a roadsign.  It reads: 

 

                    Molybdenum Mines.  

          If You Lived Here You'd Be Home Now!  

                    Population 545.

               Kiwanas.  Elks.  Odd Fellows.

 

     Long crane shot of the quartet entering the dusty town.

 

[Commercial:

     "It's a North Dakota primary like none you've ever seen

before.  Bob Dole and Ozone Boy on the same ticket.  Don't miss

it."]

 

     The four agents pace along the cracked concrete sidewalk of

Main Street, Molydbenum Mines.  DRG stops suddenly outside the

general store and points to a packaged isolinear chip in a

holosuite simulation rack.

     "_LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PLANUM_.  COOL."

     Agent Baumgartner peers over DRG's shoulder.

     "_OUT OF ORDER: THE DOOR REPAIR GUY TRIAL_, BY SAMUEL T.

COGLEY IV."

     Braun: "LET'S HOPE IT SOLD AS POORLY HERE AS IT DID

EVERYWHERE ELSE."

     Baumgartner glances around and turns the package back-to-

front in the display rack.

     A girl comes out of the store and stops to stare at them. 

She has the classic Martian look: carrot-red hair, bags under the

eyes, no nose to speak of, Habsburg lip.  She chews on an already

dusty Bajoran jumja and scratches her leg.

     Braun: "LITTLE GIRL.  IS THERE A RESTAURANT IN TOWN?"

     "WHAT'S THAT?"

     McSorley: "A TAVERN, A BAR, A DINER, A BRASSERIE, A KITCHEN

OF SOME KIND?"

     The kid points.

     "THE DIVE."

     They turn and look, then start across the road.

     Kid: "HEY!"

     They turn.

     "GOOD SHOOTIN'."

     McSorley holds up the rabbit and puts on a smile.

     Kid: "THEM OLD RABBITS ARE A MENACE.  SHOOTIN'S TOO GOOD FOR

'EM."

     They smile some more and carry on across the road.

     DRG: "YOU KNOW, I THINK THE SYBOKIANS WOULD DO ALL RIGHT

HERE."

     They enter the saloon.

 

     "So, you believe this Federation agent can be turned against

his superiors?"

     "He is beyond their control.  They simply do not realize it

yet."

     "And what would be the advantage to us of a double agent on

the Cardassian border?  That is far beyond the Romulan sphere of

influence."

     "The universe is our sphere of influence."

     "Well said, Subcommander.  But there are practical

considerations.  Since the debacle in the Gamma Quadrant we lack

the resources to pursue every avenue of investigation."

     "All the more reason to recruit among the foreigners.  There

are millions of aliens out there with axes to grind.  It is a

tremendous untapped resource."

     "Perhaps.  But what makes you think you can get to this

particular Human?"

     Subcommander T'Rul: "I am carrying his child."

 

[Commercial:

     "Canadian actors living in LA cost the Canadian Government

six billion dollars last year in fraudulent Medicare claims, many

of them stemming from elective plastic surgery.  Eric Malling and

Paul Gross join forces in a special Due South/W5."]

 

     The four agents push through the swinging doors of The Dive,

DRG holding back to fool with the doors a minute.  Agent Braun

comes and takes him by the arm.

     DRG: "RECIPROCATING HINGES."

     Agent Baumgartner saunters over to the bar.

     Bartender: "WHAT'S YOUR HEAVY METAL?"

     Baumgartner: "PATERA WATER."

     Patron further down the bar: "OH, GREAT.  SYBOKIANS."

     Bartender: "YOU SHUT UP.  DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO HIM.  HE'S

A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING DRUNK."

     Patron: "OH, THANKS A LOT.  I ONLY FINANCE THIS PLACE."

     Bartender: "OH, COME BACK ON CUSTOMER APPRECIATION DAY."

     Baumgartner (taking the water): "I COULDN'T HELP BUT NOTICE

YOUR PAIN."

     DRG comes up to the bar.

     "WHAT'S A GOOD MARTIAN BEER?"

     "ELYSIUM MUD."

     "ALL RIGHT!"

     The bartender draws a grass of beer and sets it on the bar. 

Shot of DRG bending to look through the beer.

     "KINDA LIGHT FOR A MUD BEER, DONCHA THINK?"

     "I AIN'T DONE YET."

     The bartender lifts a large tin can onto the bar, scoops out

three heaping spoonfuls of red dirt, and stirs them into the

beer.

     DRG: "WHOA!"

     He takes the dirt beer and returns to the table occupied by

the other three agent.

     McSorley: "SO, SPOTTED THE CONTACT YET?"

     DRG looks around.  Nine Martians are distributed around the

room, either drinking alone or in pairs.  Everyone appears to be

absorbed in a couple of cribbage games going on in the centre of

the room.  Everyone looks typically Martian, i.e. possessed of

mutated dominant genes resulting in big lip, small nose, baggy

eye and red hair -- all except the Vulcan primly sipping a double

espresso in the corner.

     "WELL, OBVIOUSLY IT'S HIM."

     "WHY?"

     "BECAUSE HE DOESN'T BELONG."

     "MAYBE HE WORKS AT PLANITIA UTOPIA.  IT'S ONLY A HUNDRED AND

FIFTY KILOMETRES FROM HERE."

     "STILL, COME ON."

     "WELL, GO TALK TO HIM."

     "AND DON'T FORGET TO USE THE MAGIC WORD."

     They watch DRG walk over and introduce himself.  They

observe as he spins out his tale about the need for greater

Vulcan spirituality throughout the Federation.  They follow as he

steers the conversation toward the troubles on the Cardassian

border.  They lean forward as he drops the word "Maquis".  And

they sit back in surprise when the Vulcan shakes DRG by the hand

and the two of them disappear in a transporter effect.

     One of the cribbage players stands up and looks at them.

     "I THOUGHT I WAS THE CONTACT!"

     Braun (looking at the other two): "SO DID WE."

 

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

Written by Douglas A. McLeod, ai919@freenet.carleton.ca

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

 

Notes on Martians:

What do you think of my solution to the Kobayashi Maru test?

Star Trek didn't do much with the planet Mars, even though it's just over there. Sisko worked at the shipyards before DS9, and Peter Weller tried to blow up the earth from there in the last season of ST: Enterprise.

The Nepeanites must have gotten off of Mars before the Accident. Though, perhaps they caused it?

Bob Dole was calling Al Gore Ozone Boy in early 1996. Did him no good.

Photo source.

 

Cunard Street Portraiture

Five Japanese Novels in Translation

This year I have been reading as much Japanese literature in translation as I can lay my hands on. Here are five that I recommend.

Junichi Saga, Confessions of a Yakuza, (Kodansha, 1991).

Not a novel, but it reads like one. A doctor attends to a dying man, who recounts his life as a gangster before, during, and a bit after WWII. Part of what's surprising about this story is the near absence of anything we would consider hardcore crime. Most of the yakuza's career revolves around illicit gambling activities or associated crimes like moving people from place to place after curfew. And a lot of attention is paid to getting along with the neighbours. There is nearly no gun play, and when one murder does take place it's treated as a catastrope by the crime bosses. Most of the yakuza's troubles stem from his relations with women, which tend to lead him toward shirking his duties. There is a graphic but thankfully quick account of venereal surgery.

Fumiko Enchi, The Waiting Years, (Kodansha, 1980).

This story of a contest of wills between a powerful husband and his dutiful wife spans the period from the 1870s to the First World War. Many other novelists would have gotten an 800-page family saga out of this material, but Enchi is just interested in the points of greatest dramatic tension, and brings the novel to a sharp conclusion after only 188 pages. It is said this book took nine years to write, and I'm sure much of the time was spent cutting it down. Passing over the first part of the marriage, Enchi begins only when the wife Tomo has already received the humiliation of being sent to choose her husband Yoshitomo a concubine. You follow Tomo down the years, waiting for her act of revenge.

Masuji Ibuse, Black Rain, (Kodansha, 1979).

A novel about the Hiroshima bombing, this is nevertheless a wise and even funny book about human nature. In the midst of unprecedented disaster, the characters stay true to their individual concerns, suggesting that the key to survival might in the end be the power of denial. Shigematsu, a rather important man in his own mind, spends the days after the bomb on various important tasks that lead him to crisscross the demolished and radioactive city, taking the reader on a Dantean tour of the aftermath. Shigematsu witnesses horrors, and comes close to death himself a few times, but he doesn't become overwhelmed, which I think is Ibuse's strategy for getting the reader through the novel. There are many things he wants you to see, but in order for that to happen you have to finish the book. You're not grief-struck at the end, but sadness and compassion have crept up on you.

Yoko Ogawa, The Housekeeper + The Professor, (Harvill Secker, 2009).

This is the only recent novel of the bunch, and it certainly feels like something from a different generation. Japanese history is not as big a concern here. It's a small story about a woman from a housekeeping service who is assigned a client who has lost the ability to form memories. Every day she has to reintroduce herself and explain the purpose of her visit. The client was once a mathematics professor, and over the course of the novel he teaches the housekeeper and her son about numbers. They made a film of this book, but shifted the point of view to the son. Which is too bad I think because one of the points of the book is the need to respect housecleaners more. Baseball is also an important element, as a creator of community and a source of cool stats.

Kobo Abe, The Woman in the Dunes (Vintage, 1964). 

An entomologist travels to a seaside village to collect insects. He discovers that a huge sand dune has buried part of the town, but that the inhabitants have dug holes in the dune to preserve their houses. When he asks where he can stay overnight they put him up in one of the houses in one of the holes, but then they won't let him out. They made a film of this one too, in the Sixties, in black and white.

Yellow Crane

Japanese Word of the Day: Rakugo

Rakugo is a style of humorous storytelling that has been around a long while but still has an audience in Japan. A single performer kneels on a cushion and using only a couple of props creates a narrative and all its characters. See here for a demonstration in English, and here for the performance pictured above. Also check out this site.

Rakugo is also an inspiration for mangaka. Yoshihiro Tatsumi's Fallen Words illustrates eight rakugo stories. The manga Joshiraku revolves around the backstage conversations of a troupe of female rakugoka.

From the Joshiraku anime trailer. Source.

Doors of Kingston, Ontario

Club 12

The disaster at Ibrox continues. Rangers FC is now officially defunct. A new company, THE Rangers FC, exists on paper, but exactly who will play for it, and in which league, no person can say. 2012-13 is set to begin in a month and a half, so the schedules have been published, but with the tacit understanding that there could be a lot of rescheduling to follow. The SPL schedule includes a team called Club 12, which might be The Rangers, or if not them, then possibly Dundee or Dunfermline. They don't know. Somehow there's no contingency plan for this kind of thing. Any solution will produce outrage from some quarter, because outrage is what Scottish football is all about. That, and never meting out the same punishment twice.

What are the possible outcomes?

The Rangers might be voted back in to the SPL on July 4th. Some of the other clubs have calculated that they stand to lose heavily at the gate if The Rangers are not on the schedule. But reinstatement will be proof to many that there is no integrity left in the Scottish game. There'd be outrage in Livingston for sure. And it's beginning to look as if the other SPL clubs have begun to reason that not having The Rangers around would be to their advantage. Hearts, Dundee United and [Aberdeen, or maybe not] are all set to vote against readmitting the Ibrox cheaterbox.

The Rangers could be demoted to the First Division. This compromise scenario surfaced last week, and involves a bundle of face-saving reforms, including shifting the First Division into the SPL as SPL2. A lot would have to happen very very quickly for this scenario to happen. There'd be outrage in Livingston again, but at least the Livi supporters would be able to yell about it when The Rangers visit. I'd expect that Partick Thistle would be very pleased to have The Rangers in the division. Rangers/Partick is an underappreciated Glasgow derby. Thistle last played Rangers on September 28th, 2008, in the League Cup.

Are Dunfermline or Dundee prepared to fill the gap in the SPL? The Pars finished twelfth, and have since dismantled their SPL squad. They would be guaranteed to finish twelfth again. Dundee are a good pick to win the First Division this year, so they might be a better choice.

The Rangers could (very many would say should) be demoted to the SFL Third Division. Some of the Third Division clubs would have difficulty accommodating the hordes of Glaswegians who would be descending upon their villages each Saturday. But Queen's Park, who play at Hampden, with its 50,000 seats, would have no problem. Queen's Park last played Rangers on August 20th, 1991, also in the League Cup. Rangers/Queen's Park has not been a regular Glasgow derby for years if not centuries.

No word of The Rangers joining the Second Division.

And conceivably The Rangers could sit out the year, and tour the globe playing friendlies. The organization has often floated the idea of leaving Scottish football, for England, or an international league.

The Annotated Door Repair Guy, episode 46

 

Agents

 

     Close-up of a hand drumming the desk beside an office phone. 

The phone bleeps and the hand grabs the receiver and takes it up

to the head of Bob Cowan.

     "Cowan!"  Pause.  "No, it's not on CHRO.  Try CFCF or WUTV. 

It's in the TV Times.  Consult your Saturday Citizen.  Have a

great day!"  Click.

     Bob sets his jaw and stares at the phone.  Bleep.

     "Cowan!"  Pause.  "No, Voyager's not on this week. 

Unfortunately, owing to an intractable corporate imbroglio

between Baton Broadcasting and CITY-TV" -- spit, spit -- "we

don't carry it.  Thanks for calling!"  Click.

     Bob purses his lips, jumps up, paces in front of the camera

twice, and sits.  Bleep.

     "Cowan!"  Pause.  "No, the nacelle hinges are flexed by

eight enormous hydraulic pistons lubricated with cocoanut oil." 

Pause.  "No problem!  Have a great day!"  Click.

     Bleep.  "Cowan!  Regix!  Is it on?  It's on!  When?  What? 

I can't be in California in four hours!  Oh yeah, time zones. 

Okay!  I'll be there!"  Click.

     Bob grabs his jacket and travel bag and sprints for the

door.  As he passes Reception he shouts:

     "I need somebody to cover for me on the weather!"

     "Eh?  What if I can't get anyone!?"

     "Run a tape!"

     The camera tracks down the aisle of a passenger jet in

flight and pauses by Bob Cowan slouched in his seat.  He stares

at his neighbour's laptop with a glassy look until he catches the

stewardess's skirt out of the corner of his eye and twists around

in the seat.

     "Oh, Miss!  Miss!  Have you got any more of those little

packages of Snackwells?"

     He holds up a couple of empty wrappers.

     "I'll be right with you, sir." 

     "Yeah okay."

     He slumps back in the seat and notices his neighbour giving

him the look.

     Bob: "Tried to get couch class but it was booked up.  Ha!" 

(Weak joke grimace.)

     View of Airbus cruising west above the clouds.

 

     "Crawlspace.  The final frontier.  These are the voyages of

The Door Repair Guy.  His mission: to install and maintain

proximity-activated entranceways, to stake out new rooms and new

service conduits -- to boldly go where no one with a pass key has

gone before."

 

                    Star Trek: Door Repair Guy

 

                              Starring 

 

                         Door Repair Guy as

                              Himself

 

                              Also Starring

 

                         Bob Cowan as

                              Himself

 

                         Rip Torn as

                              Gul Berman

 

                         Larry Sanders as

                              Gul Piller

 

                         Mary Tyler Moore as

                              Gul Taylor

 

                         Penny Johnston as

                              Kasidy Yates

 

                         Dana Carvey as

                              Regix

 

                         Kathie Lee Gifford as

                         His Lovely Assistant Madeline

 

                         LeVar Burton as

                              Himself

 

                         Shannon Fill as

                              Ensign Sito

 

                         And a Cameo Appearance by

                              Majel Barrett Roddenberry

 

[Commercial: George Formby for Windows 95:

     The curtain rises to applause.  George Formby in a brown

raincoat and cloth cap steps forward, bows, strikes up his

ukelele, and sings (to the tune of "When I'm Cleaning Windows"):

 

          I've bought a new computer,

          It's there beside the grate,

          And so I need some software

          To make it operate.

 

          The man around the corner

          Said, "Look what's joost arrived,

          The newest software package

          Called Windows 95."

 

          Now, in my profession I'm brand new

          But I'll never stop.

          I'll run this blinkin' programme

          Til I get right to the top.

 

          This is a job that just suits me.

          A Windows-watcher you would be

          If you could see what I can see

          When I'm running Windows.]

 

     Paramount.  Gul Berman barrels through the offices of Star

Trek: Deep Space Nine/Voyager/Door Repair Guy, greeting the

morning staff and congratulating each individual on the fine,

fine work he's been hearing about.  He drops a word in an ear,

takes in the latest joke at the coffee pot, slaps some backs and

sets course for his office.  He rounds a desk and spots a script

in an IN tray, brakes, glances around, lifts the script

carefully, reads the title, rolls it thoughtfully into a

cylinder, pauses, flattens a fly on the desk blotter, drops the

now dog-eared script back in the tray, takes out a pen and adds

his initials, and carries on down the hall.  He comes up against

Gul Piller who is backing into the corridor with an armload of

file-folders.

     "So, pal o' mine!  What's on the playbill today?"

     "Ah.  Hi.  Auditioning Martians for DRG 047.  Gul Taylor

thought it'd be a good idea to hire only Canadians til we get the

guy into the Maquis and among some actors that people know.  The

Canadian dollar's down, and she got a package rate out of

Toronto."

     "Canadians!  Those buzzards are all over this town, snapping

up jobs that should be going to red-blooded Americans!"

     Kasidy Yates peers around the corner: "William Shatner on

line three."

     "Hold on a minute, will you?  I've got to talk to this --." 

Berman barges into his office and grabs the phone.  "Bill! 

Buddy!  How's it hangin, there, pal?  What's that?  No, I didn't! 

What?  Yeah?  Ha!  Ha, ha, ha!  You're killing me!  Bridge on the

captain!  I can't wait to tell Mrs Berman!  She'll piss herself! 

Listen!  Great talking to you, Bill!  Next week?  My schedule's

always empty for you, Bill.  Okay, compadre!  Tuesday!  You

better believe it!  Love ya!"  Click.  "Fucking Canuck.  What was

I saying?  Oh yeah.  Time was those Canadians all wanted to be

English.  Do anything to get that little aristocratic pat on the

ass.  Made the best butlers on earth, I'm told.  Now they all

want to pass for Yankee, but will one of them ante up his own

hospital bill, or bear arms in a militia?  Try to carry on a

serious political discussion about Phil Gramm and they fade away

like cameleons.  Bunch of fucking changelings, the whole pack of

them."  A look of realization comes over Gul Berman's face. 

"Hold that thought!"  He disappears into a corner of the office

and comes out into the hall with a 1954 Rand McNally atlas open

to a map of the world and his finger on the expanse of pink north

of the US border.

     "What did I tell you?"

     Closeup of the words:

 

                    DOMINION OF CANADA

 

     "I don't know what to say."

     "Ah fuck it.  If it means more budget for the boys in

special effects who are we to say nay?  Vive la NAFTA!  What's on

this afternoon?"

     "I gotta get over to Stage 17 while LeVar wraps the last

couple of scenes for DRG 046, just as soon as Liam Neeson lands,

which should be at about 3:00 pm.  You might want to make an

appearance."

     "Wouldn't miss it.  The Irish!  Gotta love 'em!"

     Gul Taylor dashes up.

     "O-o-o-o-oh!  Quick!  The Weather Channel!"

     They push into Gul Berman's office.  Gul Berman grabs the

remote off his desk and punches up the Weather Channel.

     Liam Neeson: ". . . snow in forty yairs."

     Interviewer: "Does this blizzard put a crimp in your

shooting schedule?"

     Neeson: "I was supposed to connect to Los Angeles half an

hour ago.  I'm due to be shooting a guest appearance on Star

Trek: Door Repair Guy later today, after which I fly out to

Hawaii where they're filming Waterworld II.  But I guess I'll be

too leeit."

     Interviewer: "Indeed he will.  We've just received word that

every airport from Maine to Maryland is shut down until tomorrow 

morning at the earliest.  Once again it's the biggest blizzard in

forty years.  From LaGuardia Airport in New York for the Weather

Channel this is--".

     Gul Berman: "Sonofabitch weather!  And I just wonder where

that blew in from!"

     Gul Piller: "I'll go dig out the clip show."

     Gul Taylor: "Oo-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!"

 

[Commercial: George Formby for Windows 95

 

          The things I've seen when I'm on line

          Would suit a sailor very fine

          If he were more than twenty-nine

          When I'm running Windows.

 

          A lass I've spied is quite the rage,

          One million hits on her Web Page;

          As many on the pressure gauge;

          When I'm running Windows.

 

          Oh, in my profession I'm brand new

          But I'll never stop.

          I'll run this flippin' programme

          Til I get right to the top.

 

          She has a twin and my oh my,

          They make the idle hours fly by

          With just a chair and one necktie

          When I'm running Windows.]

 

     Shot of Bob in Customs.

     "Anything to declare?"

     "It's a great day!"

     "Your visa, sir."

     "Yeah okay.  Better check the balance on that.  I've got

$3500 on it already.  That last remote from Saro Stereo's Closing

Sale just about maxed me out.  Plenty of Air Miles though!"

     The Customs Officer speaks into her collar: "We need more

Tylenol down here."

     Cut to Bob wandering the terminus, passing under banks of

television screens bright red with flight cancellations.  He

heads for the telephones.

     Cut to the office of Regix, Ferengi talent agent.  Regix is

reading Variety in a padded leather chair at a desk covered with

telephones and file-o-faxes.  Framed publicity stills cover the

wall.  Regix throws the paper down on the desk.

     "MADeline!  I THINK I'm going CRAzy!"

     Madeline enters, looking like she got up too early, then

drank a pot of coffee.

     "What."

     "'Abbott and Costello Meet Kenneth Branagh's Bride of

Frankenstein'?   WHERE'S the profit in THAT?"

     She looks sceptical.  "Is Emma Thompson in it?"

     (Reads.)  "Oh yeah."  (Reads some more.)  "America's

Funniest MRIs!  What a CONcept!"

     "Snackwells on line eight."

     He grabs the phone.  "REGIX!  Yeah?  Yeah?  How much does he

WEIGH?  Is he SKINNY?  He's a BEANPOLE!  I KNOW THEY'RE LOW FAT! 

HE'LL BE THERE!  HE'S IN MY OFFICE RIGHT NOW!  Okay, babe.  So

long!"  He slams the phone.  To Madeline: "How much does Bob

Cowan weigh?"

     She fixes him a stare, gives an exaggerated shrug, and

exits.

     The phone rings.

     "REGIX!  Yeah?  Where?  The AIRport?  You're in auDITion in

forty-five MINUTES!  Get in a CAB and tell him to STEP on it! 

WAIT!  How much do you weigh, babe?  Well, find out!  I gotta

another call."

     Shot of Bob standing at the payphone biting his lip and

giving his gut a pinch.  He looks around, then hangs up, picks up

his travel bag, and heads away from the payphones.

     Cut to Gul Berman's office.  Gul Berman barks at the speaker

phone:

     "Regix, sweetheart!  How are ya, you old Yankee trader! 

Listen, pal, we've got a small problem here."  The camera draws

back to reveal Guls Piller and Taylor, and Kasidy Yates, gathered

around listening anxiously, and Scott Thompson peering in at the

door.  A cassette case labelled A WHITER SHADE OF GRAY -- CLIP

SHOW -- EMERGENCY ONLY rests menacingly on the desk.  "We're due

to wrap this afternoon and our special guest star is socked in at

LaGuardia.  Can you help us out, old pal, old buddy?"

     Cut to airport.  Bob is standing on a baggage scale.

     Cut to Regix's office.

     "How about Alan Scarfe?  OVEREXPOSED!?  No, Saul Rubinek's

outta town.  DO I LOOK LIKE THE KINDA MAN WHO'D REPRESENT BURTON

CUMMINGS!  How about Ben Johnson?  Great little sprinter.  No

running in the show?  That's too bad."  Flips through filecards. 

"SAY, Wayne Gretzky's good.  Did you see Wayne Gretzky on SNL

that time?  LAUGH?!  I thought I'd DIE!  He SLAYED!  WHATdya

think?"

     Gul Berman glances around the room.

     Scott Thompson shakes his head.  "He's in Toronto.  Leafs

game tonight."  He disappears.

     Gul Berman: "Goddamn kids in the hall."  To the phone,

charmingly: "Do you have anyone else?"

     Regix: "Hold on a minute!  Got another call!"  He changes

lines.  "REGIX!"

     Bob: "A hundred and sixty four."

     "GREAT!  Don't go anywhere!"

     Bob holds the phone and slips a Snackwell out the wrapper

and into his mouth.

     Shot of Gul Berman listening to Regix's recorded voice

repeating "Here at the Regix Talent Agency your call is important

to us.  Please stay on the line.  Here at the Regix Talent Agency

your call is important to us.  Please stay on the line." 

     "Come on, you little squirt."

     "Here at the -- REGIX!"

     "Pal!  Do me some magic!"

     Regix: "Two words: BOB COWAN!  He's right here in my office

and we're just talking about the great time he had working with

you last time!"

     Berman leans back from the speaker with a dire look on his

face.  He points to the speaker phone and the rest wave their

arms and silently mouth "NO!!".  He points to the clip show. 

They squirm uncomfortably.

     Berman: "Regix, buddy, you're a lifesaver!  Tell Bob we're

all excited to see him again.  We need him over here pronto, half

an hour ago.  Send him Fedex."

     Regix: "See ya, babe!"  He stabs the phone.  "BOB, buddy! 

We're losing the Snackwells.  They're going with Wilt

Chamberlain!  Get over to Paramount.  You're on Star Trek!"

     Shot of Bob spraying cookie crumbs over a group of Hong Kong

businessmen who instantly draw pistols and point them at arm's

length at his head, shouting John Woo dialogue.

 

[Commercial: George Formby for Windows 95:

 

          An e-mail came to my mailbox.

          I answered straight away of course.

          My server changed it all to Morse.

          When I'm running Windows. 

 

          So I sent out an S-O-S

          To my sysop to fix the mess.

          He says it's my fault, more or less.

          When I'm running Windows.

 

          In my profession I'm brand new

          But I'll never stop.

          I'll run this flippin' programme

          Til I get right to the top.

 

          I asked my mate to take a look,

          He had a peek, his head he shook,

          Said he, "Read the instruction book."

          When I'm running Windows.]

 

     The sound stage.  Door Repair Guy and several other actors

dressed in black special mission body stockings a la "Chain of

Command, Part One" are standing around a cavern set.  LeVar

Burton paces back and forth with a script rolled up in his hand.

     "Where's that Liam Neeson?  Somebody give me a phone."

     Half the crew and several actors produce cellular phones.

     "Ah, thanks."

     He punches a number and stands there with the phone to his

ear, looking first at the floor and then at the ceiling as

everybody looks at him.

     "Busy."

     He looks around and says, "Would somebody get up to the

office and see what's up with the guest star?"

     DRG: "I'll go!"

     And he's gone.

     Cut to Brannon Braga's office.  A freelance writer is seated

on the couch with a pile of papers on his knee.  It's a story

pitch.

     Writer: "DRG and Sisko --"

     Braga: "We're done with DS9!"  He winds up and snaps an

enormous black bullwhip just below the writer's earlobe.

     Writer: "Okay.  Okay.  The Borg --"

     Braga: "No Borg!  We're doing a movie!"  Crack!

     Writer: "Yikes!  All right.  All right.  Utopian society."

     Braga (winding the bullwhip): "Talk to me."

     There's a knock at the door.  DRG looks in.

     "Gul Berman around?"

     "Have you tried his office?"

     "Oh yeah."  The door closes.

     Braga: "Now.  You were saying?"

     Gul Berman's office.  Berman is reviewing his voice mail

with his feet on the desk when there's a knock on the door.  DRG

puts his head in.

     "You!"

     "Uh, hi.  Just wanted to check in, you know, touch base, and

see how things are coming on the, on the movie."

     "Movie?  This is Hollywood, you realize.  There are several

dozen feature presentations in the works at this very moment.  To

which of them do you refer?"

     "Door Repair Guy: The Motion Picture."

     "Well, let me see.  We did six films with the cast of the

original series, and we shouldn't be surprised to see as many

with the Next Generation crew.  Then there's Star Trek: Deep

Space Nine.  And, oh yes, Voyager.  Call me when we're planning

Star Trek XXV."

     "Yeah.  Okay."  Retreats out the door.  "I'll call you

then."

     "Arrivaderci!"  The door closes.  "Goddamned Nepeanian."  

     He pauses and turns it over in his mind.  "Nepeapolitan? 

Nepeanine?"

     Then it comes to him, and a smile spreads across his face.

     "Peon."

 

[Commercial: Windows:

 

          I'm chuffed with my grand ftp,

          I'm master of all that I see,

          Downloading text and binary,

          When I'm running Windows.

 

          The gifs I find fill me with joy:

          Natasha Yar is not a boy

          And neither is Deanna Troi

          When I'm running Windows.

 

          In my profession I'm still green

          But I'll never stop.

          I'll run this blessed programme

          Til I get right to the top.

 

          The lads at Wired all agree.

          This Internet is just for me.

          It keeps me up til half past three

          When I'm running Windows.]

 

     Aerial view of freeway traffic jam.  Shot of Bob with a

disgruntled look on his face seated in the back seat of a cab

watching the tops of the palm trees slowly slide by.

     He mutters under his breath: "Door Repair Guy!"

     He glances forward and notices the cabbie watching him in

the rearview mirror.  Bob slyly looks away, then looks back.  The

cabbie's still watching him.

     "Hey!  Eyes on the road!"

     "You're that guy, aren't you."

     "Huh?"

     "You're that guy."

     "What guy?"

     "That guy.  I've seen you before.  Wait a minute til I think

of it."

     "Too bad I don't have amnesia.  What a wasted opportunity."

     "I got it!  William Shatner's stunt double!"

     "Huh?"

     "Sure!  From T J Hooker!"

     "Right."

     "Ha ha!  I knew it!  You wanna get out of this traffic jam?"

     "If we don't I'm going to miss my shoot."

     "Get on the hood!"

     "Huh?"

     "Get on the hood!  My brother-in-law has a print shop!"

     He holds up an official-looking permit.  Bob catches the

words CAR CHASE.

     Shot of cab crossing the median and weaving between the

oncoming traffic with Bob spread-eagle on the hood, a windshield

wiper in each hand.

     "W-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!!!!!"

 

[Commercial: Encore le Formby:

 

          You've heard of my adventures

          Exploring cyberspace.

          Now here's a few more details

          To substantiate my case.

 

          I'm that pleased when I'm gophering

          I go for files on anything

          But my wife calls it loafering.

          When I'm running Windows.

 

          The helpful Miss Veronica

          Sends advice on japonica

          She found in Thessalonica

          When I'm running Windows.

 

          In my profession I'm brand new

          But I'll never stop.

          I'll run these flamin' Windows

          Til I get right to the top.

 

          My colour monitor's a whiz

          I've viewed Van Goghs and Matisses

          And every Dilbert strip there is

          When I'm running Windows.]

 

     Gul Piller comes around the corner, spots Kasidy Yates at

the coffee-maker, moves in and buttonholes her.

     Piller: "Have you seen the cost estimates on -- hey, that's

an attractive brooch!  Who is that?"

     "Majel Barrett Roddenberry."

     "No kidding.  Wow.  I need the figures on that planeload of

Canadians."

     She flares.  "Don't talk to me!  Go talk to Jeri!  It was

her bright idea!  Don't blame me when the Actors' Guild sets up a

picket on the front step!"

     "What?  You think somebody tipped them off?"

     "Something like that is bound to --.  Why are you looking at

me like that?  Do you think I'd -- ?  Because if you think for a

minute --"

     "Hey, come on.  Where do you think I got my groundskeeper? 

Connecticut?  Come on.  I just thought you might know --."

     "Well.  I can't say for sure, but --."

     She leans out and looks significantly down the corridor.  He

follows her glance.  Scott Thompson is at the water cooler.  He

notices, holds up a paper cup and says, "Great water!" before

hurrying off.

     "But he's Canadian."

     "That's it.  Who knows what kind of vendettas they leave

behind when they come down here."

     "I never thought of that!"

     Absorbed as they are they miss a hooded figure slip past. 

We follow as the figure navigates several turns and comes at last

to a side corridor where we find Door Repair Guy in the cat

burglar suit with his arm up a Coke machine.

     DRG: "Oh!  It's you."

     The visitor removes her hood and looks back over her

shoulder.  It's Ensign Sito.

     "They didn't see me come in."

     "Would it be a problem if they did?"  By now he has his arm

extracted and is rolling down his sleeve.

     "I've been asked to leave on several occasions."

     "Well, that ain't right.  You're alumni."

     She steps forward and pummels his chest with her fists.

     "Can't you understand?  I don't want to be alumni!  I want

them to write me back in!  They left me in limbo!"

     He takes her wrists and examines her nose.

     "Did you do that makeover?"

     "It's . . . it's not a makeover."

     "You got a nose job?"

     "I think I hear a security guard!"

     She throws the hood over her face and flees around the

corner.

     He shakes his head, crosses his arms, and leans his shoulder

against the machine, triggering a Coke can cascade: ka-thonk, ka-

thonk, ka-thonk, ka-thonk . . . .

 

[Commercial:  Formby:

 

          Me wife's all set to pull the plug.

          "Away and get a job, ye slug."

          She hasn't the computer bug

          When I'm running Windows.

 

          So I've gone down to Microsoft --

          You shouldn't think I'm very daft --

          I'm cleaning screens fore noon and aft

          While I'm watching Windows.

 

          In this profession I'm brand new

          But I'll never stop.

          I'll save these screens with my damp rag

          Til I get to the top.

 

          I've many new computing mates

          I shouldn't doubt that at this rate

          I'll soon be thick with William Gates

          When I'm cleaning Windows.

 

          This is a job that just suits me.

          A Windows-washer you would be

          If you could see what I can see

          When I'm cleaning Windows,

          When I'm cleaning Windows.]

 

     Award-winning ten-minute forty-seven second tracking shot

follows:

     The cab screeches up to the curb.  Bob rolls off the hood,

presses his trouser creases between his thumb and forefinger,

comes around to the passenger side, takes his travel bag from the

back seat, slams the door, throws a couple of bills to the

cabbie, says, "Keep it", adjusts his jacket and steps across the

sidewalk (our last glimpse of the cabbie being his expression at

the discovery of two Canadian $20 bills in his hand.)  The camera

follows Bob up the front steps of Star Trek HQ to a pair of doors

which open like clockwork as a UPS deliveryman and a Romulan come

out, both putting on their shades, and we follow Bob's back

across the lobby to the Security desk where Gul Taylor intercepts

him and leads him down a corridor and out the back to a make-up

trailer where the camera jostles its way in to see Bob being

seated in a barber's chair and descended on by a team of make-up

artists and costume people.  We hear Bob exclaim, "Hey, what is

this: ER?" as hands cut the trousers off his legs and the jacket

off his back, while somebody crams a blue bathing cap on his head

and someone else begins to paint his face blue.  Gul Taylor says,

"I've highlighted your lines in pink," pushing a script into his

hands, which are now also being painted.  "You can never have

enough blue eye shadow," quips a make-up tech, applying it. 

Someone from costume says, "Lift your butt," as he pulls the

black body stocking up Bob's legs.  Then: "Oh my God!  Girdle!" 

A girdle appears and is put to work.  The camera is bumped and

jostled and we lose sight of Bob as the wardrobe and make-up

people swarm, and then suddenly he's lifted up and propelled

black and blue out the door, the camera following into the bright

sunlight to see Bob and Gul Taylor stomping off toward Stage 17,

Bob communicating with his walk that he hadn't been told anything

about any damn Bolian, and then they enter the sound stage and

navigate the back sides of several sets and come at last to the

brightly lit cavern.  Applause.

     Bob: "I'm ready for my close-up, Mr De Mille."

     LeVar Burton: "Just find your spot and read the cue cards. 

Let's try to get this in one take, people.  Action."

     Bob: "Okay.  Some of you agents have been wondering why

we're training to fight Federation citizens instead of the

Cardassians.  Some of you are veterans of the Cardassian war. 

Some of you might even bear personal grudges against the

Cardassians.  Well, let me tell you.  It's the goal of the

Federation to make peace wherever possible, and we've made peace

with the Cardassians.  The Cardassians are our allies.  But some

people don't care for it, and they've made it their business to

overturn the treaty and plunge the border into war again.  Our

mission is a simple one: preserve the peace.  The McKee have a

lot of crack minds and a lot of Starfleet training on their side. 

They're a tough opponent.  It's your job to be tougher and

smarter.  You all possess valuable skills and you've all been

supplied with credible personal histories of the sort that'll

make you highly attractive to Makwiss recruiting officers.  Er. 

The best way for the Federation to fight this insurgency is from

the inside.  Think of yourselves as viruses in the body of the

Macaw.  Um.  Yeah okay.  I hope you're all taking notes because

later on there'll be a McQuiz.  Ha ha!"

     LeVar Burton: "Cut!"

     Gul Taylor: "Oh Bob!"

 

     "What's the weather for tomorrow?"

     "I'll check."

     Click.

     Bob: "And another hot and sticky one today.  We reached 29

degrees Celsius, and with the humidity it felt like 34.  Whoa! 

Expect more of the same right through the weekend."

     "Hm.  It did seem warmer today."

     "It really is amazing how short the spring is in Ottawa.  I

guess I'll take the parkas in to the dry cleaner tomorrow."

 

     Shot of cleaning contractor vacuuming the Bob couch set.  He

vacuums in front of the couch, bends down, and pulls a piece of

cellophane from under a couch cushion.  A handful of crushed

cellophane falls out, some of it shooting up the vacuum hose. 

The contractor curses, shuts off the machine, and flips the

cushion up.  Cellophane wrappers and cookie crumbs spill over his

foot.  More cursing.  He stuffs handfuls into the green garbage

bag attached to his belt, vacuums the rest, then flips the second

cushion.  A second cascade ensues, this time including several

flattened Snackwells boxes.  More swearing, garbage bag stuffing,

and vacuuming follow.  He flips the third cushion, shaking his

head, and begins to stuff the debris into the garbage bag, then

stops, picks out a publicity still and holds it up to the light.

     "To Bob.  All the Best.  Marina Sirtis."

     He looks around and stuffs it into his shirt and continues

vacuuming, whistling and glancing over his shoulder.

 

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

Written by Douglas McLeod, ai919@freenet.carleton.ca

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

 

Notes on Agents:

The Bob episode.

Return of The Larry Sanders Show.

Also, the George Formby episode. When Microsoft launched Windows 95 they licenced the Rolling Stones' "Start Me Up", though clearly George Formby's "When I'm Cleaning Windows" was the better choice. Clearly.

Dana Carvey as Regis Philbin as a Ferengi talent agent. It is to laugh!

Veronica was a search engine.

Laptops and cell phones. They had them in the Nineties.

 

 

Two Peonies