by Dave Eggers
250 B.C.: Hannibal Discovers Electricity
The early North Africans were grievously underestimated. Menzies says he has been to apartments in Tunis that are equipped with televisions and stereo equipment, that the number 250 times 7 (“more or less”) equals 1752, the year Benjamin Franklin ” ‘claims’ he ‘discovered’ ‘electricity,’ ” and that 7 is Menzies’s lucky number. Hannibal discovered electricity. Q.E.D.
621: That Was No Apple, It Was More Like a Dolma
Joining forces with David Hockney, who recently posited that Old Master painters used optical devices to achieve their stunningly accurate representation, Gavin Menzies asserts that it wasn’t Newton at all who wrote Principia, but Mohammed. Yes, that Mohammed. When he wasn’t busy taking dictation from God in a cave on the Arabian peninsula, the busy prophet was concocting the three laws of thermodynamics. Neither Menzies nor Hockney can remember exactly what those are at the moment, but they will call when they do.
1844: The Year Native Americans Discovered Europe
Abandoning his prior assertions that China discovered America and that Europe soon followed, Menzies describes his recent discovery of patterns in ancient bison pelts which are “incontrovertible evidence” that neither Europeans nor Asians made it, in his words, “to the place we now know as ‘North America’—which is really just a social construct, anyway, I mean, let’s face it—until after a small band of Cherokee lesbians in canoes reached the shores of Ireland in 1844.” Unfortunately they all immediately caught smallpox and died, which is why we have never heard their story until now. But a blacksmith named Perry knew the intrepid Cherokee women, managed not to catch smallpox from them, came to America, and never was heard from again. “Except,” writes Menzies, “for the satellite transmission Perry made from his Lower East Side tenement to the Dakotas, where it was inscribed for eternity in the buffalo pelts.” Menzies found the pelts at an antique store in Bergen County. “They were marked down,” he recalls. “Or so I assumed.”
GOOD WESTERNS, NOT PORN
Ross Barnes
Ace of the Saddle (1919)
Bad Man Bobbs (1915)
Between Men (1935)
Deadwood Dick (1940)
Garden of Eatin’ (1943)
Gay Amigo, The (1949)
Gay Buckaroo, The (1932)
Hot Lead (1951)
Inside Straight (1951)
Man Rustlin’ (1926)
Man to Man (1922)
Men in the Raw (1923)
One Shot Ross (1917)
Quigley Down Under (1990)
Ramrod (1947)
Rawhide Romance (1941)
Revenge of the Virgins (1966)
Rhythm of the Saddle (1938)
Ride a Wild Stud (1969)
Rimfire (1949)
There Was a Crooked Man ... (1970)
Valdez Is Coming (1971)
Wild West Whoopee (1931)
NORSE LEGENDS REFERENCE PAGES
Kevin Guilfoile
EVERY DAY, it seems, one of your friends is forwarding another of those irritating Norse myths to your in-box. How can you tell which stories are true and which are traditional tales once used by the Nordic people to explain practices, beliefs, or natural phenomena? The Norse Legends Reference Pages are dedicated to separating faktum from fiksjon, and getting the straight dope from the mouths of people who know.
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MYTH #1: In Valhalla, the Valkyries served mead, which poured in unending quantities from Odin’s goat, Heidrun. They also served the warriors meat from the boar Saehrimnir, which the cook Andhrimnir would prepare by boiling it in the cauldron Eldhrimnir. The boar magically came back to life to be eaten again at the next meal.
FACT: “Oh wow, I’d forgotten about that,” laughs former Valkyrie Hldissfrigg. “Some of the so-called warriors were actually getting squeamish about Andhrimnir slaughtering a pig every night—the squealing was really loud, I’ll admit—so Odin came up with this tall one about an immortal ‘magic boar,’ and half those moron grunts totally bought it. I mean, the pigs didn’t even look the same: one would have a big black spot, the next a little white one, or maybe he’d be pink instead of brown. It cracked us Valkyries up. I mean, if your boar was, in fact, magical—like maybe he could fly or pull a boat large enough to carry all the gods—would you really want to butcher, boil, and eat him over and over? Eventually you’re gonna have a pissed-off magic hog all up in your face.”
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MYTH #2: The son of Odin and a member of the Aesir, Thor was the god of thunder and the main enemy of the giants. He would smash their heads with his mighty hammer Mjollnir. To wield this awesome weapon he needed iron gloves and a belt of strength. Mjollnir would return to Thor’s hand after being thrown and was symbolic of lightning.
FACT: According to Heindall, who used to watch the Rainbow Bridge for the coming of the Frost Giants: “Well, his hammer was supposed to return to his hand after it was thrown, but that particular feature never really worked properly, and Thor wasted a lot of prime giant-killing time chasing the stupid thing up and down Middle Earth. I’ve heard some of the old-timers say Thor could have smashed the heads of about thirty or forty more giants, lifetime, if he only had a hammer with a decent return mechanism. I also asked him once about Mjollnir being symbolic of lightning and he rolled his eyes. ‘I had a college girl tell me she did her thesis on how it was supposed to be some kind of penis,’ he said. ‘Sometimes a hammer is just a frigging hammer.’ ”
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MYTH #3: Son of the giantess Rind, Valli was born for the sole purpose of avenging Baldur’s death, since the gods could not kill one of their own. When he was only one day old, he killed Hodur. He will be one of the seven Aesir to survive the Ragnarok.
FACT: “One day old? Are you shitting me? Who told you that?” asks Tyr, ex–god of war and the inspiration for Tuesday. “God, that’s hysterical. I mean, Hodur was blind, and maybe not the ripest grape on the vine, but he was Odin’s kid. I’m pretty sure he could have fended off a newborn baby. Anyway, Valli’d been out of junior college for at least six years when he killed Hodur. He dropped out, but he blew off one summer on a Eurorail pass, and waited tables down in Cabo for a while. He had to have been at least 23 or 24. Geez. One day old? That’s rich. When Loki hears that, he’ll piss his pants.”
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MYTH #4: Hljod and Volsung had ten sons, the eldest named Sigmund, and one daughter named Signy. Volsung had a palace built around the tree called Branstock so that the massive trunk grew inside the palace walls. At Signy’s wedding banquet, Odin arrived in his usual disguise—as an elderly man wearing a cape and hood. He stuck a sword in the tree and said that whichever man pulled out the sword could keep it. All tried but only Sigmund prevailed.
FACT: “In the first place, everyone knew it was Odin,” says Njord, a guest at the banquet who, at the time, was god of the wind and sea. “He was always walking around in these disguises, but it was so obvious, even when he wore a wig and tried to cover up that gnarly empty socket. I mean, a crazy old man with one eye crashes your wedding and wants to show you a sword trick?—who else is it going to be? Anyway, Odin was all like ‘Whosoever can pull this broadsword from the tree Branstock may possess it!’ but he was so weak he could barely shove it in there and the crappy old thing fell out by itself at least a half-dozen times. The blade was all rusted out and no one wanted it, so Sigmund said to me, ‘I’ll pull the dumb sword out and make Odin happy if you catch the garter. I hate all this wedding crap.’ ”
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MYTH #5: After Sigmund went into hiding, Signy exchanged shapes with a beautiful sorceress and went to her brother. The two slept together and Signy later had Sigmund’s son, Sinfjotli.
FACT: According to Signy, “For the last time, I DID NOT SLEEP WITH MY BROTHER! Gross! But even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t need to exchange shapes with any skank sorceress to do it. Sigmund was always trying to get me in bed. Lots of brothers and sisters were do
ing it back then because they thought the Ragnarok was coming, but I told him to go to Hel, so he keeps spreading this story that we knocked boots and he knows I won’t defend myself and reveal the name of Sinfjotli’s real father because the guy’s married and weighing a run for county assessor. Sigmund is such a cock.”
GOOFUS, GALLANT, RASHOMON
Jim Stallard
Ted, co-worker of Gallant:
That freak belonged to the cult of manners. Talk about a true believer. I rode on an airplane with him once, and he wouldn’t start eating his meal until everyone was served.
Sheila, Goofus’s high school classmate:
My memory of Goofus is that people saw what they wanted to. I was drawn to him because I sensed he was hurting inside. That’s why he put up that wall and was “rude,” but who’s to say which way is right? It’s just a social construct. Is there some cosmic, universal book of manners? I knew they’d find a way to make him pay, though. They always do.
Ronald, middle school classmate of both:
It was weird; they started at our school at the exact same time. Eighth grade. Everyone thought they were brothers, but it turns out their fathers were just transferred at the same time to the cereal plant in town. Gallant sits down in the front row and starts sucking up to Mr. Anderson, the English teacher. Volunteers for everything, like our literary journal, Chrysalis—all that gay stuff.
Shawn, high school classmate of Goofus:
Goofus—my god, what a bad-boy poseur. I could tell he had picked up his Nietzscheism from a comic book. He would talk about the “Will to Power.” But there was also some G. Gordon Liddy mixed in there. He loved doing the candle trick, moving his hand through the flame and pretending he didn’t mind the pain. Then I did the same thing with my finger, showing him how full of shit he was.
Natalie, Gallant’s high school friend:
Gallant was one of the few mature guys in our high school. Sensitive. We used to talk about James Taylor during lunch. I thought him the perfect gentleman, and of course my parents loved him. But when someone is polite to the point of having that Moonie quality, it gets to you. Finally it dawned on me that he used that politeness as a way of controlling me. That was what it was all about—he followed the rules because it gave him the advantage.
Alex, high school teacher of Goofus:
Goofus had a top-notch bullshit detector. Most teenagers think they have one, but his was the real thing, and I’m one of the few teachers who can relate to it. I introduced him to Kerouac, Bukowski, Burroughs. He acted enthusiastic about writing a paper in which they interacted. But it turned out to be seven pages of ... well, I was one of the characters in the scene, which was extremely graphic and not what we agreed on.
Paul, Gallant’s college acquaintance:
Gallant just didn’t get it when it came to relating to people. He would say words the “proper” way that no one normal ever does—you know, “Don’t act immatoor.” Always the authority. One night I’m walking to dinner with him and another student, a friend from England, and we’re ragging on each other—he’s calling me Yank and I’m calling him Limey. Gallant breaks in to inform us that “Limey” comes from the British navy, eating limes to avoid scurvy, blah, blah, blah. Gee, thanks Gallant. Dork.
Brandon, junior college classmate of Goofus:
Was Goofus a rebel? He sure liked to think so. He cultivated that tousled hair thing. He wouldn’t go out unless he thought it was prominent enough. I sat in his living room for forty-five minutes once waiting for him to sculpt it into the perfect unkempt shape. But that roughness was skin deep. I knew he’d be easy pickings in a real fight.
Dan, Gallant’s college acquaintance:
Gallant would walk into a party and suck all the air out of the room. He would pretend not to be disapproving but he always made a point of commenting on what you were drinking, or how many you had—“You must really like that kind of beer”—until you edged away.
Darlene, ex-wife of Goofus:
I thought I could change Goofus. Remember, I’m a town girl who’s never gone anywhere, and I was looking for some excitement. I had a lot to learn about men. With that electronic ankle bracelet, he couldn’t leave the house after dark, so it was always me doing the shopping and running last-minute errands. And through all that he was always talking about how oppressed he was. Try raising three kids when your husband won’t get off his ass.
Steve, Gallant’s college acquaintance:
Gallant’s attempts to seem cool were just painful. One time after making some incredibly lame joke he said, “I’m just breaking your balls,” and the rest of us almost died laughing.
Shane, Goofus’s army buddy:
Goofus loved Jack Daniel’s. And Yukon Jack. He always wanted to do snakebites even though I don’t think he liked them—just the name. He would do two and then switch to something else.
Brad, Gallant’s co-worker:
Gallant was the total company man. There’s not a buzzword he didn’t use to death. We’re at a strategy meeting one day and he actually says, “If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.” I had to avoid making eye contact with Tony, another co-worker, because I knew we would both lose it and get in trouble.
Reverend John Swafford, Gallant’s minister:
Gallant was a wonderful addition to our church. He always showed tremendous concern for the members, making inquiries and then letting me know which ones seemed to be having personal problems. If he had just had a little more concern for himself, things would not have turned out the way they did.
Harold, charity event organizer:
What happened was a disgrace. I put together nice events with the right kinds of people attending. I don’t need this kind of publicity.
David, Gallant’s co-worker:
I don’t really understand what pushed Gallant over the edge. Serving from the right rather than the left—who even pays attention to that stuff? Especially at a fund-raiser. I think Gallant must have been on something. There’s a side of him nobody knows. It’s weird how everything came full circle, though. It was fate Goofus got assigned to serve that table.
Dean, fellow waiter with Goofus:
Goofus told me in the kitchen he had a bad feeling about that night. It was weird because he’s not usually superstitious. I was still in there putting garnishes on the plates when I heard the altercation—I just thought someone was getting chewed out for dropping a tray.
David, deputy mayor:
I was at the next table. Everything is normal. The waiters are bringing the entrées out and whisking the salads away. Suddenly, this nice-looking man at their table explodes in rage. He screams out “Right is wrong!” several times at this poor server who’s looking at him in shock. Before anyone can move he puts one hand on top of the server’s head, the other on his jaw, and just snaps his neck, Delta Force style. Then he sat back down and put his napkin in his lap.
Evan, Gallant’s co-worker:
I was sitting across from Gallant. Goofus was baiting him—he was looking right at me with this smirk on his face while he set the plate down. Well, he got a reaction all right. I hope Goofus is happy wherever he is—where exactly do scum go when they die?
George, Gallant’s co-worker:
Wow—a life sentence. Normally I’d say Gallant won’t last a week on the inside. But I definitely can imagine him being very helpful to some inmate, if you get me.
Harold, cemetery custodian:
Goofus’s tombstone is not marked well and is hard to find, but the teenage kids have started making pilgrimages to it. They go there and get drunk and weepy. I find their beer cans and wine bottles along with flowers and notes saying stuff like “You spoke the truth and they killed you for it.” I’m thinking: You want to make him out to be your hero, go crazy, I don’t care. Just don’t leave your crap all over the ground for me to clean up. Didn’t anybody ever teach these kids manners?
NOT-GOOD TITLES FOR ROMANTIC FILMS
Tim Blair
&nb
sp; Bob & Carol & Ted & Orrin
Fists of Fondness
Breakfast at Shoney’s
Woman and Mandingo
Cat on a Hot Iron Grill
Lung Story
The Horse Renderer
Pretty Prostitute
Three Felonies and a Conviction
Elmo and I
It’s Congenital!
Limbless in Seattle
Depriving Miss Daisy
Filthy Dancing
The Man Who Kissed Liberty Valance
Look Who’s Shaking
Drugstore Cow
Romeo and Julio
BLACK, GRAY, GREEN, RED, BLUE: A LETTER FROM A FAMOUS PAINTER ON THE MOON
Ben Greenman
Dear Lucille Bogan,
Fifteen years ago, when I left the earth, I was just another struggling painter in New York City. My canvases were of two varieties: expressionistic black-and-gray cityscapes which often featured hunched figures collapsed inside oversized trench coats, and brightly colored nudes of you. One June day, I made up my mind to abandon the darker side of my nature and embrace what was good in the world. I came to your apartment and leaned on the buzzer. “Hello?” you said. “It’s me,” I said. We had dinner. We had dessert. We went to bed and drank a few glasses of red wine, after which I made my case for embracing what was good in the world. “You know what that means? For us?” I said. You seemed to. We went to sleep perpendicular to one another. Your head was on my chest. The next morning, when I woke up, I was on the moon. You were not. I cursed. I kicked a stone and it flew for what seemed like miles. Low gravity has its advantages. By noon, though, I had recovered my composure sufficiently to invent the style of painting that would bring me international—indeed, interplanetary—renown. It was brighter and more vivid, even, than the nudes. It exploded with color. Here on the moon that kind of thing was in great demand, and has continued to be.