gas out

In case you didn't know, Friday is supposed to be the day of the great American "gas out."

Friday is the day when drivers all across the country are supposed to boycott gasoline stations, according to a petition circulating on the Internet. Supposedly, by not buying gas, the American consumer public will send a clear message to oil companies -- and the oil-producing countries in the Middle East -- that the recent hikes in the price of gas are unacceptable.

Yeah. That'll work.

I heard about this undertaking through an e-mail a friend sent me. The message has been circulating nearly two months now and, given the nature of the Internet, probably will circulate in one form or another as long as there are people with e-mail.

The text runs something like this:

It's time we did something about the price of gasoline in America! We are all sick and tired of high prices when there are literally millions of gallons in storage.

Know what I found out? If there was just one day when no one purchased any gasoline, prices would drop drastically. ...

I have decided to see how many Americans we can get to not buy any gasoline on one particular day!

Let's have a gas out! Do not buy any gasoline on April 30, 1999! Buy on Thursday before, or Saturday after. Do not buy any gasoline on Friday, April 30, 1999.

After outlining this strategy, the author of the note asks for gullible readers like my friend to pass the letter on to as many people as possible, with the assurance that only a few million participants will be enough. After all, we can make a difference.

I rank this particular exploit right up there with tilting at windmills as a suitable pastime for Don Quixote. Much as I love the idea of the common person "sending a message" to the corporate world, I'm unconvinced that a boycott of this nature is going to have any real effect; moreover, it strikes me as incredibly immature.

It's quite possible the nameless author of this petition doesn't remember the mid-1970s. I was less than 10, but I remember some parts quite clearly. As I recall, the world supposedly was running out of oil then, and by the end of the century, so popular belief had it, all the fossil fuels would be gone.

We had strict rationing of gasoline based on the last number on our license plates. If your plate ended in an even number and you had an empty tank on an odd day of the month, you were out of luck. A few years earlier, when I was too young to remember, there were limits on how many gallons motorists could buy at one time.

Nowadays gas costs about $1 a gallon in Central Jersey, a little less in some places and a little more in others. I usually can fill my Cavalier for less than $15. I'll assume the author is from California, where a gallon of unleaded costs about $1.80, according to the Gas Out Web site. He still doesn't know how good he has it.

When I was in Haiti during the 1994 embargo, gasoline cost upward of $40 U.S. a gallon and had to be bought on the black market because it was being smuggled in from the Dominican Republic. Even in countries not currently under economic sanctions, gasoline can cost about $4 or $5 a gallon everyday.

So while I admire the idealism, however misplaced it has to be, I feel kind of sorry for people who are up in arms over a measly 20-cent gas hike. If they really want to send a message to the oil industry, they should buy a bicycle and ride that to work all summer instead.

It might even improve their health and the air quality.

scarred for life

Being a journalist has scarred me for life.

I entered the field as something of a last resort. When I started my first newspaper job, I had been out of college just over four years and already had gone through two teaching jobs and a host of other fulfilling occupations, including pizza delivery and gas station attendant.

I had enjoyed my stint on The Lafayette, the college newspaper where I had been an editor and columnist since my freshman year until I ran afoul of political correctness gone amok my senior year, and at the advice of a friend, I applied for a job in Somerville at the chain of weekly newspapers where he worked.

I worked there as an editor for 18 months, and if the journalism bug didn't get me, I was intrigued enough to apply for a job with The Packet Group and in November 1997, I discovered community journalism. No longer was I a plain and simple Joe; now, by stepping into a phone booth, I could become Clark Kent.

The job often lacks the excitement Hollywood gives it. On TV and in the movies, every episode details a fight against corrupt politicians, a Satan-worshipping board of education, and a cover-up so big that someone's bound to win a Pulitzer and make a mongo-huge book deal.

In the past three years, I've heard the magic phrase "Stop the presses!" only twice, and in neither case had they even started. And book deals on corruption? Don't make me laugh. (I never did investigate the possible occult entanglements of school boards, though.)

So much for "The Newspaper," where Michael Keaton and Glenn Close get into a fistfight over whether to stop the run or not. (I also learned my lesson from that scene, and ever since have never engaged in fisticuffs with my superiors. Glenn Close's line, "You are so fired," has as much power in reality as it does in a movie.)

But there was a rush to knowing that people counted on me in my reporter days for an unbiased account of what happened in their schools, in their municipal government, in their police department, and in their neighborhood.

"Check out last Tuesday's arrest sheet for the next town," a voice mail message told me, and sure enough, I found an arrest some people would rather have go unnoticed. "Someone tried to abduct a little boy yesterday," another person told me, and bam! another story.

Nothing gets the blood of a reporter racing like a news story to cover. One day a friend of mine and I were headed out of the office for a moment to get some cavities in a bottle. An ambulance zoomed up the side street and stopped behind our parking lot.

"I have to check this out," I told my friend, and raced back to the chain link fence behind our lot. Over the past 20 years, these fences have become a lot harder to climb, and I caught my foot on the top. I finally pulled free and made it down the other side of the fence, but my shoe decided to land on the parking lot.

On the next pass over, my pants leg caught on the wires that line the top of the fence. I hung there for a minute, scraping my hands on other wires, before I finally yanked it free, tearing a six-inch gash in my work pants.

I made it to the scene with both shoes, a torn pants, and a left hand that was bleeding profusely where I had cut it on the fence. At home that evening, I found I had another cut on my stomach and more scrapes on my legs. Months later, a quarter-inch white line remains on the palm of my hand where the fence cut it.

Journalism has scarred me for life. But I got my story.


Copyright 1999 by David Learn. Used with permission.

surviving easter

If I have to eat another ham sandwich, I'm going to throw a fit.

This past Easter Sunday was the first Easter my wife and I celebrated as a married couple. Last year, when we were only engaged, I think we observed the holiday by eating out at a restaurant, hanging out for a while, and finally heading back to our respective apartments, where we passed the rest of the day doing our individual things.

Not this year. This year, by gum, we're a family and I was determined to make sure we celebrated Easter properly. So on Holy Saturday, I paid a visit to the local supermarket to buy the proper ingredients for a Learn family Easter dinner.

It was about the time I pushed the shopping cart through the front door that I realized I had no idea what a proper Learn family Easter dinner involved. I don't know why that should be the case; I've been a member of the Learn family for 28 Easters, and all but five of them had been with my parents.

"Mashed potatoes," Natasha had told me before I left. "You have to have mashed potatoes."

I'm not sure why she thinks she's an expert on these matters; she's been a Learn for only 10 months. Still, in only 10 months I've learned that when Natasha uses that tone of voice, I have to listen. Natasha is only 4-foot-11, but she can make every inch count when she has to.

I picked up the potatoes in one aisle, bought some pork stuffing from another aisle, and found the perfect Easter ham in the back. ("I can't wait to hear how you plan to stuff a ham," one friend told me Sunday morning at church. Before I could tell her that that wasn't the point, Natasha cut in with, "He just likes to eat stuffing," and proceeded to embarrass me by recounting the time a box of stuffing was all I ate for dinner one night when I was a bachelor.)

Now I should mention that due to various circumstances, I have become the de facto househusband. I take our dirty clothes to the Laundromat every week, I wash the dishes after most meals, and more and more lately, I have been preparing the meals. I'm a liberated man of the 90s, and this is not a problem for my self-image.

The only problem is I don't know how to cook.

So it was that late Sunday afternoon, Natasha was talking to my parents about their Easter celebration. I walked into the study where she was and asked, "Honey, how do I glaze a ham?"

She told me, and when I still didn't get it, she made a mixture of mustard and brown sugar and glazed it for me. I popped the ham into the oven, peeled the potatoes and went back into the study where she was now talking with my brother Brian, who had just called.

"Honey, how do I make mashed potatoes?"

"Boil them!"

"How long?"

"Until they're done!"

(My brother later commented that it sounded like Natasha and I had been at any moment ready to file divorce papers over the mashed potatoes.)

Next it was, "Honey, how do I cook broccoli?"

"Steam it, or it'll lose its nutritional value," she said. (She really does talk like that, mind you. She's the only woman I've ever known to complain that she has a large surface area-to-volume ratio and that her glomerular filtration rate is higher than convenient.)

Of course, we have no bamboo steamer, despite the many TV ads I saw for them when I was a boy. I finally improvised a steamer by placing a colander of broccoli on top of a pot of boiling water.

By 8 p.m. - thank goodness for daylight-saving time - dinner was finished. We had a nicely done (if I do say so myself) box of stuffing; mashed potatoes with undercooked, unmashed pieces of potato mixed in for variety; mostly cooked broccoli and the ham.

All 10 pounds of it. For the two of us.

Did I mention that I'm sick of leftovers?

Piers Anthony: 'Volk'

If you're familiar with author Piers Anthony, it's probably through his works of fantasy, like "Ogre, Ogre."

Anthony is an established writer of science fiction and fantasy, particularly set in the fiction world of Xanth, based on Florida. But what do you do when you want to write something outside your standard genre? Anthony recently addressed this by self-publishing his new novel, "Volk," with a startup called Xlibris, that gives authors editorial control of their books and prints books on demand. Think of it as self-publishing without the investment in a run that depends entirely on your efforts to sell.

Anthony bills "Volk" as a politically incorrect novel of the forbidden love between a Nazi officer and the Quaker fiancee of his pre-war American friend. The book nicely brings out some of the ironies of WWII: that not all Nazis subscribed to their party's ideology, and that the Allies also engaged in practices as barbarous as the Nazis did.

Unfortunately, the novel does little more than play around with some of these ideas or the characters themselves. The storyline covers a six- or seven-year period, but little in the novel reflects that. The writing fails to engage the reader deeply, with the result that it's hard to care much when the Quaker heroine is captured by Nazis for smuggling Jews; neither can the reader properly appreciate her anguish at the compromises wartime forces on her.

The book also suffers from poor editing. Xlibris allows authors to circumvent the big publishing houses to get their books into print, but it apparently doesn't provide editing services. In the case of "Volk," Piers Anthony would have been better off hiring a freelance editor or giving the book a closer second read himself.

"Volk" is readable, but disappointing. Unless you're a tremendous fan of Anthony's writing, you're unlikely to finish Volk after you put it down.

Christmas vacation in Indiana

Here it is, the first day of the last year in the millennium. Well, not really, since the millennium technically ends Dec. 31, 2000, but no one's going to consider that next New Year's Eve.

As I write this, it's about 11 a.m. Friday on our last whole day in Indiana with my brother, sister-in-law and their son, Caleb. I'm sitting in the back room of their house in, freezing my fingers and my tucish.

Natasha and I arrived in Chicago, Ill. On Dec. 24 about 2:30 or so, nearly two hours later than we had been told we would. The plane had some mechanical difficulties in New Hampshire, and so it was a couple hours late picking us up.

The flight in was pretty uneventful; Natasha slept about an hour of the trip; I dozed for about half an hour, and then read Piers Anthony's "Volk," a book of historical fiction set in Europe during World War II.

I'm kind of disappointed in it, and regret buying a copy for Popper for Christmas, since I doubt he'll enjoy it any more than I have. The book details a triad of relationships among a pilot in the Royal Air Force, his Quaker fiancee and his German college buddy, who also happens to be a Nazi without buying into some of the party's more monstrous beliefs and practices. He's anti-Semitic, but not nearly as much as his cohorts in the Nazi party.

So in that sense, it's interesting, because it breaks some of the stereotypes we have of different groups; the Nazis weren't all evil (some, such as Oskar Schindler, tried save Jews from the death camps) and the Allies had a few dark secrets of their own that history books usually gloss over, like the concentration camps we put the Japanese in for the duration of the war.

Anthony also gives a lot of detail to the aviation battles. You can tell he researched the combat techniques and understands the aviation machinery of the time, and that he has some familiarity with how the Quakers run their rescue missions. (He was raised a Quaker himself).

All the same, I'm disappointed. While those things are good and lend the book some believability, and it's interesting to see the way he incorporates actual battles like Dunkirk into the plot, there's too much that's lacking. He hints at espionage and turncoats, spies and machinations, he never really does anything with it, at least as far as I've read so far. If I don't read the book today, or tomorrow on the flight home, I probably will never finish it.

Anyway, Rhonda and Caleb were waiting for us at the airport and brought us here to Indiana, where we've had a whopping good time. We went to a late-night service Christmas Eve at a nearby Methodist church, since Ward and Rhonda's own church didn't have a midnight service. (They did have a Christmas morning service that we skipped.)

I don't remember much of the service. The organist played the Christmas hymns too slowly for my taste, and they had a choral cantata that probably was decent if you're into those things. I did a little writing on the back of the church bulletin that turned out decently, about the magi and their expectations when they followed the Star of Bethlehem.

After the service ended, we came back home and put Caleb to bed before we got all the presents out. Rhonda's preference is to sort the presents by person so each person gets to be in the spotlight for a while. That was different than we did it as children, but it worked well. Ward and Rhonda had bought so many presents we actually had to make two trips to a neighbor's house, where they had stashed gifts for Caleb, including a 24-inch 18-speed mountain bike that he has ridden nearly every day since.

I'm not sure what Caleb makes of Santa Claus. He's at the age I think he knows something is up, but he still wants to believe that Santa is for real. At any rate, he came out of room around 11 p.m. and nearly caught us in the act of putting Santa presents under the tree.

Apparently, the lad woke up at 3:30 Christmas morning. Ward and Rhonda were able to keep him down for a while, but finally at 5 a.m., we all got up and opened our gifts. It was nice to see Caleb so excited about the gifts he received, and there were a lot of them, but I still decided that when Nastasha and I have children and they wake up early for Christmas, I'm going to have them call Uncle Ward and talk with him before anyone gets up.

Caleb has enjoyed a lot of the presents he got, such as the mountain bike, apparently the only thing he asked Santa for. But Herb, Caleb's Uncle Dutch, got him a functional children's tool set that includes a router, drill press, table saw and a few other items. Caleb played with that like mad on Christmas the next couple days. He's been busy the past two days with a tornado-maker Ward and Rhonda bought him at a science museum in Chicago. Attached to two two-liter bottles, the device's inside spirals so that water pouring from the upper bottle starts to swirl as it enters the lower bottle, with the result that it can create some impressive-looking whirlpools.

Caleb's a pretty cool kid. I'm impressed with how well-balanced he is, considering he's changed homes four times, twice after leaving homes where he was firmly entrenched. He seems to hold a few things inside at times, but he's outgoing and acts a lot like any other child his age. He emulates Ward, which has been fascinating to watch. And Wardloves Caleb so much you never would be able to tell from his behavior that Caleb isn't Ward's biological son.

It's been a tremendous visit in many ways since I've had a chance to see a whole new side of Ward (and Rhonda) that I never saw before. Fatherhood suits him; I hope I live up to the role as well as he is.

Caleb seems to like me too; we've gone out and done a couple things ourselves when Ward was at work and wasn't available. We went biking together on Saturday, and on Sunday, he went with me in Ward's truck to get some things from the store, including a "Prince of Egypt" soundtrack I bought at Kmart. We've been roughhousing a bit together too, mostly good, old-fashioned rassling in the living room, although we've also done some funky weird dances to "Through Heaven's Eyes," a danceable song by Jethro, high priest of Midian, in Prince of Egypt.

I'm taking it easy today since Caleb starts school on Monday and Ward and Rhonda want him to have wound down for that.

Oh yeah. Caleb also got a present that's been used more by Natasha so far than by Caleb. Ward and Rhonda gave him a virtual dog that he named Dips and Rhonda mistyped as Dipsa. Natasha has not left Dipsa's side since then, or the other way around. She even took Dipsa to Michigan City with us when we visited the Yeohs.

The other day I picked up the thing to see what the fascination was, started pressing buttons and was pretty impressed with myself for figuring out how to feed Dipsa dog biscuits and comb and pet him. After a few more buttons, Dipsa's name flashed up on the screen, and then again and again. So I asked Natasha why, and she nearly went ballistic. It turns out I had been yelling at the dog, and ruined its state of near-total happiness that she had been building up all day.

Anyway, we've been here in Indiana all week, and plan to leave tomorrow if the snow doesn't block us in. Ward said there's about a foot coming in tonight. That could delay our departure, and could by extension cause problems with my attending the reorganization meeting in Princeton Township on Sunday, which reminds me that I need to call Michelle and make sure she needs me to cover that.

'A /nightmare on Sesame Street'

"A Nightmare on Sesame Street"
Directed by Clive Barker
Special Guest Star Stephen King

Scene 1

[The scene begins with Big Bird surrounded by the various human characters of Sesame Street, who are offering various condolences.]

Big Bird: But I don't understand. Why did Snufflufagus have to leave?

Maria: It was just his time, Big Bird, that's all. I'm sure Mister Snufflufagus is happier now.

Big Bird: Did I do something wrong? Didn't he like it here with me?

Maria: Of course he did. You were his best friend. But when we die, Big Bird, we have to go away, whether we want to or not. There was nothing that Snufflufagus could do.

Big Bird: Then I'll wait for him. Snufflufagus was my friend. I won't leave him. He'll come back for me.

Bob (cutting in): People don't come back from death, Big Bird. It's like when Mr. Hooper died. He hasn't come back.

[Oscar the Grouch appears from inside his trash can.]

Oscar: Well, look-ee here! Why all the glum faces? You're still not all upset about the recent... departure... of that overgrown hairy elephant friend of yours, are you?

[Big Bird looks away, pained]

Bob: Oscar, I think that now is a really bad time to...

Oscar: And now you've gone and brought up another blast from the past. But Mr. Hooper never had a chance to come back. He didn't have the same friends that Mister Snufflufagus and I do!
[Oscar leans way out of his garbage can, craning his neck to look at Big Bird.]
Your pal Snuffy will be back, Big Bird, I guarantee it! We have a VERY powerful friend, and he'll bring your precious Snufflupagus back.

Big Bird (wiping at his beak): Really, Oscar? But when? When will Mister Snufflufagus be back?

Maria: Oscar, this is a HORRIBLE thing for you to do to Big Bird! His best friend is gone! How can you talk like that to him?

Oscar: Aw, you just don't understand, Maria. My friend just borrowed Snufflufagus for a short while, but ol' Snuffy will be back, Big Bird, just you wait. Heh-heh-heh. Just you wait.

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Scene 2

[Guest star Stephen King is sitting at a typewriter, writing a book, speaking the words out loud as he types. Big Bird comes in behind him and stands quietly.]

King: "Almost ... everyone ... thought ... the ... man ... and ... the ... boy ... were ... father ... and ... son." Oh, hello, Big Bird. How are you doing?

Big Bird: I'm all right, I guess, Mr. King. I was just at Mister Snufflufagus's funeral.

King: I was sorry to hear he died, Big Bird. My children and I all loved Snufflufagus an awful lot.

Big Bird: Me too. (Pause) Mr. King, Maria and Bob say Snufflufagus won't be coming back, but Oscar the Grouch says he'll be returning tonight. Do people really return from being dead?

King: (looks perplexed by the question) I really don't know, Big Bird. People believe all sorts of things about death. In Egypt, they used to believe the pharaohs would come to life again, which is why they made mummies out of them.

Big Bird: Do mummies come back to life?

King: Maybe. In other places, like Haiti, they believe in creatures called zombies. They're people who died but are magically revived.

Big Bird: But what about Snufflufagus? Will he come back to life? I miss him.

King: I don't know, Big Bird. To be honest, no one I've ever known has come back to life. But we'll have to wait and see.

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Scene 3

Animation: A big blue V appears and then melts and changes colors to the
following words, all accompanied by voice-overs and light background music.
V
Valley
Vagrant
Vane
Valentine
Veil
Varnish
Victoria (a little girl with red hair)
Vampire (a picture of the Count)
V

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Scene 4

Big Bird [Nervously excited]: Is he coming, Oscar? You said Snufflufagus would be coming back soon.

Oscar [looking around, pleased]: He's almost here, Big Bird. He just had to cross the threshold first.

[A light fog begins to roll in. In the distance, we hear a low groan, like the one that Snufflufagus is known for.]

Big Bird (tilts his head): Did you hear something, Oscar?

Oscar: Heh heh heh. He's coming, Big Bird! I told you my friend would bring him back!

[The fog deepens. There is another groan, louder this time.]

Big Bird [Timidly]: Snufflufagus--is that you?

[The fog is now up past Big Bird's waist. We can barely see the outline of Oscar's trash can.]

Oscar (loudly): Snufflufagus! Has the master sent you?

Snufflufagus: (now becoming visible) He has. Big Bird, my friend, where are you?

Big Bird (hopefully): Here I am, Snufflufagus. Over here! What happened, Snuffy? They told me you had gone away and weren't coming back!

Snufflufagus: I'm sorry, Bird. It wasn't my choice. But things are better now. There is a lot that Bob and Maria do not know. Come closer, and I will show you.

[Big Bird shuffles forward, and we see Snufflufagus raise his trunk to embrace Big Bird. Suddenly there is a frightened squawk, and Oscar laughs crazily, right before we cut to--]

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Scene 5

[Kermit is plucking at the mandolin and singing the opening verse to "The Monster Mash." As the song continues, he is joined in order by Elmo, Telly, Cookie Monster, Max, and Grover. Halfway through the song, Elmo exits for no apparent reason. Last of all to appear is the Count, who sings the last two lines solo:]

For you the living, my dance was meant too;
When you get to my house, tell them Big Bird sent you!
Ah-ah-ah-ah!

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Scene 6

[Bert and Ernie are at their house. As they talk, Ernie is making the rounds of the room, hanging up garlic at first the window and then the door to their bedroom.]

Bert: What are you doing, Ernie?

Ernie: I'm putting up garlic, Bert.

Bert [slowly]: Ernie, do you have any idea how expensive garlic is? Why are you wasting it as a decoration?

Ernie: It's not a decoration, Bert. It's PROTECTION.

Bert: Don't be ridiculous, Ernie! Protection from what? Good smells? Paper clip vandals? Our neighbors?

Ernie: It's protection from vampires, Bert! Mr. King told me earlier today that vampires can't enter a house with garlic around the doors and windows.

Bert: Don't be ridiculous, Ernie. There is no such thing as a vampire.

Ernie: I'll bet that's what Big Bird thought, Bert. And Elmo too! But now they're both (pause) Well, I heard Maria say they had small holes in their throats.

Bert: (getting steadily more exasperated) Then they were bitten by an animal, Ernie. No one believes in vampires anymore.

Ernie: That's probably why Big Bird and Elmo are dead, Bert. [Ernie finishes hanging the garlic around the bedroom door, but he still has a bunch in his hand.] There.

Bert: Will you stop being so ridiculous, Ernie? There are no vampires!

[Bert rips down the garland Ernie had hung over the bedroom window, startling his friend. Suddenly from outside comes the sound of squawking, fluttering pigeons.]

Bert: What's that? What's the noise?

Ernie (spooked): Bert, maybe you --we -- should --

Bert (approaching window): Matilda? Bernice? My pigeons? Is that you? Is something wrong?

[Bert leans closer towards the window, trying to peer through and see what is wrong with his pigeons. Suddenly he screams and jumps back. But before he can flee the room, a large wolf smashes through the glass, knocks Bert to the ground, then howls madly into the air. As the stuffing begins to fly, Ernie
clutches the garlic to his chest and holds out a large wooden crucifix in the direction of the wolf.]

Ernie: Bert! No! Bert!

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Scene 7

[Some random purple Muppet with black hair is dressed up like Elvis in a white outfit with silver trim, a cape and black shades. Behind him is a black curtain with the number 13 emblazoned in dark red numerals. He sings, accompanied by other nondescript Muppets on various instruments.]

Thirteen
Is such a lovely number
Thirteen
Everything else is such a bummer
Except thirteen.

One is too lonely for fun
Two is company,
Good for playing with a buddy
Three is a crowd; this music's too loud.

But thirteen
Is such a lovely number
Thirteen
Everything else is such a bummer
Except thirteen.

Four, you need to lock the door
Five you won't get out alive
Get to six and grab a crucifix
So that seven will get you into heaven

But thirteen
Is such a lovely number
Thirteen
Everything else is such a bummer
Except thirteen.

Eight? Man, it's getting late.
Nine and we're almost out of time.
Ten we're in a jackal's den
Eleven, twelve? Put 'em on the shelf.

But thirteen
Is such a lovely number
Thirteen
Everything else is such a bummer
Except thirteen.

All hail our lord and master, Satan.

[Close-up on the purple Elvis, and now we see that he has protruding canines.]

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Scene 8

Stock footage from various horror flicks, accompanied by lighthearted, upbeat music.

Girl: (v/o) Mommy, where do vampires comes from?

Pictures of Bela Lugosi and other Draculas from film (Nosferatu, etc.) as they walk the night, summoning bats, wolves and fog, et cetera, interspersed with various happy scenes, like flowers in the sun, and pictures of vampires feeding on living prey. Finally close on a coffin, as from an old Hammer film. Long fingers appear from the underside of the coffin lid, and it begins to open as the vampire emerges from its slumber, blood streaking its chin. It grins cheerfully, eyes alight, welcoming, as the song ends on a pleasant note.

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Scene 9

[Kermit the Frog is standing outside on Sesame Street in his reporter's garb, holding a mike.]

Kermit: This is Kermit D. Frog, live with Sesame Street news. Something strange is happening here on Sesame Street, the likes of which have never been seen before. Here comes someone now! Excuse me, sir, could you--

Passerby: Out of my way, you fascist media punk.

Kermit: (under his breath) Jerk. Excuse me, I'm from Sesame Street --

Passerby: Get that microphone out of my face!

[Second passerby pushes Kermit down.]

Kermit: Asshole. (gets back up) Excuse me, I'm a reporter with -- AIGH!

[The third person picks Kermit up and throws him into a bunch of garbage cans.]

Kermit: I knew I should have stayed on The Muppet Show. At least I got some movie gigs there.

Oscar the Grouch: (pops from can) All right, all right, what's all the commotion here? Hey! Aren't you that reporter person?

Kermit: Yes, I'm trying to do a spot piece on the recent rash of killings here on Sesame Street.

Oscar: Well isn't that funny! [He leans back and yells down into his garbage can.] Right, Slimey? Isn't that funny? [He leans over to Kermit and says, a little conspiratorially.] It just so happens I know who's been doing them.

Kermit: You do?

Oscar: Of course I do. It's long overdue. You've all put me down for so long, making me live in this smelly old trash can and making fun of my junk collection. But now, well, Oscar has some powerful friends who are going to put things right!

[As he talks, a long striped worm slips from the can and slithers around Oscar's neck. As it does so, Oscar unconsciously pets it. The entire scene is very unsettling. Slimy thpps out a forked tongue as Kermit watches, engrossed.]

Kermit [finally]: Um, Oscar, I thought you wanted to live in that can.

Oscar: Oh, you're a regular comedian, aren't you? Everyone's got to be a comedian. Well, my master is going to put it all to rights. And he's already taught me so much. So laugh about THAT, frogface!

Kermit: Taught you? What has your master taught you, Oscar?

Oscar: It's all in the blood, Kermit, everything. How do people live? By eating things that were once alive. They consume the life of smaller creatures, and it stretches out their lifespans.

Kermit: Um, that's very interesting, Oscar ...

Oscar: But think what would happen if they ate LIVE things, Kermit. The life force would be that much stronger. What things do you eat?

Kermit: Me? Um, flies mostly, I guess.

Oscar: And they're alive, aren't they? And how old are you? And how much have you aged? You still look the same age as when we first went on the air. Maria and Bob both look older. Mr. Hooper died. But because you eat living things, you've barely aged at all!

Kermit: Um ... I thought it was because I was made of felt and came with a dozen spares.

Oscar: Now suppose you drank the blood of something larger than yourself, Kermit. You'd swallow its life force and live that much longer, wouldn't you? Now, suppose you drank the blood of something like... Mister Snufflufagus?

Kermit: (shocked) O-Oscar, did you -- ?

Oscar (rolls his eyes): Of course not! Don't be an idiot. The MASTER did that. And then Snufflufagus took Big Bird. And then the master took Elmo, whose life was so strong and ticklishly vibrant. And then he took Bert too.

Kermit: You--You're mad, Oscar! Mad!

Oscar: (begins to laugh) Is that what you think? Did you hear that, Slimy? The frog thinks I'm mad! Heh heh heh! Well, Kermit, the master will set you straight! You'll learn! You'll ALL learn!

Slimy: [Thhhp]

[As Oscar's laughter crescendos, Kermit runs away in terror.]

------------------------------------------------------
Scene 10

[Stephen King, Cookie Monster, Kermit the Frog and Grover are all assembled.]

Kermit: ... and that's what he said has been going on.

Grover: That's horrible! Who could do such a thing?

Cookie Monster: Uh-oh. Me have idea.

King: Are you thinking of whom I'm thinking of, Cookie Monster?

Cookie Monster: Me not know what you thinking of.

King: (slowly) Oscar described the basic practices of a vampire. Do you know any vampires on Sesame Street?

Cookie Monster: Me thinking same thing Mr. King was thinking.

[There is a long pause.]

Grover: No! That is silly. The Count just likes to count things. He does not do these things.

Kermit: He's always been so friendly, Mr. King.

King: He might be friendly, Kermit, but he's a vampire. And it's a vampire's nature to drink blood.

Kermit (finally): So what if it's true, then? What can we do about it?

Cookie Monster: Me not know. How you stop vampires, Mr. King?

King: There are a few ways. Direct sunlight is always best, since that burns their bodies to dust.

Grover: But it's getting dark already! How can we get them out into the sunlight?

King: There's also another possibility, Grover. You can put stakes through their hearts.

[The three Muppets recoil at the thought.]

Cookie Monster: Me not like steak, Mr. King. Me like cookies.

King: Not a steak you eat, Cookie Monster. A wooden stake -- like this one. (Produces a stake) If you pound it through the vampire's heart, it should kill him instantly.

Kermit (eyes King, then the stake, then King again): Um... Will you come with us, Mr. King?

King (shrugs): I can give you a lift to the Count's castle, Kermit, but that's it. My wife wants me back in time for dinner, and vampires are scary.

Cookie Monster: Oh! Me like dinner. Especially if dinner is cookies.

------------------------------------------------------
Scene 11

Animation: Stephen King, Cookie Monster, Kermit and Grover are all in a car. While the animation plays, the car moves forward through woods haunted by ghosts and werewolves, and we hear a song. Tune is "We Three Kings."

Stephen King and we three are
Driving through dark forest afar
To a castle near Newcastle
Where await certain scares.

Oh-oh! Evil incarnate, fiend most foul!
Form of mist or wolf on prowl.
Ever-hunting, bringing many
To a fate much worse than death.

There a vampire fattened on gloom
Waits to seal our final doom
Cross and garlic, stake and mallet,
We take with us to the tomb.

Oh-oh! Evil incarnate, fiend most foul!
Form of mist or wolf on prowl.
Ever-hunting, bringing many
To a fate much worse than death.

Meet him there we fear we must do
Fight to the death in night's dark dew
Till the sunrise in the east fries
Him and his evil brood.

------------------------------------------------------
Scene 12

[Kermit, Grover and Cookie Monster stand in the massive foyer of a large hall. They are huddled close together, each facing a different direction and holding out their crucifixes.]

Grover: Hel-lo! Is anybody home?

Kermit (eyes bulging): Are you crazy, Grover? Do you want him to know we're here?

Count: (v/o, very loud) One! Ahaha! Two! Ahaha! Three! Three lovely victims!

Cookie Monster: Count! Me abjure you by all things holy, come out so me can see you!

[Fog begins to fill the room, thick, enveloping fog that looks like it could choke a horse. Near an old grandfather clock appears a large avian shape.]

Grover: Big Bird?

Big Bird: Come here, Grover, and we can play together.

Kermit: No, Grover, don't! It's a trick!

Big Bird: A trick? [Big Bird sounds sad.] Would I ever lie to you, Grover?

Grover (shaky): No, Big Bird never lied to friends.

Big Bird: And I am your friend, Grover. Come closer, and we can be together forever.

Kermit: Grover, don't believe it. Big Bird is dead.

[There is a low mooing sound.]

Lulu the Cow: Cookie Monster, come eat my cookies. I have them for you-oo-oo, they're all chocolate chip. I know you-oo-oo love chocolate chip cookies.

Cookie Monster: (eyes going crazy) No, me love chocolate chip cookies, but you no love me. You want to suck Cookie Monster's blood!

Miss Piggy: (appears from mist) Hello, Kermie.

Kermit: No! You're not Miss Piggy!

Big Bird: Come play with me!

Lulu: They're fresh from the oven!

Miss Piggy: Our children are waiting for you, Kermit. Come join us!

[There is a long pause as the trio tries to resist, but they cannot. Each one breaks rank, running to join his vampire seducer.]

Grover: Oh boy! What shall we play first, Big Bird?

Cookie Monster: Me love cookies! Me eat this one first!

Kermit: Oh Piggy!

[Suddenly there are three blood-curling shrieks, and Big Bird, Lulu and Miss Piggy all fall to the ground, screaming the agonies of the damned.]

Grover: What is the matter, Big Bird?

Kermit (with sudden brilliance): The crosses--they can't bear the crosses!

Cookie Monster: Oh boy! Chocolate CHOCOLATE chip! That is Cookie Monster's favorite!

[Kermit draws out his mallet and a wooden stake, which he positions over Miss Piggy's heart.]

Kermit: Forgive me, Miss Piggy. To death -- in peace.

[He slams the mallet down hard on the stake, ramming it through Miss Piggy's heart. A trickle of blood slips from the corner of her mouth.]

Miss Piggy: (sweetly) Oh, Kermie ...

Kermit: (choked up) In peace forevermore.

[Realizing the truth, a sobbing Grover finishes off Big Bird with his stake.]

Cookie Monster: Oh boy! Oreo cookies! These also are Cookie Monster's favorite.

[He puts the cross down on Lulu absently to get the cookies with both hands, and doesn't notice when she bursts into flames with a hellish moo of agony. Then there is silence, except for Cookie Monster's eating, and in that quiet we hear Kermit sobbing quietly to himself over the dust of Miss Piggy. Grover shuffles over and slings his arm across the frog's shoulder.]

[None of them notice a bat circling overhead.]

Grover: I am sorry, Kermit. It was all you could do. It was a mercy to them.

[Suddenly the bat stops near Cookie Monster and morphs into the Count. He grabs the preoccupied Muppet by the scruff and flings him across the room. Cookie Monster smashes into a wall and then slides down its length, trailing blue fur, peppered by cookie crumbs.]

Count: One! Ahaha!

[The count rips up a huge flagstone and flings it at Grover, smashing him flat beneath its weight, leaving only one blue furry hand visible.]

Count: Two! Ahaha!

[At the sight, Kermit drops his cross and falls to his knees, hands behind his back. He shakes violently. When he finally speaks, his voice is filled with terror.]

Kermit: No, Count, please. Please don't kill me.

Count (pondering, then...): No, my frog. You shall join me instead.

Kermit: Yes! Join you! Thank you!

[The Count comes close, preparing to bite Kermit's neck, when the frog suddenly brings up his arms. In one smooth motion, he slams the stake onto the Count's chest, then drives it into his heart with one hard blow.]

Kermit: I'll join you in hell!

[Both stare at each other for a long moment, the Count with a puzzled look on his face, as if he does not understand what has happened. Then the confusion resolves into resigned sadness.]

Count (hoarsely): One. [cough] One dead vampire.

[With a final sniffle, the Count bursts into white flames. In seconds, he is burnt to ash, which scatters across the floor of the room. Kermit falls to the floor, shaking. A group of various Muppets, led by Snufflufagus, arrive on the scene and perform Michael Jackson's "Thriller."]

[As the song finally ends, the screen fades to black.]

------------------------------------------------------
Scene 13

[We now cut to Kermit, who is waking up in a hospital bed while Bob and Maria wait by his side. Bob is wearing a festive green- and red-striped sweater.]

Kermit: What? Is it really you? Was it all a dream?

Maria: Oh thank goodness you're awake, Kermit. We were worried, you were so sick.

Kermit: I had the scariest dream, Maria. I thought the Count had turned everyone on Sesame Street into vampires.

[Bob and Maria turn to look at each other, smiling.]

Maria: Oh, don't be silly, Kermit. Why would he do that?

[As she speaks, the full moon peaks through the window. When the light hits Maria, she contorts as if in agony. She sprouts fur and begins howling like a wolf as Kermit shrinks back in his bed. With one final eerie cry, she crashes through the window, disappearing into the night.]

Bob (shaking his head and sighing): This place is going to the dogs.

[Although still distinctly Bob's, the voice now sounds like churning gravel. Kermit cowers in terror. When Bob turns back to face the frog, his face is now covered with hideous burn scars. And when he lifts his right hand and wiggles his fingers, the razor blades attached to his leather glove tinkle merrily in the moonlight.]

Bob [cruelly]: All right, froggie. About time for you to croak.

[Bob leans way over the bed, his sweater blocking the camera as Kermit begins to shriek. Only undulating green and red stripes can be seen as the background music begins to roll.]

Oscar's voice (v/o): Sesame Street is a production of the Children's Television Workshop. Today's show has been brought to you by the letters E, V,
I and L, and by the Number 13.

Come on, Slimy! We've got another crate to deliver!

Weekend Vampires: larping in Central Jersey

"Why have you come here?" Osrich asked me. He was the third one so far to ask me that.

"I've come for the gathering," I said as smoothly as I could. It had worked so far.

Osrich regarded me closely for a moment, and then said, "Do you realize what sort of gathering this is, David? You are in great danger by being here."

Well, so much for going undetected, I thought, and proceeded with my scheme: As an ambitious member of the press, I was willing to cut a deal. In exchange for exclusive information about the political scene in New Jersey, I would help Osrich and his fellow vampires to keep their activities secret.

The offer seemed to appeal to Osrich, who assured me we would work something out that night and extended me his protection. The next vampire to notice I was a mortal was not so inclined to care for me, my offers or my well-being. (Nor, as I would shortly find, was Osrich.)

"Are you breathing?" were Dr. Roberts' exact words.

Before I knew what had happened, this local author and TV personality was talking to one person after another, and pointing at me in a decidedly unfriendly way.

By the end of the night, I was running for my life. No one ever saw me again.

At least, not as that character.

I wasn't taking part in a murder mystery dinner where I was the main course. Nor was I taking part in an innovative theatrical performance where audience and actors alike are swept up into a prewritten plot. Although each comes close, the truth is I was taking part in a live-action role-playing game, commonly know as a larp. This particular larp was put on by Cranford-based Nightmare Productions and was based on gaming company White Wolfs role-playing game Vampire: The Masquerade.

The essential premise to the game is that vampires exist and live among us, disguised as ordinary human beings. (The night person you know and that woman who works third shin might actually be vampires.) And, unlike the vampires of movies, real vampires cast shadows and reflections, can cross moving water and can't be affected by holy objects unless they believe they can. (Tbe popular Hollywood image of vampires is one they themselves have perpetuated to make us disbelieve their existence.)

"[A larp is] perhaps the next evolution in role-playing," said Ken Cliffe, vice president of games, editing and developing for White Wolf. "If you're a traditional tabletop role-player and you feel you can't portray your character to the fullest, this allows you to go the extra step."

Daniel Ravipinto, a college student from Berkeley Heights, first became involved in larps in 1995 when he was reading a newsgroup on the Internet about Vampire: The Masquerade. After corresponding with a member of a New York City larp, Ravipinto agreed to give it a try.

Ravipinto says the furl began when his friend, whom he had never met in person before, stepped out of her car, greeted him by his character's name and began talking like they were old friends -which, of course, their characters were.

"At that moment, I realized I had stepped over into something I had never been a part of," he said. "We just slipped into the characters. There was a moment there when reality and fantasy blurred. You're given a character and a motivation, but beyond that, everything is left up to the individual."

Larp players get a variety of reactions to their hobby, ranging from interest and surprise to sometimes even concern.

"The reactions when I mention this to people or when it comes up in conversation [are] pretty interesting: 'I never thought you would do this.' It shows how odd people think this is," said Ravipinto.

And when nonplayers come upon the action, locale makes a big difference in shaping their reactions to the event, In New York, no one paid much attention to the pale-skinned, sharp-toothed players.

"In Colorado, they stare at you and they keep staring," said Ravipinto, who played there last summer.

Since his initiation into larps in 1995, Ravipinto has been to about 10 different gaming sessions in New York and Colorado, and expects to play again when his schedule allows him.

"It's definitely the fun of being what you're not," he said. "It's Halloween for adults."

Ravipinto also connected larps with the ancient customs of storytelling. In older times, a clan would sit and listen to a bard sing epics about their heroes and gods, . In our own society, parents still read children bedtime stories, but there is little family-centeredness surrounding reading or telling stories.

'Role-playing may be a way to recapture that. Whether it's a play or interactive fiction, it's storytelling on an interactive level," he said.

"There's a social aspect to it, certainly," he added. "It's sort of almost an excuse to get together and interact with other people, especially in a society like today where we're supposedly connecting with other people but we're really distant from one another."

While vampire larps are easily the most common, they are far from the only kind of larp played. An organization called NERO sponsors medieval larps, and a Montclair organization called Lyonesse Games holds larps based on White Wolf's role-playing game centered around changelings, the children of faeries.

"We tried it as an experiment, because it's not the most popular White Wolf game," said storyteller Eric Logan. "We thought we could offer people an alternative, something more fun. We decided that we wanted to run a chronicle where all the characters were playing childlings. That's what some people game for anyway ... It's a big game of' Let's pretend' with rules."

In Lyonesse Games' larp, the characters realize they are faeries when they undergo a "chrysalis." As the game progresses, the individual changelings remember more of who they were through occasional glimpses into Arcadia, where they came from. At this point in the larp's chronology, each game is assumed to take place a year after the previous one; once the characters become teenagers, however, game time will resemble real time more closely.

"The whole idea of the larp is so players can feel time slipping away on them," said Logan. "Childhood goes so quick, but then you're a teenager forever ...The whole idea of the chronicle will be eventually for the character [to] grow old and die."

Lyonesse runs the only changeling larp in New Jersey, and one of only two on the East Coast While that exclusivity does grant it some measure of success, the larp has run into some setbacks lately. Two of its most recent larps happened to fall on the same date as vampire larps, forcing the organization to find a new place to play. Although a player has offered the use of his house for the larp, Lyonesse now faces losing one of its members to the Peace Corps.

"It's always been our biggest rule this game will never interfere with our real lives," said Logan. "We feel our lives are much more important than any game. It's a hobby."

Despite these setbacks, Logan is confident the larp will take off because of what he perceives as a need for more creative entertainment than most people can find.

"For the price of dinner and a movie, where you go out and are passively entertained, you can go to a larp," he said. "We believe that larping stimulates your mind; you get a chance to roleplay."

Besides Nightmare Productions, Central Jersey is also host to Capitol Chronicles, a vampire larp set in Washington, D.C., complete with vampires portraying political figures.

"What better place for intrigue and subterfuge than the nation's capital?" asked Nick Stember, whose wife, Maritza, is the larp's founder. Although Capitol Chronicles has only met four times, its larp Saturday attracted 85 players, a success Maritza Stember attributes to the larp's three-tiered approach to role-playing. Events might have a citywide story, such as an invasion of garou (werewolves); a clan-oriented story, in which the clan as a whole has an objective to achieve; and the individual level, shaped by individual players.

Capitol Chronicles also encourages players to keep their characters' humanity rather than playing them as soulless blood-sucking monsters. Players have taken to this approach with gusto. At Saturday's event, two of the vampires were married, and a third, a jealous suitor, tried to disrupt the process.

"That was not a plot that we created. That was not a plot we had any control over. It was a player-driven plot, " said Maritza.

"I'd say that's another thing that makes us a little different from the rest of the larps," she said. "We permit our vampires to experience those emotions."

At my second larp, I played a Malkavian, a vampire suffering from a form of insanity. In my character's case, it was multiple personalities. At times, I was bullying and full of myself At others, I was paranoid, fearful of a vast worldwide conspiracy by "The Six-Fingered Hand" to destroy me. When neither of those was dominant, I was a 4-year-old boy looking for his mommy and throwing a temper tantrum when he couldn't get his way.

I was insane. I was Rhadamanthus, Binkley and Tommy. I was having a thrill.

"We believe there's a big future in larping," said Logan.

Count on it.

Crime in Cabot Cove: 'Murder, She Wrote,' reconsidered

My brother and I recently had a discussion about Larry Niven's Known Space books that somehow meandered its way into the teevee show "Murder, She Wrote."  

Don't ask me how we managed that transition. I can't see any connection between the Ringworld and Jessica Fletcher, though I must admit that the thought of a few kzinti running around Cabot Cove is one that brings a warm smile to my heart. 

Anyway, we fell to discussing the curious coincidence that so many people die around mystery novelist Jessica Fletcher.  Our ideas ranged from her simply living in a neck of the woods with an unusually high rate of murders, to the possibility that she was under a curse inherited from her grandfather, who defiled an ancient mummy's tomb, along with some more chilling possibilities.  My brother developed the thought substantially after our discussion, and I now share the result with you:

For years now, the people of Cabot Cove have been dropping dead, left and right.  All except for a certain Jessica Fletcher and her friends. (Some of whom are members of the local constabulary!)

The phenomenon isn't limited to Cabot Cove though.  Everywhere Ms. Fletcher goes, there always seems to be a suspicious death of some sort.  In fact, on a few occasions, it's even seemed likely that Ms. Fletcher herself was responsible for the deaths and suspicion has only been diverted from her at the last moment.

Quite an interesting string of coincidences, huh?  Most interesting of all, nobody has ever conducted an investigation into this string of happenstance -- remember up above, where I mentioned that some of Ms. Fletcher's friends were members of the local police force?

Recently, a young FBI agent noticed the string of murders following Ms. Fletcher around the world.  He came into Cabbot Cove a few days ago, investigating the possibility that Jessica Fletcher was in fact a major East Coast crime boss.

His theory was that Ms. Fletcher created elaborate scenarios for her murder mystery books and then, in order to test how believable the stories were, would hire two-bit out-of-town hoods to do the actual dirty work.  If she were ever implicated, one of Ms. Fletcher's lieutenants would step in and allow him- or herself to be "caught" in some incriminating circumstance. Ms. Fletcher would then hire a team of hotshot lawyers and said lieutenant would be back on the streets within six months.

This morning, the FBI agent, Mulder by name, was found floating dead in the harbor.

Single-person narrative

Have you ever tried to write a story in which there is only one character, all by herself?  I've been working on such a story and am finding it more difficult than I have ever imagined to give the story any grip.  Stories are interesting because of some central conflict, and it's bugger-all difficult to have a conflict with only one character (unless she's schizo or something, and this one isn't).

Has anyone out there ever written or read a story in which there is only one character at all?  Was the story a success?  I'm curious to know if I'm the only one who has trouble doing this.

A solution to the Wesley problem we can all support

Ways to Cure the Wesley Problem

1. While visiting a starbase on the planet of the Guardian of Forever, the crew of the Enterprise is horrified to find the rest of the universe change around them.  Due to his Star Fleet training and knowledge of history, Wesley is chosen for the special mission of going back in time as a redshirt who beams down to a planet with Captain Kirk and takes a bullet meant for him.
2. The Borg make Wesley their new speaker, and Captain Picard is forced to conclude that rescuing him from the Borg cube would unnecessarily endanger the Enterprise crew.  He is given a hero's funeral when the Borg cube is destroyed.
3. In engineering, the photon torpedoes are stuck and Wesley is forced to activate them manually from inside the tubes.  As he gives the order to fire torpedoes, Picard remarks on the needs of the many "outweighing the needs of the few."
4. Another of Wesley's science experiments develops into a lifeform on an episode called "Frankenstein."  In a chilling scene, his science projects says, "You are my creator, but I am your master--obey!" After his science project kills his girlfriend, Wesley chases it all the way to Pluto where they both crashland and freeze to death.
5. As part of a fraternity prank at Star Fleet Academy, someone sticks a phaser, set to overload, under Wesley's pillow one night.
6. Wesley is transferred to Deep Space Nine and is killed when thousands of rioting Star Trek fans, angered that the show has broken with formula and is not set on a starship, rampage through the set in the final episode.

Roddenberry's literary inspiration for Trek names

Here's an item of interest for people wondering where the names come  from for Star Trek characters.

It should be common knowledge that all of the character names in Classic Star Trek, including Spock, were stolen from the pages of the early, less widely known, works of Shakespeare.

New research indicates that previous drafts of Macbeth featured a Scottish king named Kirk who was murdered by the Thane of Cawdor, an enterprising man named MacCoy. also the working title of the play.

Toward the end of the play, Lady MacCoy throws a beggar out of the castle, crying, "Out, out, damn Spock!"  The pretender king, MacCoy, is killed in a brutal sword fight with a Scotsman called "Scotty." In later drafts, his name was changed to MacDuff.

We all (or many of us, at least) have heard about Jordi LaForge, the disabled Star Trek fan for whom Chief Engineer Geordi LaForge is named.  And many of us also have heard that Jean-Luc Picard is named, in part, after Jean Piccard, a French balloonist.  (There is also a Jean Picard, a French astronomer noted for calculating the size of the earth.) And of course Wesley was named after Roddenberry himself, whose given name was Wesley Eugene.

Well, here's something else to add to the trivia:

pulaski: a single-bit axe with an adze-shaped hoe extending from the back
(Courtesy of Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary)

I don't know if it's significant, but it struck me as interesting to find out that "pulaski" is actually a word and not just a name.

Add that to other useless name trivia about the origins of names like "Hikaru" (means the Shining One, see Vonda Mackintyre's "The Entropy Effect" for more info.), "Mr Atoz" ("A to Z," appropriate for a librarian) and N'gilam ("Malign" backwards).

Nyota Uhuru (or Uhura, depending on the transliteration) is Swahili for "Star Freedom."

Pavel Chekov was the name of Russian playwright Anton Chekhov's father.

I think — and this is mostly a guess — that the name of Leonard McCoy comes from a short story by Kafka called "Just a Plain Old Country Doctor."

That's all I can think of right now.

Star Trek: Transporters and the ethics of beaming aboard

Transporters are such a basic part of Star Trek technology that their use is almost automatic. Need to get to the planet? Beam on down. Need to return to the ship in a hurry? Beam on up.

Convenience aside, there's something to be said for in-world examination of their ethics. In "The Savage Curtain," Kirk explains that the transporters disassembles a person on one end and then reassembles them atom by atom on the other. Scant and nontechnical as that is, it's still got to raise questions.

In James Blish's "Spock Must Die," Dr. McCoy raises the moral question of "Is transporting someone murder?" If someone is disassembled, then there is at least a nanosecond where she does not exist. Under such a situation, she would be dead, and all that is left of the crew member is a sort of soulless zombie walking around on the planet.

In "Spock's World," author Diane Duane suggests another model of how they work. Transporters don't disassemble matter, they convert it into energy, which they transmit to a destination, where the energy is shows how transporters can be used for storing food so it won't go stale.  You just store the energy patterns of the food, and convert it back into its physical form whenever you want to.

These books, and a couple others such as "Fate of the Phoenix," indicate that the transporter "memorizes" the energy subject's resonances, converts the object into energy and then duplicates it on the planet below.

Meanwhile, in "Fate of the Phoenix," the villain Black Omne uses transporter technology to make duplicates of other people (and himself).  So, if I go through his transporter, he can now make dozens of duplicates of me by using another energy source to duplicate my energy pattern -- a sort of immortality, especially if it's done an instant before death.

I'm surprised this hasn't been dealt with more in Star Trek. If you've got a big enough energy source, you can duplicate one person millions of times and send him/them against an enemy force.

Can you imagine what Star Fleet would have been like with a Kirk and Spock on every starship?

There are lot of moral and legal questions can spring up around the transporter as it works in the series. Still, in a "Star Trek: The Next Generation" episode, the Enterprise encounters the ruins of an advanced civilization with transporter technology that avoids this problem.

With Ionian technology, the person to be transported simply steps through a virtual door and emerges on the other side. In a sense, that arrangement would be ideal, as it does not involve duplicating a crew member or destroying either copy.

On the other hand,  what if the doorway is set for null coordinates? What happens then? I'd hate to spend the rest of eternity in transport, in some timeless dimension. Brr. Gives me as many willies thinking about that as being killed every time I transport.

No wonder McCoy hated the blasted things so much.