Walk With an Egyptian

The trouble with ancient Egyptian history is quantity. There is too much of it and too little of it.

It’s hard to get your head around how much history we’re talking about. Egypt had dynasties that lasted longer that the whole history of the United States. The English monarchy stretches back over a thousand years, and is still only a fraction of pharaonic history. From the assassination of Julius Caesar to next Tuesday would count as only about two thirds of ancient Egypt. From the earliest kings to the end of the late period, we’re looking at about 3000 years of history.

You’ll read that Set, for example, was an evil god. And a hero god. The mother of Isis is Hathor. And Nut. Bast is Bastet. She is a lioness. And a kitty. She is a goddess of perfumes. Except when she isn’t. She is also the goddess Wadjet. So is Mut, who is also Bast.

Confused? Of course. Egyptian religion was by no means static, and with all that time things changed a lot. Different parts of the land might have different views of the same gods or even different gods at the same time, and these differences would work themselves out, blending and merging, one set of ideas replacing another, all while the Nile rose and fell.

And while the Nile rose and fell wars were fought, dynasties came and went, priestly orders became rich and powerful and lost power and wealth. Crops were gathered, records were kept, justice was dispensed, grain was stored, taxes were levied, poems were written, bread was baked, pyramids and temples were built, paper was made, beer was brewed, crypts were excavated, walls were painted, herds were fed, people lived their lives, died, and were entombed.

Here’s the part about there being too little history. While all this was going on no one thought to stop and write down all the details. What were the lives of the people like? How did they live? What did they think? Who were they?

I just stumbled across a book in the Royal Library that answers some of these questions. John Romer’s Ancient Lives is a history of one village that existed near the city of Thebes, from about 1300 to about 1050 BC. This was a special village. It’s citizens were artisans, architects, laborers, and scribes. This was the village of the royal tomb makers.

We’re not talking about pyramids here. It had been centuries since anyone had made one of those. Pyramids were as distant to them as Shakespeare, the Reformation, and the Ming Dynasty are to us. Egyptians of this period buried their kings in a royal valley. It was the job of the villagers to dig out the crypts and prepare them for their eventual inhabitants.

The village was a remarkable place, filled with all kinds of people, educated scribes and hearty laborers, their wives, children, and parents. They worked, played, fought, prayed, made works of surpassing beauty, committed crimes, got rich, got poor, and generally lived. And like all living things, the village eventually died, leaving some of the records of the scribes, the things that they built, the foundations of their houses, and the detritus of their lives.

It is from these little things that Romer pieces together the lives of the tomb builders. A mention by a scribe here, a bit of graffiti there, an inscription in this tomb, a mention in that royal record, these are the puzzle parts that come together to tell the story of real people of long ago. The reader meets scribes, apprentices, and foremen, cops and politicians, all sorts of regular folks. We get to know their names, know how they lived, what they ate, what made them happy and who they were feuding with. We see how big changes that make it into history books affected the lives of the people.

The period covered includes some of the most remarkable events in the history of the little village. We see the good times, when the royal commissions poured in. We see the busy times, when pharaoh after pharaoh died young, and the tomb-makers had to scramble to make the partly completed places ready. Romer tells us about the lean times that culminated in what may be the first strike in the history of labor. He tells us about the bad times, when the tomb makers became some of the earliest tomb looters, and how the justice system of the time dealt with it.

It’s a magic act that Romer performs here. An alchemy of impressive scholarship and good writing that bring the ancient dead back to life. A used copy can be had for pretty short money. More that worth it.

Aye Carumba!

I used to love The Simpsons. It was some of the sharpest comedy I've ever seen, combining genuine wit with outright belly laughs. Time passed, writers moved on, and The Simpsons jumped the shark. I'm not sure exactly when. Some say it was around 1999. I think it might have been as early as '95 with "Treehouse of Horror VI." Some say it never jumped (everyone is entitled to an opinion, even if it is wrong). There are people who hold that it jumped back and the last few seasons have been good. I couldn't say, as I haven't seen much of the show for a few years.

Now comes this sprinkle-covered behemoth, The Simpsons Movie. I've seen a range of reviews. I've read that it is one of the best films of the year. I've read that it is little more than an long episode, so why spend ten bucks? And of course I've read that it isn't very good at all.

So what's a busy philosopher-king to do? I turn to my royal advisers, that is you, my best beloved readers. To the left you will see a survey thingie (it will be up for a few days). Please let me know what I ought to do. Is this a woo-hoo or a d'oh?

Danger UXB

I once had an excellent history professor who liked to say that "the past is not dead; the past is not even past." I thought about that maxim when I read that a V1 had been found, possibly alive and well, in London. I don't imagine that Londoners need to be reminded of history -- it is crowded all around them. The bomb landed over 60 years ago in the Isle of Dogs, which is not an island, and has borne that peculiar name for at least 500 years.

Travel advisory: With Marsh Wall closed between Millharbour and Limeharbour (I love British place-names), drivers are advised to use the bridge on Pepper Street. Unless there are apple bonkers guarding it.

Another Road Trip

We took a drive up the coast to Freeport, Maine yesterday with a thought to do a little shopping. Nice town, Freeport. If you like tourists. And shopping. We wandered around a bit, stopping in at one quaint place or another. There's a lot of quaintness in Freeport. If I wanted something quaint, something with a moose on it, or something that let people know I had been to Maine, then I was in the right place.

The real reason for our trip was to visit the big L.L. Bean store. We knew we were in the right place when we saw the sand sculpture of a boot.



That's got to be the biggest boot made out of sand that I ever saw.

Then we got down to some serious shopping. Da Queen found a nice jacket and I got myself a couple of cardigans. Perfect for this week's tropical weather.

Our long drive back along the now crepuscular highway was a bit tiring, but Da Queen kept me awake by feeding me potato chips. We listened to the latter half of a Red Sox game which we started to pick up as we got closer to Massachusetts. The Sox won. We made it home. The cat gave us an earful when we got back. Life is good.

Seriously though, that's a big boot.

I Could Be Wrong, But I Don't Think So

Here's two things that I thought I knew: I love Monk and I don't like hip-hop.

Then last week came Mr. Monk and the Rapper. It was a pretty good episode featuring Snoop Dogg as the eponymous rapper who had been wrongly accused of murder. Snoop not only played the role, he performed a hip-hop version of the opening theme. Check it out:

Here are the revised two things that I think I know: I love Monk and I don't like most hip-hop. I think.

Cut Man

Raging Bull is one of those movies that I know I’m supposed to have seen but never quite got around to it. I suppose it intimidated me. I’m something of a lightweight. Comedies, musicals, and other forms of fantasy are more of my thing. The life of Jake LaMotta is not anyone’s idea of a fantasy. Nonetheless, I took me down to the movie palace to go a few rounds with the champ.

It is a stark, dark, and occasionally brutal movie. It is, among other things, a meditation on what it is to be a man, on masculinity itself. It is also a work of art, a product of the collaboration of two creative forces, Robert DiNiro and Martin Scorsese. Combine that with some terrific acting, great editing, brilliant cinematography, and wonderful sound work, and you have one of the most critically acclaimed films of all time.

This is not so much a movie about boxing as it is about a man who was a boxer and what it was that drove him. The fight scenes are justifiably famous. The action is intense and savage. Unlike most movies about the “sweet science” we get no views from any point of view outside the ring. The viewer is in the ring with the fighters, caught in the violence. There is nothing stylized or heroic here. It can be hard to watch and it is impossible to turn away.

Outside the ring Jake’s life is no less brutal. Jake can be charming, but there is always an edge, always a feeling that any moment could turn ugly. LaMotta is an abusive, domineering husband. He loses his first wife due to his unconcealed serial philandering. He becomes obsessed that his second wife is cuckolding him – an inner demon that leads him to some of his most brutal and eventually self-destructive actions.

Manhood, and Jake’s feelings of inadequacy, is the prevailing theme of the movie, as suggested by an early scene where Jake is speaking to his brother (and manager) Joey:

Jake: What's wrong with me? My hands.
Joey: Your hands? What about 'em?
Jake: I got these small hands. I got a little girl's hands.

This is a psychologically and philosophically complex film, dealing with issues of love, jealousy (Roger Ebert once called it "an Othello for our times"), aging, loyalty, and redemption. It’s one of the best American movies ever made. I put off seeing it for a quarter of a century. Don’t make that mistake.

The Stealer of Souls

When I was but a beardless lad my pals and I would get together and play Dungeons & Dragons. Being a studious little fellow I would delve into inspirational literature in the sword & sorcery genre. I read some of the greats, some of the pretty goods, and a lot of the really cheesy; I enjoyed them all. I remember having read the first book of the Elric series, Elric of Melniboné by Michael Moorcock. I guess it didn’t make that great an impression on me, as I never read beyond that.

This year I’ve been doing some research into a literary theme, and that work led me back to Elric. I re-read that first book and continued with the other five books in the original saga.

I’ve read that Moorcock intended to turn sword & sorcery upside down by creating, in Elric, an anti-hero who was the opposite of the genre’s foremost archetype, Robert E. Howard’s Conan. Conan is physically strong, Elric is so weak and sickly that he must rely on drugs or other means to live. Conan is a big, hairy, manly guy, where Elric is a wispy albino whose beauty is described in almost feminine terms. Conan is, of course, a barbarian, terrified of sorcery, who climbs from obscurity to a position of wealth and power. When we meet Elric he is the young emperor of his people, a powerful sorcerer of a race of sorcerers. His career goes in the opposite direction.

When I began my re-read I could recall only two images from my youthful acquaintance with Elric: I remembered the protagonist himself, thin, impossibly pale, with red eyes and a terrible black sword (more on that later), and I remembered the astounding decadence of his people, the Melnibonéans. The image I took with me was of a choir of slaves. Each slave’s vocal cords had been surgically altered so that he could produce only one note. They were then arranged to form the components of a musical instrument of torture. When they were whipped in a precise arrangement their screams of pain came together to create an exquisite music of agony. To me this is a perfect illustration of the artistic amorality of Elric’s people.

Elric himself is a little different. He may not be amoral enough for his own good. He is still driven by Melnibonéan passions and possesses Melnibonéan cruelty, but he is also brooding, trying to understand the new concepts of ethics and compassion that he has heard of from the new kingdoms of men. In the treacherous court in which he lives, this may be a fatal weakness.

I’ll spare you the details of plot, as I’m not one for spoilers. Let’s just say that the play of swords and sorcery are a big part of Elric’s career. He loses a kingdom, he gains a kingdom, he loses a kingdom . . . he loves, he loses, he grieves . . . he leads great battles, he wins, he loses, he survives . . . let’s just say it’s a full life.

In Elric’s world good and evil are hardly considered. The great cosmic battle that consumes lives and kingdoms is that between the forces of law and chaos. These themes are personified by various demons, demigods, and elementals. The world is their battlefield, and Elric resents feeling a pawn in their great game. This doesn’t stop him from using his sorcery to call on their power to help him in great need, but as the saga goes on he becomes increasingly frustrated. Elric acknowledges that he may think too much for his own contentment, but he seeks after answers that are beyond even his gods.

Poor Elric. A thinking man’s fantasy anti-hero, a rock & roll icon, he is trapped in a role not of his choosing. As the series continues the reader learns that the albino prince is a manifestation of “The Eternal Champion.” In Michael Moorcock’s imagining the universe is split into an infinite number of iterations, a “multiverse.” Throughout time, space, and infinite dimensions there always appears a hero. He always has certain characteristics. He is always a great warrior, a leader of men. He often has a partner or sidekick. These partners are often versions of the Warrior also. All but one of them are unaware that they have lived and will live these other lives in other realities. They don’t seem to have much of a choice; they must take on the mantle of champion. And most of them have a famous or powerful sword.

Elric, the physically weakest of them all, holds the most powerful of weapons. The enormous black-bladed Stormbringer makes Elric virtually invincible in battle. The weapon seems to be sentient, and it is hungry for blood and souls. When it kills it doesn’t simply slice a man, it drinks his soul into itself. It gives some of that strength and life-force to its wielder, so Elric remains strong and vital. Perhaps wielder wasn’t the right word. Sometimes it is hard to say who is the master, sword or swordsman. When the thirst for souls is on it and Elric does battle, Stormbringer seems to take over, directing the sword hand, moving with preternatural speed and accuracy. But all this power has a price. Stormbringer seems to love the blood of those Elric loves most of all.

While this series totally rocks and should be required reading for fantasy fans, I do have one serious criticism. Time and again Elric is in dire straits. Certain doom stares him in his thin white face. Nothing can possibly save him now. But at the last moment he uses a barely remembered and terribly convenient bit of sorcery and calls upon some supernatural being to get him out of the jam. Story after story, book after book, deus ex machina just stumble over each other to help him continue the saga.

Still, it’s great stuff – big, bold, and fun, beautiful and terrible, vividly imagined, told with verve and charm. It’s a pity the cheap paperback versions are out of print right now, but you can pick them up at used bookstores or on the net for short money. You could get it at the library in Tanelorn, but good luck finding that.

Happy Birthday Mr. Dixon

Scott Dixon made it three wins in a row today at the Honda 200 at Mid-Ohio. What a year he's having. It was a great race to watch, except for the first lap when three fourths of AGR crashed into each other. That's the second time this year that Marco Andretti has been upside down in the grass, but I guess that's racing.

Unlikely Overheard Phrase of the Day

In Coolidge Corner, Brookline: "I issued a lasagna disclaimer."

News Flash

This morning's news brings a report that the latest "Harry Potter" novel has been released. Who knew? Memo to publisher: a little PR could have helped.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Harry Potter novels, it is a series of books intended mostly for young readers. The eponymous character is a boy who attends a school for wizards. At the same time he also must occasionally face the forces of evil.

As it happens I've read the first four books in the series. I found them to be great fun. I'll probably get around to this latest book, the seventh, in due time. So far the series gets my thumbs up (which will probably boost sales tremendously). If your local bookseller does not carry the books they can probably order them for you. Failing that, most of the major online book vendors can mail them to you.

That's a Big Pancake

My folks took us out to eat the other day in Salem. Red's Sandwich Shop is one of those places that the locals usually don't tell the tourists about. It's been that way pretty much since the 18th century. It's a nice, cheap place with good food and plenty of local color. I was in a breakfasty kind of mood, so I had a pancake. We all, in fact, had a pancake. Not a stack of pancakes mind you, just one. Since Red's pancakes are nice and thick and cover a whole plate, you really don't need more than that. If you are a maple fanatic like me you'll have to bring your own syrup, but I managed to survive with the fake stuff. I had a nice side of bacon, my dad had some ham, and a good time was had by all. I'm going to have to come back sometime when I'm in a lunchy kind of mood.

Road Trip

With the prospect of a vacation looming, Da Queen and I discussed the possibilities. I decreed that we should get ourselves a car and go somewhere we don't usually get to. Da Queen, ever loyal, agreed. I announced that we should go north. Da Queen gave me her full support. I declared a moratorium on penny pinching and that a shopping trip was called for. Da Queen shouted huzzahs. I deigned to inform her that Maine, and its outlet stores for men's clothing, would be our destination. Da Queen praised my capacity for flexibility and pointed out that New Hampshire, and its fine quilt and needleworks shops, would be better yet. I was, of course, adamant. I put my royal foot down. I command. It is for others to follow.

And so we embarked on our trip to New Hampshire. First things first, I got us a Zipcar for the day. North I pointed my rented steed, and north we went. The miles rolled by and the view through the windows went from crappy to pleasant to downright pretty. Lovely vistas opened before us. Views worth pulling over for presented themselves. But I hurried on, knowing the urgency of our mission. We were headed to the yet more beautiful lakes region, to the north of Winnipesaukee, and the little town of Center Harbor. This, to my crafty and crafting Queen, is like unto Mecca, as it is the home of Keepsake Quilting.

I'd tell you all about it, but I didn't actually go inside. I spent my time shopping at more manly places, like the nearby liquor store, where I found good deals on whiskey and whisky. I also found time to fill an Adirondack chair and read a good book.

The ride home was taken at a more leisurely pace. We stopped to play a round of miniature golf. I finished four over par. We drove through some pretty towns (and some not-so-pretty towns) and got caught in a sudden downpour. It wasn't long before we noticed a rainbow forming to our left. We took a good look at it while waiting at a red light. I had to laugh. We were at the intersection of Route 3 and Rainbow Road (really). I sang a little song and pulled off the road to take a picture.

Here is half a rainbow. A double rainbow, in fact.

Here is the other half.

As we got closer to home we started to get hungry, so I drove us through the drive-though at Kelly's on Route 1. Kelly's is my favorite coming home comfort food. Da Queen had her favorite, the fish plate, which is a couple of nice big pieces of fried scrod on a bed of fries and onion rings. I get the rings. I thought about the clam chowder, which I love, but went with Kelly's world famous roast beef sandwich. It was wicked good with a coffee frappe.

It's nice to get out once in a while, but it's even nicer to come home. We made up with the cat, wondered briefly about all the money we managed to spend, and collapsed into bed. Life, sometimes, is pretty good.

Scott Dixon -- Superstar

Today I officially eat my words. Scott Dixon is a superstar. Back-to-back wins, one a road course, the other an oval -- and he was the defending champion in both races. Amazing.

Who Wide Web

Excellent collection of Doctor Who links right here. Via the always wonderful A Sweet, Familiar Dissonance.

Scott Dixon Owns Watkins Glen

Dixon pulled off the hat-trick a few minutes ago by winning his third straight on the Watkins Glen road course. Earlier this year I said that he wasn't one of the league's superstars. I may just have to eat crow for that one. Great job by Dixon and an exciting race all-around. There was a bit of foolishness at the end when some of Penske's guys got into a shoving match with some of AGR's guys. For a while it looked like the only grown-up out there was Marco Andretti. Speaking of Marco, what a nice couple of races he has put together. He's pulled himself out of his sophomore slump. The kid's got heart, and obviously a lot of brain too.

As If a Million Drunkards Suddenly Cried Out in Terror

Terrible news. Beer prices are going up. This because farmers are switching from barley to corn for ethanol.

Why oh why am I not listened to? If we had switched over to jatropha fuel when I told you about it this national tragedy could have been avoided.

But no. It's enough to drive me to drink.

I Want Everything I've Ever Seen In the Movies!

Before it was a movie, before it was on Broadway . . . it was a movie. Mel Brooks' original 1968 version of The Producers is one of my favorite comedies. Zero Mostel is big, broad, and outrageous as Max Bialystock, a producer who is reduced to conning little old ladies to make a living. Gene Wilder is small, timid, and sympathetic as Leo Bloom, an insecure accountant. They play off each other like Laurel and Hardy, hilarious and touching. You probably know the plot. They come up with a plan to make a million on Broadway by producing a guaranteed flop. To this end they must find the worst play, the worst director, and the worst actors in the world. They settle on "Springtime For Hitler," a gay romp with Adolf and Eva at Berchtesgaden.

Top 10 reasons you should rush right out and see The Producers:
1. Zero Mostel's face.
2. Leo Bloom discovering that for the first time in his life, he is happy.
3. Ulla working.
4. A production number that will live in infamy.
5. White white white is the color of our carpet.
6. Don't be stupid, be a schmarty.
7. L.S.D.
8. Prisoners of Love.
9. Ulla working. Yes, I know I already listed it. But it bears repeating.
10. No. It's too good.

Tasteless, touching, and after all these years still one of my favorites.

Totally Cool -- To Within 1/2 Degree

I just got the coolest thing. Or the hottest thing, depending on what I'll use it for. It's a CDN ProAccurate Digital Thermometer Model DTQ450! This thing rocks. It has a big, easy to read screen. It is easy to operate. It has a range of -40 to 450 degrees Fahrenheit. It's easy to recalibrate, and Cook's Illustrated says that it measures temperature very quickly -- second only to the $80+ Thermapen. I can't wait to use it.

Here's a big thank-you to the good folks who sent this to me (you know who you are) and thanks also for the book. I'm looking forward to it.

231 Years and Still Going Strong

As sovereign of Glenntopia it is my great pleasure to extend greetings and felicitations to all Americans on this, your national day. May God continue to bless the United States of America.

Up in the Sky, Look!

In 1941 Paramount Pictures decided they wanted to get in on a good thing by producing a series of cartoons based on the latest craze, a new cartoon character called Superman. They went to the Fleischer studio, the guys who were already doing Popeye cartoons for them. What would it take to get them working on a Superman series? The Fleischers were stretched pretty thin. They had just finished their first feature and were working on another. They didn’t really want to take on a big new project, but they didn’t want to admit it, so they told Paramount that it would cost $100,000 per cartoon, four times what the Popeyes cost. Paramount said yes. And thus are classics made.

I just saw all seventeen of the Fleischer Supermans. I was going to write a little essay about them, perhaps with some links where you might see an example or two. I was going to do that, until I read the Wikipedia article. There I found a nice little essay, with stuff that I was going to write about and a lot more that I didn’t know, along with links to every one of the cartoons (down in the footnotes). So there’s no point in me writing it, you see.

Instead I’ll just tell you what I think. And I think I really like these things.

They’re just beautiful. The drawings, the shadowing, the rotoscoped animation, all great. I loved the fanciful deco styling and the thrilling-wonder super-science gizmos. They really captured the spirit of Superman and something of the spirit of the time too.

Okay, they’re great to look at. What about the plots?

Ah. Well. . . . Did I mention that they are great to look at?

They’re not bad, but there is little variation from formula. Something bad happens, Lois gets into trouble, Clark says “This look like a job for Superman,” Lois is rescued, day is saved.

Well, waddya want? It’s ten minutes of superhero joy. Wish-fulfillment. Science-fantasy. The mighty hero protecting us from whatever it is we are afraid of.

I guess that means that in the early 1940s we were afraid of mad scientists. The mad scientist is a personification of science gone mad, and that seems to have given folks the serious jitters back then. It makes sense. The pace of change in the previous fifty years was unprecedented. Before that life had gone on pretty much without change for millennia. Then comes the industrial revolution, automobiles, mass production, airplanes, machine guns, bombers, Zeppelins, radio, telephone, movies, sound recording, skyscrapers, light bulbs, beer in cans, women’s suffrage, and mimeographs. Today we are all neo-jaded, but then the idea of new was still new.

What would science give us next? Unstoppable robots? Rocket cars? Death beams? Living dinosaurs? Earthquake machines? Who will save us?

And sure, we were afraid of crime and natural disasters. But in 1942 and ’43 we were also afraid of Germans, Japanese, and saboteurs in our midst. The Man of Steel takes on those guys too. Some folks have criticized the way Japanese were characterized here. I think it is helpful to try to empathize with the Americans of that time. They weren’t like us. They didn’t know how World War II was going to come out. They felt that they were victims of a sneak attack. They were angry and they were afraid. Fear can distort thinking. Americans were desperate to see their enemies defeated, defanged, and humiliated. Superman could give us the fantasy of instant wish-fulfillment.

I’ll wrap it up with a word about one of my favorite people – Lois Lane. Yes, she is the requisite damsel in distress, but somehow Lois is always Lois. She is smart, strong-willed, courageous, and obviously a good writer. She also happens to be kind of a babe (at least as seen in cartoons 2 through 16). But I don’t think the Fleischer crew was particularly good at drawing realistic women. They got Lois right (through the magical rotoscope) but that’s where the work ended. Every other woman they draw looks just like Lois. Add glasses to this one, make that one a blond.

Whatever. See these for the pure fun of watching Superman while he was still new. See these for a glimpse of what fired the mind of folks in our past. Or just see them because you like good cartoons.

The Curse of Memory

If your life was on video tape,
Wouldn't everything be all right,
When your head hurts the morning after,
You could roll it back to late last night.
You could replay all the good parts,
And cut out what you don't like.
Oh wouldn't you be in good shape,
If your life was on video tape.
--Steve Goodman

I always thought that was a good idea. Edit out the stuff you don't like and replay the good memories. Pity it will never happen . . . or will it? Now, through the miracle of psychopharmacology, it just might.

The article gets bonus points for creating a tenuous Star Trek connection and for including a picture of Rayna from "Requiem For Methuselah."

Moving Into the Slow Lane

Word has reached the Glenntopia Sports Desk that IndyCar champion Dan(oops) Sam Hornish, Jr. will probably be moving down to NASCAR full time next season. I guess that's where the money is these days, but it sure is a pity. I'll miss seeing him in a race car.