It is said that dreams are the key to a person's soul. Very well, then, Dr. Jung: please explain what the corker that I had last night 'reveals' about my mind's innermost workings.
*
In this dream, I had started running a small shop in a busy arcade, selling only one product: cricket balls. These were not just any cricket balls, though - they were all hand-made by me. As the customers would walked into my shop, I would sit on a tall stool, lovingly stitching the meticulous seams. The balls were stuffed with straw, which I had harvested myself. For my customers and me, it was a pretty nice arrangement.
As I sat on the tall stool, I would sing a song to my customers. In a helpful bout of meta-commentary, the song was about the joys of stuffing and stitching cricket balls by hand. The song was sung to the tune of Outshined by Soundgarden (some things never change), and the first two lines went something like this:
I'll show you the cricket balls, I'd like to say
That they've all been hand-stuffed with hay. (Yeah)
*
Why is my brain thinking these things? Am I channeling a cricket-themed prophet? Answers, please.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Paintball Tycoon
Going to my friend's paintball-themed Buck's night was the best chance I'll ever have to make good on the dream of playing Bond (see 2 posts ago for the origins of this long-held, yet tragically destined to be unfulfilled, dream). The man in question is a Federal Police Officer.
Let it be known: there is something deeply wrong with a paintball hall.
Fill a derelict warehouse with approximately 50 men, all in the advanced stages of foaming bloodlust. The closest Australia comes to Cledus's family on The Simpsons, hardcore paintball fans look, well, different to the rest of us. It's the expression of pure joy that spreads across their foetal-alcohol-syndrome-ravaged faces that does it, I think - it's the type of joy that I only experience when I open the freezer door and realise that I've forgotten to consume the litre of Toffee-Pecan icecream that I bought the night before. It's far, far worse than you think. I am talking about a place where it is deemed necessary to politely remind the patrons of the following in the instructional video:
Please do NOT bring real firearms into the venue.
I just love the 'please'.
As soon as I was given the regulation snazzy 'outfit', I realised that paintball was not for me. Paintballs are small, hard and very painful when they hit you at speed. Yes, that is the idea. Very well - but it is a deeply flawed idea, and it's important to understand that. It is not, despite what the evolutionary psychologists might tell you, in our genes to express our basic urges in this way.
*
I have the rare talent of vagueing out at the most important moments of a conversation. Before the paintball shoot, everyone else heard a detailed analysis of the hazards of paintball. But I heard:
"Vitally important that you....necessary that your mask remains on at ALL times, or massive trauma will...vital that genitals protected to avoid haemoraging...under no circumstances...otherwise your testicles will be reduced to rubble..."
A guide said something vitally important about the safety catch - either to NEVER leave the orange bar showing or to ALWAYS leave it showing - and we were off. My team hid behind a big wooden barrier. I went out to have a look - a reconnoitre, as I wittily told my team - and got shot in the neck. It really, really, really hurt. 'Fuck!' I said.
Then I got shot in the nuts. I didn't say anything then, because I was bent over in silent prayer, thanking the Lord that I spent the $8 on a box protector. This was an optional extra. Pay some money and 'choose' to keep your reproductive organs intact. Excellent choice, sir.
I have to mention that I am a lover of films that resolve themselves by violent means. Not modern ones a la Tarantino; I mean Westerns & films noir - where the law of the gun is an accepted part of life. But that day, I found out that I wouldn't make a Western hero - I couldn't pull the trigger on someone.
So if a Western were made of my life, I'd be the city journalist who tags along with the hard-bitten gunmen saying things like 'golly!' and 'that'll be a scoop!', peeing his pants when the actual fighting starts. In this way, I identify with the Gary Cooper/John Wayne, WW2-dodging model of manhood: big fan of on-screen violence, not so much the real life sort. I spent the rest of the day in the paintball bar.
Let it be known: there is something deeply wrong with a paintball hall.
Fill a derelict warehouse with approximately 50 men, all in the advanced stages of foaming bloodlust. The closest Australia comes to Cledus's family on The Simpsons, hardcore paintball fans look, well, different to the rest of us. It's the expression of pure joy that spreads across their foetal-alcohol-syndrome-ravaged faces that does it, I think - it's the type of joy that I only experience when I open the freezer door and realise that I've forgotten to consume the litre of Toffee-Pecan icecream that I bought the night before. It's far, far worse than you think. I am talking about a place where it is deemed necessary to politely remind the patrons of the following in the instructional video:
Please do NOT bring real firearms into the venue.
I just love the 'please'.
As soon as I was given the regulation snazzy 'outfit', I realised that paintball was not for me. Paintballs are small, hard and very painful when they hit you at speed. Yes, that is the idea. Very well - but it is a deeply flawed idea, and it's important to understand that. It is not, despite what the evolutionary psychologists might tell you, in our genes to express our basic urges in this way.
*
I have the rare talent of vagueing out at the most important moments of a conversation. Before the paintball shoot, everyone else heard a detailed analysis of the hazards of paintball. But I heard:
"Vitally important that you....necessary that your mask remains on at ALL times, or massive trauma will...vital that genitals protected to avoid haemoraging...under no circumstances...otherwise your testicles will be reduced to rubble..."
A guide said something vitally important about the safety catch - either to NEVER leave the orange bar showing or to ALWAYS leave it showing - and we were off. My team hid behind a big wooden barrier. I went out to have a look - a reconnoitre, as I wittily told my team - and got shot in the neck. It really, really, really hurt. 'Fuck!' I said.
Then I got shot in the nuts. I didn't say anything then, because I was bent over in silent prayer, thanking the Lord that I spent the $8 on a box protector. This was an optional extra. Pay some money and 'choose' to keep your reproductive organs intact. Excellent choice, sir.
I have to mention that I am a lover of films that resolve themselves by violent means. Not modern ones a la Tarantino; I mean Westerns & films noir - where the law of the gun is an accepted part of life. But that day, I found out that I wouldn't make a Western hero - I couldn't pull the trigger on someone.
So if a Western were made of my life, I'd be the city journalist who tags along with the hard-bitten gunmen saying things like 'golly!' and 'that'll be a scoop!', peeing his pants when the actual fighting starts. In this way, I identify with the Gary Cooper/John Wayne, WW2-dodging model of manhood: big fan of on-screen violence, not so much the real life sort. I spent the rest of the day in the paintball bar.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Best. Movie Blurb. Ever.
"Where's Dolph Lundgren these days?", I hear you say.
People, at the video shop yesterday I found the answer to your question.
Missionary Man
Full of vengeance and out for justice, a mysterious stranger with a score to settle rolls into a small town unannounced, forever changing life for its citizens caught under the oppressive thumb of a local tyrant. Armed with his Bible, his motorcycle and his thirst for revenge, the stranger faces down the evil dictator in true vigilante style, proving that justice still packs a mighty punch.
Written, directed by and starring Dolph Lundgren (from Rocky IV), Missionary Manis an action-packed, modern-day Western in the tradition of films like 'Walking Tall' and 'Roadhouse'.
Now we know who Bush's policy adviser was.
P.S. I did not make the above film synopsis up. Honest.
People, at the video shop yesterday I found the answer to your question.
Missionary Man
Full of vengeance and out for justice, a mysterious stranger with a score to settle rolls into a small town unannounced, forever changing life for its citizens caught under the oppressive thumb of a local tyrant. Armed with his Bible, his motorcycle and his thirst for revenge, the stranger faces down the evil dictator in true vigilante style, proving that justice still packs a mighty punch.
Written, directed by and starring Dolph Lundgren (from Rocky IV), Missionary Manis an action-packed, modern-day Western in the tradition of films like 'Walking Tall' and 'Roadhouse'.
Now we know who Bush's policy adviser was.
P.S. I did not make the above film synopsis up. Honest.
Living tissue over titanium endoskeleton
I wasn’t allowed to see Terminator 2 when it was released. Due to my natural abject subservience to all authority figures, in what was possibly the worst decision of my life I obeyed my parents and went to see a Richard Greico vehicle entitled If Looks Could Kill instead. (When I say 'vehicle', I'm talking 'Holden Camira'). I’ll leave it to future anthropologists to mull over which work of art was more enduring.
The T2 ban didn’t deter me for long – I had already seen part one on video, and had gotten the taste for robots. Rather than sneaking in to see the movie, however, I decided to do something even better – to become the Terminator.
This is a difficult task for a primary school child. Actually, I repeated the same mistake I had made with Bond: I got it into my head that my then pre-pubescent facial features bore some uncanny resemblance to the Terminator’s. (Those who are sniggering – not very kind).
In art class one day, while the other students were making printed t-shirts with pretty patterns that resembled what Jackson Pollock might have come up with had he been forced to use a spirograph, I came up with the following design:
• A disembodied pair of sunglasses in middle of T-shirt, topped with a menacing cactus-like crop of spiky hair.
• Within each lens of the glasses: the red, glowing furnaces of the Terminator’s electronic eyes.
• Under this portrait, I had written the words: ‘Hasta la Vista….Baby!’ (Actually, my T-shirt originally said ‘Asta la Vista…Baby!’, but my art teacher despairingly corrected me, perhaps figuring that teaching a cretin who spelled correctly was better than teaching a cretin who couldn't).
The t-shirt was made slightly less menacing by my grade 4-6 propensity to draw the dots over my I’s and J’s as little circles. (Fortunately, we weren’t using puff paint that day.) I also drew a wavy green double underline under the word ‘baby’, which might not have been altogether wise for someone trying to cut a figure as an unstoppable titanium killing machine.
My t-shirt was made even less menacing by my choice of clothing accompaniment during my utterly sartorially retarded youth:
• A bow tie (navy blue, with red polka-dots)
• Corduroy pants
• 2-tone grey and black zip-up shoes
Even thinking about me in this getup makes me want to punch myself.
But a mere t-shirt wasn’t the piece de resistance of my youthful Terminator-ness. I also used to entertain the notion that I could complete the terrifyingly unsustainable Tim=Arnold illusion by creating a kind of electronic device to simulate a glowing red Terminator eye in my own head.
This was done with:
• a pair of gigantic wraparound sunglasses
• a 9-volt battery
• a battery connector
• an LED from a Dick Smith electronics set
To terrify and astound my vulnerable younger brother, I put on my newly Terminator t-shirt (ignoring the fact that real Terminators would be unlikely to wear white t-shirts featuring crude texta drawings of themselves, let alone bow ties). I hooked up the battery to the LED, fastened it with blu-tac, and started walking slowly, colossally and robotically towards my supine brother. To take care of all possible contingencies, I asked my mother to utter the following brilliant line to him just before I showed up:
“Have you seen Timothy recently? Well…I think he’s a robot.”
This was supposed to be delivered in the half-crazed tones of a parent who had just realised that they had been rearing a little Terminator in their nest for the past twelve years. So, the plan went as follows:
1. I would shuffle towards brother, LED-eye glowing furiously.
2. Brother would scream, become scarred for life, contract PTSD.
3. Mother would begin to wonder whether they might, in fact, have been some deep truth in her words…
Unfortunately, the mini-Terminator forgot one crucial fact: it is physically impossible to utter the words, “I think Timothy’s a robot!” without laughing. I lumbered toward my mother and brother, both of whom were doubled over. “You didn’t say it properly!”, I screamed at my mother, furious with robotic indignation.
There was a lesson learned from the attempt, though: I quickly found out why people don’t place Dick Smith electronics kits extremely close to their eyeballs. The battery wires had gotten so hot that I was lucky not to have permanently blinded myself with my pseudo-robot contraption.
I won’t be back.
The T2 ban didn’t deter me for long – I had already seen part one on video, and had gotten the taste for robots. Rather than sneaking in to see the movie, however, I decided to do something even better – to become the Terminator.
This is a difficult task for a primary school child. Actually, I repeated the same mistake I had made with Bond: I got it into my head that my then pre-pubescent facial features bore some uncanny resemblance to the Terminator’s. (Those who are sniggering – not very kind).
In art class one day, while the other students were making printed t-shirts with pretty patterns that resembled what Jackson Pollock might have come up with had he been forced to use a spirograph, I came up with the following design:
• A disembodied pair of sunglasses in middle of T-shirt, topped with a menacing cactus-like crop of spiky hair.
• Within each lens of the glasses: the red, glowing furnaces of the Terminator’s electronic eyes.
• Under this portrait, I had written the words: ‘Hasta la Vista….Baby!’ (Actually, my T-shirt originally said ‘Asta la Vista…Baby!’, but my art teacher despairingly corrected me, perhaps figuring that teaching a cretin who spelled correctly was better than teaching a cretin who couldn't).
The t-shirt was made slightly less menacing by my grade 4-6 propensity to draw the dots over my I’s and J’s as little circles. (Fortunately, we weren’t using puff paint that day.) I also drew a wavy green double underline under the word ‘baby’, which might not have been altogether wise for someone trying to cut a figure as an unstoppable titanium killing machine.
My t-shirt was made even less menacing by my choice of clothing accompaniment during my utterly sartorially retarded youth:
• A bow tie (navy blue, with red polka-dots)
• Corduroy pants
• 2-tone grey and black zip-up shoes
Even thinking about me in this getup makes me want to punch myself.
But a mere t-shirt wasn’t the piece de resistance of my youthful Terminator-ness. I also used to entertain the notion that I could complete the terrifyingly unsustainable Tim=Arnold illusion by creating a kind of electronic device to simulate a glowing red Terminator eye in my own head.
This was done with:
• a pair of gigantic wraparound sunglasses
• a 9-volt battery
• a battery connector
• an LED from a Dick Smith electronics set
To terrify and astound my vulnerable younger brother, I put on my newly Terminator t-shirt (ignoring the fact that real Terminators would be unlikely to wear white t-shirts featuring crude texta drawings of themselves, let alone bow ties). I hooked up the battery to the LED, fastened it with blu-tac, and started walking slowly, colossally and robotically towards my supine brother. To take care of all possible contingencies, I asked my mother to utter the following brilliant line to him just before I showed up:
“Have you seen Timothy recently? Well…I think he’s a robot.”
This was supposed to be delivered in the half-crazed tones of a parent who had just realised that they had been rearing a little Terminator in their nest for the past twelve years. So, the plan went as follows:
1. I would shuffle towards brother, LED-eye glowing furiously.
2. Brother would scream, become scarred for life, contract PTSD.
3. Mother would begin to wonder whether they might, in fact, have been some deep truth in her words…
Unfortunately, the mini-Terminator forgot one crucial fact: it is physically impossible to utter the words, “I think Timothy’s a robot!” without laughing. I lumbered toward my mother and brother, both of whom were doubled over. “You didn’t say it properly!”, I screamed at my mother, furious with robotic indignation.
There was a lesson learned from the attempt, though: I quickly found out why people don’t place Dick Smith electronics kits extremely close to their eyeballs. The battery wires had gotten so hot that I was lucky not to have permanently blinded myself with my pseudo-robot contraption.
I won’t be back.
The Bonds of Childhood
As an impressionable youth, I saw the opening sequence of a James Bond film. I don’t know which one it was, but it was definitely my first Bond, and mighty exciting it was too. Bond was running around a jungly obstacle course, being attacked by people with paintball guns for some reason. Bond rolled, ducked and dived with such Bondlike efficiency that his pursuers never had a chance. At the conclusion, Bond opened his violin case (he was carrying one for some reason – perhaps auditioning for the Philharmonic after the casual slaughter), pulled out a Tommy gun or something similar, and started brutally killing his paintball opponents with it. Hurray! Not very nice, not very fair – but dynamite when you’re four.*
I was very excited when I discovered that the Bond role was something of a moveable feast – in time, anyone could, in theory, get to play Bond. (If you’re white and male – which I fortunately was). Being of an impressionable primary-school age, and prone to massive egotistical delusions, I thought that perhaps…I could play Bond one day!
Of course, some natural disadvantages were working against me – if there’s a spinoff series featuring weedy 5’7’’ Bonds, I’ve yet to see it – but that particular fantasy stands as concrete proof of my fertile imagination.
Still waiting by the phone.
* I know there's probably no Bond movie that starts remotely like this. I was four, for god's sake. Cut me some slack.
I was very excited when I discovered that the Bond role was something of a moveable feast – in time, anyone could, in theory, get to play Bond. (If you’re white and male – which I fortunately was). Being of an impressionable primary-school age, and prone to massive egotistical delusions, I thought that perhaps…I could play Bond one day!
Of course, some natural disadvantages were working against me – if there’s a spinoff series featuring weedy 5’7’’ Bonds, I’ve yet to see it – but that particular fantasy stands as concrete proof of my fertile imagination.
Still waiting by the phone.
* I know there's probably no Bond movie that starts remotely like this. I was four, for god's sake. Cut me some slack.
Friday, November 28, 2008
This could be the very last AC/DC post
‘Rock and Roll Train’ Reconsidered
How is it possible for two AC/DC songs to be pretty much identical – in terms of chord structure, timing and thematic focus – and yet the first song is good, the second almost unlistenable? Such is the mystery posed by Rock and Roll train, a superficially simple – yet deeply awesome – track at the beginning of AC/DC’s new album Black Ice.
I seriously underrated it on the first listen. It’s not sexist (much, really); it’s not even nasty – it’s a chunky, hearty throwback to better times.
But it's more complicated. Rock and Roll Train has completed the journey begun by AC/DC over 30 years ago, i.e. it has entirely evacuated the referent from the lyrics.
The lyrics aren’t about anything at all.
I hear you, cynics, naysayers and curmudgeons: AC/DC perfected that years ago. Yes, granted. But there is a kind of purity about the intense nothingness of R&RT’s lyrics. They are about the following three-part process:
1. Picking up a thing
2. Moving it somewhere else
3. Putting it down again.
In R&RT, Brian Johnston sounds like a cross between an overenthusiastic building site manager and Deepak Chopra. Lines such as:
‘Pick it up and move it, baby give it all you got,’
speak for themselves. Brian doesn’t say ‘try really hard, folks!’ or something lame that your parents would say when they wanted you to take out the garbage or some crap. Instead, he says:
‘Shake it up, move it, Jammin’ up the agency.’
Let's be honest. Who the hell wouldn’t want to jam up the damn agency if they had a chance? That’s what men do (and plucky women, too!): They jam up the agency – and then refuse to un-jam that agency until the job’s done.
Seriously, though – there are a lot of great songs on this album.
Exhibit A: I am now listening to a song called ‘Smash n’ Grab’. It should be a typical, late-career throwaway AC/DC piece of crap. Its chorus runs:
‘Smash, grab and take it.’
It’s silly, wrong, boneheaded and irresponsible, yes, and children probably shouldn’t be provided with the lyrics sheet. But it just works.
If you don’t want to purchase the album, here’s a brief summary of the content by track listing:
Track 1. Trains are cool (Rock n Roll Train)
Track 2. Thunderstorms are cool (Skies on Fire)
Track 3. Bigshots are gonna get killed one day (Big Jack)
Track 4. Poor guys can get rich and get the girl (Anything Goes)
Track 5. War is scary, yet cool (War Machine)
Track 6. Shoplifting is cool, and essential for a healthy society (Smash n Grab)
Track 7. Fighting is cool, and fun too (Spoilin’ for a Fight)
Track 8. Fast, illegal cars are cool (Wheels)
Track 9. Loud music is cool (Decibel)
Track 10. Thunderstorms are cool (Stormy May Day – see #2)
Track 11. Sex is cool because it’s sort of like rock n’ roll (She Likes Rock n’ Roll)
Track 12. Money is cool, but work sucks (Money Made)
Track 13. Rock and roll is cool (Rock and Roll Dream)
Track 14. Rock and roll is cool (Rockin’ all the Way – see #13)
Track 15. Causing grievous bodily harm is cool (Black Ice)
I recommend Black Ice to everyone. It has reaffirmed my conviction that there are only two types of people in the world: AC/DC fans, and AC/DC fans in denial.
Which are you?
How is it possible for two AC/DC songs to be pretty much identical – in terms of chord structure, timing and thematic focus – and yet the first song is good, the second almost unlistenable? Such is the mystery posed by Rock and Roll train, a superficially simple – yet deeply awesome – track at the beginning of AC/DC’s new album Black Ice.
I seriously underrated it on the first listen. It’s not sexist (much, really); it’s not even nasty – it’s a chunky, hearty throwback to better times.
But it's more complicated. Rock and Roll Train has completed the journey begun by AC/DC over 30 years ago, i.e. it has entirely evacuated the referent from the lyrics.
The lyrics aren’t about anything at all.
I hear you, cynics, naysayers and curmudgeons: AC/DC perfected that years ago. Yes, granted. But there is a kind of purity about the intense nothingness of R&RT’s lyrics. They are about the following three-part process:
1. Picking up a thing
2. Moving it somewhere else
3. Putting it down again.
In R&RT, Brian Johnston sounds like a cross between an overenthusiastic building site manager and Deepak Chopra. Lines such as:
‘Pick it up and move it, baby give it all you got,’
speak for themselves. Brian doesn’t say ‘try really hard, folks!’ or something lame that your parents would say when they wanted you to take out the garbage or some crap. Instead, he says:
‘Shake it up, move it, Jammin’ up the agency.’
Let's be honest. Who the hell wouldn’t want to jam up the damn agency if they had a chance? That’s what men do (and plucky women, too!): They jam up the agency – and then refuse to un-jam that agency until the job’s done.
Seriously, though – there are a lot of great songs on this album.
Exhibit A: I am now listening to a song called ‘Smash n’ Grab’. It should be a typical, late-career throwaway AC/DC piece of crap. Its chorus runs:
‘Smash, grab and take it.’
It’s silly, wrong, boneheaded and irresponsible, yes, and children probably shouldn’t be provided with the lyrics sheet. But it just works.
If you don’t want to purchase the album, here’s a brief summary of the content by track listing:
Track 1. Trains are cool (Rock n Roll Train)
Track 2. Thunderstorms are cool (Skies on Fire)
Track 3. Bigshots are gonna get killed one day (Big Jack)
Track 4. Poor guys can get rich and get the girl (Anything Goes)
Track 5. War is scary, yet cool (War Machine)
Track 6. Shoplifting is cool, and essential for a healthy society (Smash n Grab)
Track 7. Fighting is cool, and fun too (Spoilin’ for a Fight)
Track 8. Fast, illegal cars are cool (Wheels)
Track 9. Loud music is cool (Decibel)
Track 10. Thunderstorms are cool (Stormy May Day – see #2)
Track 11. Sex is cool because it’s sort of like rock n’ roll (She Likes Rock n’ Roll)
Track 12. Money is cool, but work sucks (Money Made)
Track 13. Rock and roll is cool (Rock and Roll Dream)
Track 14. Rock and roll is cool (Rockin’ all the Way – see #13)
Track 15. Causing grievous bodily harm is cool (Black Ice)
I recommend Black Ice to everyone. It has reaffirmed my conviction that there are only two types of people in the world: AC/DC fans, and AC/DC fans in denial.
Which are you?
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Criterion Collection Audiobook Series
At Criterion, we are dedicated to presenting you with the finest in World Cinema. That is why we have decided to release several masterpieces of the 1990s in Audiobook format. Purchase the leather-embossed collectors' edition boxed set today.
The Criterion Audiobook Collection presents:
The Films of Michael Bay
Volume I: "Transformers"
Novelisation by Jodi Picoult
Narrated by Sir Ian McKellan
*
I...am Sir Ian McKellan, and I will be your raconteur for tonight.
For tonight...you will hear a story of robots. Good robots. Bad robots. And robots...in between.
(Sir Ian sighs contentedly before continuing).
Optimus Prime stretched his full, blue, metallic arms to the warm caress of the morning sun. Delicately brushing a loose patch of rust from his gleaming, robotic forehead, he looked fondly at his human assistant sitting cross-legged on the plump duvet below.
Optimus: You...helped me, John.
Thick, dark tears rolled very slowly down Optimus's precisely machined steel cheeks.
(And here I must affect a working-class American accent, listeners, so do forgive me.)
John: Yo! It ain't nothin', Opt!
(And here I must remind the listener that Optimus knew that this child was not worthy of his majestic protection, yet to the very end, he did not shirk his duty).
Optimus: It meant the world to me. How you saved us Autobots from certain destruction. And if...
(Optimus pauses, then haltingly continues)
...if love between a human and a robot is possible, then I believe we have gone some way towards achieving that love, John.
*
Other titles in this magnificent series:
"Con Air", from the novelisation by Rick Moody; narrated by Ralph Nader
"The Rock", from the novelisation by E Annie Proulx; narrated by Harold Bloom
Price:
$199.00 (cloth bound)
$599.00 (Moroccan goat chamois)
Please note that gold edging is $49.00 extra
The Criterion Audiobook Collection presents:
The Films of Michael Bay
Volume I: "Transformers"
Novelisation by Jodi Picoult
Narrated by Sir Ian McKellan
*
I...am Sir Ian McKellan, and I will be your raconteur for tonight.
For tonight...you will hear a story of robots. Good robots. Bad robots. And robots...in between.
(Sir Ian sighs contentedly before continuing).
Optimus Prime stretched his full, blue, metallic arms to the warm caress of the morning sun. Delicately brushing a loose patch of rust from his gleaming, robotic forehead, he looked fondly at his human assistant sitting cross-legged on the plump duvet below.
Optimus: You...helped me, John.
Thick, dark tears rolled very slowly down Optimus's precisely machined steel cheeks.
(And here I must affect a working-class American accent, listeners, so do forgive me.)
John: Yo! It ain't nothin', Opt!
(And here I must remind the listener that Optimus knew that this child was not worthy of his majestic protection, yet to the very end, he did not shirk his duty).
Optimus: It meant the world to me. How you saved us Autobots from certain destruction. And if...
(Optimus pauses, then haltingly continues)
...if love between a human and a robot is possible, then I believe we have gone some way towards achieving that love, John.
*
Other titles in this magnificent series:
"Con Air", from the novelisation by Rick Moody; narrated by Ralph Nader
"The Rock", from the novelisation by E Annie Proulx; narrated by Harold Bloom
Price:
$199.00 (cloth bound)
$599.00 (Moroccan goat chamois)
Please note that gold edging is $49.00 extra
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