Dec 9, 2004

Worried about stem-cell research?

If so, you've got bigger fish to fry, my friend.

I posted that link to a discussion group I belong to, a tight circle of my friends, and someone mentioned the old Sci-Fi flic "Saturn 3," wherein a dashing young Harvey Keitel and his brain-powered robot try to rape Farrah Faucett, before she was -Majors, and as I told him, "when the term 'foxy' was still freely used amongst school-age boys."

I had actually been thinking more along the lines of "Earth Vs The Flying Saucers," that wonderful mid 50's or so Ray Harryhausen effects movie, where the saucers were all piloted by disembodied brains that hung from the ceiling on long black poles, looked like glowing white paper chrysanthemums, and they all had sort of an Orsen-Wells-speaking-through-a-vibraphone voice. THOSE were the days.

So this is the part where I launch off into a long diatribe about science-fiction being right, and that Jim Kirk wasn't carrying a communicator, he was carrying a Nokia 6200 cellular phone with the Enterprise set on Speed Dial 1, and we just didn't know it, but I'm not. You've got brains, you do the math.

Me, I'm gonna complain about my daughter's bus driver. This guy is driving around in a 52 passenger GMC schoolbus, and he drives like he's on fire. Now, keep in mind I like my speed too, but I'm responsible for me, not for a pack of kids behind me. And granted, the worst accident he's had that I know of is the other week when he got kicked in the head or something by a horse of his, which I would have thought would do him well, but I guess I was wrong on that count, too. Ah well.

Anyway, Al Unser here comes up the lane every morning SAILING, and does this last-minute braking maneouver that would make the space shuttle blush with envy, just short of squealing those big bias-ply 80 psi tires, and I just KNOW that every little kid in there has got his or her backpack pressed up against the seat back in front, pushing for all their might because each and every one has at least once had their face smashed up against that green vinyl when Steve McQueen made a bootlegger's turn around some neighborhood cul-de-sac, flinging unprepared kinder hither and yon.

Me? I rode the bus when I was a kid. Rode it until I was 15, and could drive. Which, granted, if you'd seen my truck back then you'd WISH I had stayed in the bus, but again, that's neither here nor there.

Mine was a 1978 model, in Burgundy, with gold pinstriping and black interior.

I still miss that damned thing.

Mine was a '78,

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