From: owner-deltagreen-digest@nocturne.org (deltagreen-digest) To: deltagreen-digest@nocturne.org Subject: deltagreen-digest V2 #80 Reply-To: Delta Green List Sender: owner-deltagreen-digest@nocturne.org Errors-To: owner-deltagreen-digest@nocturne.org Precedence: bulk deltagreen-digest Saturday, September 25 1999 Volume 02 : Number 080 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Fri, 24 Sep 1999 16:23:59 -0400 (EDT) From: "" Subject: Re: Re: DG: Julia Childs [was Re: DG: John Ford, the OSS, WWII and DG] On Friday, September 24, 1999 at 01:04:16 PM, Graeme Price wrote: > >ObDG: On a British cook note front: Ainsley Harricot and Delia Smith have > >got to be cultists. Harricot is mad and has too many teeth. Smith is ice > >cold mad. > > Not to mention the two (er... one) fat ladies (er... lady). Obviously one > (er... two!) of the Bloated Woman forms of Gnarly come to tempt us with > spotted dick and double cream (Ai! Ai! Cholesterol Floating lipid of the > arteries with a thousand side chains!).... and as for the motorbike and > sidecar, well that's just too suspect for words. > > Sorry. It's just the coffee talking. > Strangely enough, the "Two Fat Ladies" was the show that leapt into my mind when the words "Mythos" and "fine cooking" appeared in the same sentence. I almost violently ill the first time I saw the show ... it didn't help that it was between Christmas and New Year's, I was hungover and they were cooking a traditional English Christmas meal - roast goose, pudding, etc. - with pate, also. Way too much grease for my delicate sensibilities. Having seen the show when I have been more in my usual mind, I wouldn't be surprised if they had recipes for assorted Mythos entities (braised sweet and sour shoggoth ... yum, yum, yum!). Or authentic Tcho-thco recipes (First you need to acquire the meat ... not too old, not too muscular. We'll just pile onto the Triumph and sidecar, pack Father's Purdy and tootle off to the nearest housing estate playground. But first, more sherry!). Sadly, Jennifer Pattison (the one with glasses) died this summer. The culinary world will not be the same. On a frightening note: try the phrase "Two Fat Ladies" on a WWW search engine. The titles and capsule descriptions alone were enough to frighten me from exploring. ======================================== John Petherick, CIH e-mail: jpetheri@cyberbeach.net - ----------------------------------------------- Tired of missing important calls while online ? Get Internet Call Manager through Cyber Beach! http://home.cyberbeach.net/InternetCallManager - ----------------------------------------------- Brought to you by Cyber Beach's BottleMail ! http://www.cyberbeach.net ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 24 Sep 1999 21:34 +0100 (BST) From: tsiolkovsky@coherent-light.cix.co.uk (Rik Kershaw-Moore) Subject: Re: DG: Earthquakes and the Mythos > Assuming Tesla didn't have genius in his own right, maybe he had a > talent for retrocognition that allowed him to pull information from > minds in the past. Interesting assumption because a similar assumption is made in a book entitled The Fantastic Inventions of Nikola Tesla by David Hatcher Childress (ISBN: 0-932813-19-4) who states that Tesla was the reincarnation of an Atlantean engineer and inventor who was responsible for the energy system that eventually destroyed atlantis. He goes on to say that the Atlanteans built the face on Mars and the other structures on the Cydonia plain and that Tesla eventually travelled there towards the end of his life. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 24 Sep 1999 21:34 +0100 (BST) From: tsiolkovsky@coherent-light.cix.co.uk (Rik Kershaw-Moore) Subject: Re: DG: Countdown contributor alert > I'm trying to take care of errant contributor's copies of COUNTDOWN. > Most appear to have been shipped in late August as planned. Six more > are going out this week: Thanks for that. I shall look forward to it with anticipation. If it arrives in time I'll be doing something with Countdown at WigCon 99 in November. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 24 Sep 1999 16:59:38 EDT From: LizardRoi@aol.com Subject: Re: DG: John Ford, the OSS, WWII and DG In a message dated 99-09-24 13:09:49 EDT, you write: << My favourite title for any Nazi occult book however is 'Storm-Troopers of Satan: An Occult History of the Second World War' by Michael FitzGerald [ISBN 0-7090-4260-4]. Now that says it all really. >> And my favorite Discovery Channel sweeps week show was "Man-Eating Sharks of the SS", followed closely by "Panzers of the Serengeti" Mark McFadden Discovery, cool, the Nazi channel. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 24 Sep 1999 16:29:16 -0700 (PDT) From: "Jay W. Dugger" Subject: DG: What happened to NASA? Friday, 24 September 1999 Richard Hoagland spoke last night on Art Bell's radio show. RH claims fame for advocating the existence of alien artifacts in our solar system. Some of you might know him as "the Face on Mars guy." RH claimed losing Mars Climate Observer happened on purpose. Some clique within NASA purposely botched the mission to prevent MCO from revealing evidence of extra-terrestrial life on Mars. He continued on, saying a small group within NASA sent commands to the back-up computer to assume control of the spacecraft and take the primary computer off-line. Once they did so, this group can continue to control MCO for their own purposes. Supposedly this same clique did something similar with Deep Space 1 as it neared the asteroid Gaspa (sp?). Mr. Hoaglund compared MCO's failure to the recent discovery of the Waco videotape. He also mentioned anomalies observed on US Space Shuttle missions STS-80 and STS-96 in the context of a "secret space program" involving "electro-gravitic" techniques or "UFOs." Art Bell he had shown an unamed associate videotape of these anomalies. That person worked on SDI/BMDO and said while viewing the video, "I worked on that." Finally, RH suggested a division existed in the clique. One faction wanted to keep the status quo (everything secret) indefintely, while the other had begun preparing for public revelation. This fits DG so nicely I could just cry. The clique within NASA might be DG agents, DG friendlies, NSA/NRO (i.e., MJ-12) moles, Mi-Go puppets, Yithian researchers, Yithian cultists, Shan stooges, and so on. The factionalization might actually come from _two_ different groups simultaneously conspiring within NASA. (Did you know Neil Armstrong belongs to the Freemasons?) I'd like to hear what ravings this inspires. Of course, we all know what THEY (tm) want us to think: the Greys did it. RH thinks NASA did it. John Q. Public thinks NASA bungled. I know the inbred remnants of Nazi Germany's Mars colony zapped our red-blooded American hardware with a Deadly Orgone Radiation beam. Art Bell's Website : http://www.artbell.com RH's Website : http://www.enterprisemission.com - --------- Jay Dugger : Til Eulenspiegel til_e@hotmail.com : duggerj@reed.edu - --------- Carl Sagan smoked dope. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 24 Sep 1999 20:31:22 -0400 From: "Jimmie Bise, Jr." Subject: DG: Orff and Who is on our Musical Side Davide Mana wrote: >>Greetings. >>Thsi discussion is soaring towards those realms of high intellectual >>content that make this list worth being part of. Thanks....and it's one of the few discussions I can really dig into with some knowledge. >>I'd add the whole Tin Pan alley crowd - Berlin, Porter and Gershwin in >>particular.From the old world, I'd count Kurt Weill as one of ours. Definitely...if Mack the Knife wasn't a DG Agent, I don't know who is! In all seriousness, though, I think the composers we're looking for are the ones with fire not completely born of insanity (though a little always seems present) and passion that comes not only from their music, but from the subject about which they're writing. That's one of the big reasons I point to Blues and Jazz. Both forms of music have always seemed to me to be both squarely rooted in passion and in the world in which the writers live. That kind of music is the stuff that reaches right down where you live and grabs you. >>Let's try not to be so Americanocentric, please. Hey...I live here. I have to be this way...it's in the Constitution or something! >>If there's a guy I want by my side against the Mi-Go, that's John Dowland - >>no alien mind can figure his abstract lutesongs. That's the kind of stuff I'd >>like to oppose to the insane pipings of You-Know-Whot. How about John Cage? Then again, to think of it, I'm not sure whose side his music would be on. - -Jimmie ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 24 Sep 1999 20:16:54 -0500 From: "Shane Ivey" Subject: DG: Scorched Earth, part 3 Scorched Earth by Shane Ivey, (c)1999 Part 3 “Three” is Baswell’s group, him and Clara and Olivetti, on the ground a block away and tasked with land surveillance of the hostiles if I was to signal that they were on the move. Derzig goes silent quickly once I check in: “Take it solo,” he says, “and watch your ass until we regroup.” As I head out into the rain I hear gunfire not far off, maybe a couple of blocks distant; then another volley, louder, outdoors, about the same distance. That’s group four, another CIA team, and I can recognize their Uzis and Glocks below the termites’ rifle fire: the termites came out serious, it sounds like. I count three or four rifles firing. The gunfire continues for several seconds as I cross the street, slogging through dirty rainwater, and take to the shadows of the first apartment complex on the block where we left group three. I keep the MAC-10 close to my body, hoping to keep myself unremarkable in silhouette; with its suppressor the thing is too bulky to be concealed from plain view. The distant shots cease. It’s another fucking spook-war, and I still don’t know what either side really wants or why they’ re killing each other. We’re like a bunch of gangsters, gang-bangers in cheap suits and BDUs, popping off fire like the Fourth of July whenever we get too close. It has to be the Sign; they know it has power. Ritter told them that much. But what do they think they can do with it? And what does Baswell want with it? And what does it do for the Ricons and the Spinozas and Doctor Subin, their teacher or priest, now dead a year? I’m going in hard, now, and the best I can hope for is that the termites didn’t know my location when they made their move. I take a narrow stairwell of dark wood in the heart of the building, passing green-carpeted landings and the smells of breakfast as I run for the roof. Once I pass someone’s vague shape in the hall at a landing, but I keep going and she says nothing. When I reach the roof I’m breathing hard. I kneel against the wall and stare out the broken mesh of the wire door. The ceiling stretches out forty inky feet, wet and dim under the pre-dawn sky, then comes a gap and the next building. I slip the goggles in place again and scan the rooftop and the windows and roofs nearby. A few of them are hot, but none show hostiles. I have my breath again, or most of it, and it’s time to get into the thick of things again. I keep low as I move to the edge; it won’t do Baswell’s group any good for troops below to see me up here, and it sure won’t do any good for me. I only come up in my last three steps to the edge, lifting my body straight, legs pumping hard, one-two-three-out... then I’m over the gap and landing hard on the other side, feeling the asphalt of the new building under my boots and listening for something, anything, any sign that I’m found out. There’s nothing. I head across again, fast, keeping close to the center of the building and ducking lower when I have to move out around vents and chimneys. I come to the next ledge, easy, but the next building--Baswell’s building--is fifteen feet below. I stop, low at the edge, and lean out to look around. It’s still dark; nobody’s moving below. Someone walks in the window of a rowhouse across the street, too far for me to make out details; but he’s gone before it matters. I look across the gap and think fast: fifteen feet is not far. I could hack it on the training courses, no problem, just out and over and roll hard when you hit. But this isn’t training. The roof could be weak; the spooks could be up top, listening for someone to land; someone in the apartment below could hear the noise and scream; I could slip in the muck and twist an ankle and be as useless as if I’d been killed. Looking around, I can see a stairwell standing open. I take it, fast, and run to the ground floor on squeaking and littered steps. The place might as well be deserted. I come out the front door, slower, staring out as the air grows lighter. There’s more movement. I can still stay out of sight, but the equation will change when the sun rises a little more. I head across, and in seconds I’m inside Baswell’s building. I move slower. The place is unlit, cheap and dusty, its broken plaster walls painted pastel green and showing rat-gnawed wood and rusting wires, its wood floors scarred, scratched and noisy. I wince and fight back a curse as the floor groans with my first steps into the solitude. I stop again and listen: Baswell camped on the ground floor, and I can already hear voices, faint, through not too many walls. They’re not quite straight ahead, northeast, so I take another hall--less noisy, this time--and move west and then around north again, hugging the walls, past doors closed or standing open, past the stirring shadows of people just waking to the shouts of confrontation nearby and the slow realization that this one is something new. I’m running in a low, loping jog, my feet moving quickly, scuffing along the floors with hardly a sound but for the odd squeaky patch. The voices have stopped shouting by the time I come closer. Closing my eyes, I can envision the floorplan. Baswell’s apartment, there; two invaders, minimum, one a sentry after our group has been disarmed, best placed--where? Here, the hall outside the apartment, a few yards down, close to another hall and the cover of a utility closet. I would stay near one of the intersections, if I was them, not too close to the closet. But which hall? I start to move, and then I get an answer I don’t want: three black-clad figured dart past the intersection ahead of me, running. They’re in a hurry, enough to be careless. If any of them had glanced a little to the right they’d have made me, but they pass me, not ten feet away, still crouched near the left-hand wall with the suppressor of my MAC-10 pointed in their general direction. I allow a slow, tight breath. Amazed relief doesn’ t last long. They’re dead: Baswell, Clara, Olivetti... My senses are sharp as I step to the corner, everything in focus as I concentrate on details, shadows, flickering bulbs, the nearby sounds, all to keep my focus and avoid the tunnel-vision of combat. I can hear voices again, around the corner, low, tight, and cold. “I don’t give a shit what the general said,” says the first. “he’s lost his sanction, and we got our orders.” The next voice is more tense. “Bullshit. What are you playing at, Dougal? We’re in the fucking field, here.” I frown and listen more closely. “Are you gonna follow orders or not?” “I am following orders, asshole. Just not yours. We’ll sort it out when we get back.” “That ain’t how the Director sees it.” There’s a heartbeat of silence. My mouth is dry. I can feel what’s coming. It doesn’t take another word. I can imagine the men in there, around the corner, squaring off, as uncertainty turns. One of them will see it in the other’s eyes, see him crossing that mental line, and then... Their gunfire shatters the stillness, and I wince and crouch reflexively, deafened almost as badly as each of them will be. The first second is an explosion of noise, and by the flashes of the reports I can tell only one shooter is around the corner, firing the other way, firing toward Baswell’s apartment. The next second I’m around the corner, the wire folding stock of my submachine gun tight into my shoulder. He’s barely five feet away, and the burst tears into his throat and skull. With my ears ringing and the air filled with rifle fire, my burst may as well be silent, and he collapses, twitching, soundlessly, leaving a mess of hair and blood on the wall. Another two steps and I’m around the next corner, aiming left into Baswell’s doorway. A man in black fatigues lies there in a pool of blood, an AK-47 useless at his feet; another man, almost identical, lies a few feet down the hall. Shadows flicker in the light from Baswell’s room. The place is silent again. Even the neighbors have the sense to keep still and silent in their terror. I consider moving into the room, but there’s no reason. If another target was active there, I’d still hear it. So I wait against the wall, aiming at the doorway and taking quick, darting glances all around, waiting, as my hearing slowly returns. I tense up as a figure appears suddenly in the doorway, aiming out: but it’s holding a pistol--it’s Clara. I duck back, instinctively, but she doesn’t fire. “It’s Room Service,” I growl, loud enough for her deafened ears to hear. “Acknowledged,” I hear her shout in return. I come around the corner and step into the room, over the body in the doorway. Another lies a few feet away, in the ratty living room, and yet another lies near a bedroom door. Baswell and Olivetti are hunched over the one near the bedroom. I step closer. Baswell pulls a hypodermic away from the man’s throat and disassembles it, hurriedly packing it away. Olivetti, covered in blood, is tying a tourniquet on the man’s thigh. He’ll most likely lose the leg if he doesn’t bleed out, and it looks like he’s already in shock. I can see the man’s mouth moving, angrily, babbling, his eyes wide but seeing nothing. “...can’t stop us,” rasps the fallen man weakly, “can’t stop it... we’ve found the Sign, Dougal, we’ve found it and soon we’ll tap it and that’s it for your bosses, that’s all for them.” I took a breath and listened. The guy was losing it. His face contorted into something like euphoria. “They know it,” he continues, “They know we can learn. We can be their equals. You’re a slave, Dougal, a slave, but they’ll be the slaves when we’ re finished! They fear the Yellow Sign! They--” He gasps and his body contorts weakly. His fingers grasp at air. His eyes seem dry as glass. Olivetti curses and staggers up and back, his hands shaky, but Baswell stares at the man, and so do I. Olivetti finally looks around and breaks the silence. “We better go,” he says weakly. “We... better go.” I nod. “Yeah. Up, get your shit and let’s move out.” I step to the doorway and signal Derzig with the radio. “Three’s secure,” I announce, “four termites down and we’re bugging out.” “Acknowledged,” I hear him growl. “Two’s secure and in transit. I think One’s history.” “One” is Melendez’ group, him and two DEA agents borrowed from the Bogota field office. They were closer to the target, babysitting our phone tap. Derzig had been placed in an adjacent building, in an overlooking window with his rifle. “Tell Two to pick us up. When Three is away I’ll check on One,” I tell him. “Affirmative. I’m on my way.” Baswell, Olivetti, and Clara all pull hoods over their faces as they haul their gear out of the room. Olivetti is still bloody. We move fast, nervously, but every door is closed as we pass, and nobody makes a sound. I hear a toddler laugh once, past a door, but the sound is quickly silenced. In another minute we’re outside and across a narrow street, waiting at the drop-point. It’s a hard wait, adrenaline still racing, the night still pouring rain. I breathe slowly, deeply, keeping my eyes moving and listening, waiting for the trembling to subside; the others haven’t dealt with it as much. Olivetti leans against a dirty wall, shaking, and Clara stares blankly into space. Baswell unconsciously pulls a cigarette from his coat, then shakes his head and throws it away. I hear the car coming first, and at my signal we lean back against the wall, waiting tensely. The van stops at the corner. The door slides open quickly, and I can see McKay inside with his men looking out behind their rifles. We move fast and pile into the van, then it drives off with a lurch, sliding in the muck and away from the tenement. The driver’s already been given his orders. They drive a half-mile and stop again a block from Group One’s assignment. “Good luck,” I hear McKay say. I nod as I jump out and jog into the shadows. Then the van is gone. Dawn is closer. The city is not yet fully stirring, but I can feel a sense of attention in lights behind a few windows, the droning engines of cars in nearby streets. Melendez’ group was holed up in a disused storefront, but I wait at a corner, first, watching the doors and windows across the street. I stare through the night vision goggles, waiting for some sign of surveillance, any flash of body heat from an observer. I see nothing, but I wait, letting seconds pass, a minute, another, feeling raindrops, listening to the rain and noises of the predawn city and watching the motionless street, green in the goggles. Then--nothing. No; a blur, a vague blur of white, insubstantial color reaching into the street and drifting across. It ’s coming from Melendez’ side, from the storefront’s side. I don’t breathe; I don’t make a sound; I don’t move, but to let my left hand drift up and pull the goggles from my eyes. It’s dark, very dark, the only light under the rainclouds coming from windows overhead and a functioning streetlight a block away. But I can see the shape, there, in the street, loping across it impossibly. I can feel myself gagging reflexively, and I fight it in silence. The thing is incomplete; that’s my first thought, and then I think how nonsensical that seems. My thought processes are already off, going into obsessive tangents, sure sign of overreaction to stress. Focus: the thing is not human. It is not an animal. It crouches on four legs--legs? Perhaps. Claws. It is a pale fleshy color, scabrous, rough, hairless, with wide eyes, dark eyes, human eyes, but cold and repellant as those of a lizard. It creeps across the street, distended snout testing the air, fangs glistening. It turns to look my way. I can feel the steel weight of my gun, but I’m frozen, fascinated, consumed by its hard human eyes. It stares at me for a moment, waiting, tasting the air between us. And then it moves--it is a foggy blur, and it is gone. I feel light-headed... dark spots in my vision... oxygen deprivation... then I inhale raggedly, noisily, and lean panting against the wall. I wince and I can feel fear boiling under my memory, barely submerged, and I suddenly can feel nothing but hatred for it, and terror. I move around the corner, still breathing raggedly, heedless of everything, now. The storefront door is closed. The signs haven’t been moved, placards with the name and number of the property’s owner, the glass window frosted over and broken in an upper corner from a thrown rock. I test the door, not bothering to think about traps and wiring; the door is unlocked, and it pushes inward without a sound. Melendez must have oiled it when setting up shop. Inside the front room there’s nothing but empty floor, but a door stands open in the back, behind an empty counter. The floorboards creak slightly as I drift across them, the Ingram held up, now, at the ready. I pull the goggles on, again, and I dart across the floor to get a glimpse into that doorway. I can see the white glow of one person, immobile. I move up fast and lift myself onto the counter and over with deft movements. I come into the doorway in a crouch, the goggles off my eyes again. Derzig is in the corner, staring at a far wall. His rifle is on the ground; his hands are empty. I might think he’s dead if he hadn’t just shown up in the goggles. I look into the room. I look at it for a good, long minute. Then I step into the place and I grab Derzig’s shoulder. My own hand is shaking again, and I can feel him trembling through the rough fabric of his BDU shirt. I lift him forcibly, and I’m strong enough that he comes clumsily up. His muscles take over by instinct and he pushes himself upward, balancing, looking around wildly. “Easy,” I tell him. He looks at me like I’m an idiot, and that’s a good sign; he’s clear headed enough to see the bullshit in thinking that anything here is easy. I nod and take a step back, a brief step, trying to avoid stepping in what’s left of Melendez ’ men or the killers who came for them. There’s no way to tell them apart, now. Legs blend with bodies near them, bloodlessly, and arms dissolve into misty nothingness or drift into the solid floor. I don’t want to touch them. I don’t want to think about them. The gun is all but forgotten in my right hand. With my left, I give Derzig another tug. He looses a shuddering breath and staggers out the door, ahead of me. We both take shaky steps into the silvery air of a rain-soaked dawn. (To be continued) ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 02:26:54 +0100 From: "JT" Subject: Re: DG: Earthquakes and the Mythos - -----Original Message----- From: Phil A Posehn To: deltagreen@nocturne.org Date: 24 September 1999 20:03 Subject: Re: DG: Earthquakes and the Mythos >I remember that too. I think itnwas in one of Robert Anton Wilson's >books. > >Phil > > >On Thu, 23 Sep 1999 20:03:54 EDT LizardRoi@aol.com writes: >>In a message dated 99-09-23 17:48:28 EDT, you write: >> >><< I have several books on Tesla as well. It gets even stranger than >>that... >> >> Mr. Tesla saw complete diagrams of many of his later inventions in >> visions as he was walking the streets of New York. >> >> >> I'll have to check for the source, but one Tesla factoid that stayed >>with me >>was: >> >>Much of Tesla's early life parallels the life experiences of the >>traditional >>shaman, and some more modern mystics. He was seriously ill (comatose) >>with an >>(unknown?) ailment as a child. *snip* Reaches to section of bookshelf marked `review for cash, then use as Christmas presents'... Robert Lomas has written a new book about Tesla called The Ma Who Invented the Twentieth Century. Apparently Tesla contracted malaria while at school, but there is no mention of how serious it was or anything about the diagrams. Interestingly for a man with his life's work, he was born during a thunderstorm... Jonathan ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 00:20:57 EDT From: LizardRoi@aol.com Subject: Re: DG: Orff and Who is on our Musical Side In a message dated 99-09-24 20:32:31 EDT, you write: << I think the composers we're looking for are the ones with fire not completely born of insanity (though a little always seems present) and passion that comes not only from their music, but from the subject about which they're writing. That's one of the big reasons I point to Blues and Jazz. Both forms of music have always seemed to me to be both squarely rooted in passion and in the world in which the writers live. That kind of music is the stuff that reaches right down where you live and grabs you. >> You grazed a point I have been working on in a story. I often facetiously refer to the Blues as "the official musical form of DG", but I'm only slightly kidding. As someone greater than me put it when discussing Blues "it's not enough to know *what* notes to play. You've got to know *why* that note has to be there". And, in sooth, I think that Blues is greater than the sum of it's parts. I'm going to say "I" a lot, because I can only reliably report what my nervous system has to say on the matter. You're mileage may vary. But, for what it's worth, this is what the Blues says to me: "The game is rigged. Life isn't fair. Everything is vanity and there is nothing new under the sun. We are all born crying, and when we've cried enough we get to die. The future's uncertain and the end is always near. "So what? "It don't confront me, cuz I been there an' I done that and I'm still standing. I got a tombstone disposition and a graveyard mind, I'm a bad motherfucker an' I don't mind dyin'. "And I ain't pushin' no fuckin' rock." I know that the Blues is not alone in this stance. I know some Irish folk songs that sound like John Lee Hooker playing with the Chieftains. Russian songs as well. Any others? Mark "Howlin' Lizard" McFadden ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 11:25:14 +0200 From: Davide Mana Subject: Re: DG: What happened to NASA? Greetings. Just a little thing that sprang to my mind as I read this message. Jay Dugger wrote > RH claimed >losing Mars Climate Observer happened on purpose. Some clique within NASA >purposely botched the mission to prevent MCO from revealing evidence of >extra-terrestrial life on Mars. If it's on Mars, it's obviously extra-terrestrial. Or is it? What if they are covering up evidence of _terrestrial_ life on Mars? Just a silly notion. Take care. Davide Mana Torino, Italy doctor.dee@iol.it The Ice Cave - http://www.fortunecity.com/tattooine/leiber/50/ice_cave.htm ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 11:57:52 +0200 From: Davide Mana Subject: Re: DG: Orff and Who is on our Musical Side Greetings Mark "Howlin' Lizard" McFadden wrote > I know that the Blues is not alone in this stance. I know some Irish folk >songs that sound like John Lee Hooker playing with the Chieftains. Russian >songs as well. > Any others? Tango. Yes, I know, it has no words, and has been generally debased by an orange juice peddler. There are two definitions I always loved (one of which Mark will probably appreciate)... "Tango is neither good nor bad, sir. Tango is tango" (Stefano Benni, in his novel "Elianto", which features death as a tango dancer). "If the lizard is the summary of the crocodile, tango is the summary of life" (Paolo Conte - jazz musician, lawyer and official soundtrack of DG in Italy) And observing the boards of the Delta Green College of Music, Jimmie Bise was dubious.... >How about John Cage? Then again, to think of it, I'm not sure whose side his >music would be on. My feelings entirely. Anyone that writes a full score using only intervals and then forces the unknowing audience to sit through forty-odd minutes of silence watching musicians turning pages is either a post-ironic genius or has a bug in his brainbox and is on first name terms with the King in Yellow. Oh, he rationalized it all pretty neatly, but rationality ain't enough anymore, I guess. The greatest Mythos-sponsored outing in classical music, anyway, has to be Tippet's "The Masque of Time". At the very least, it's what Yithian pop music sounds like. And I can't but close the post with Leonard Cohen. OK, the guy can't play a guitar to save his skin. So sue me. "Everybody knows that the dice are loaded. Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed. Everybody knows the war is over. Everybody knows the good guys lost. Everybody knows that the fight was fixed: the poor stay poor, the rich get rich. That's how it goes. Everybody knows." And I guess that's why they call it the blues. Davide Mana Torino, Italy doctor.dee@iol.it The Ice Cave - http://www.fortunecity.com/tattooine/leiber/50/ice_cave.htm ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 21:04:01 +0900 From: "David Farnell" Subject: Re: Julia Childs [was Re: DG: John Ford, the OSS, WWII and DG] From: Shane Ivey > She is also the subject of innumerable comedy parodies for her deep, > accented voice and stooped posture. (She hates those guys, too.) Yes, and I remember someone saying she could speak perfectly unaccented French--so why is her English so darned weird? More paranoia... and From: Jeff Ewing > Both relatively normal compared with the MC of "Ryori no Tetsujin" --cue > Dave and Jay. Dave merely howls with laughter at being reminded that Iron Chef is for some weird reason a hit in the USA. Dave ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 19:49:21 +0900 From: "David Farnell" Subject: Re: DG: Forties Sourcebook From: > The Black Ocean Society, mentioned in Countdown, will be detailed in ODH > along with Unit 831. Ooooooooh yeah! Sounds VERY tasty. (And makes me even more impatient for my copy of Countdown.) Dave ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 09:01:57 -0400 From: "Jimmie Bise, Jr." Subject: Re: DG: Orff and Who is on our Musical Side Davide "I ain't pushin' no Rocks" mana wrote, in reply to Mark "Howlin' Lizard" McFadden: > Tango. > Yes, I know, it has no words, and has been generally debased by an orange > juice peddler. Oh I agree here. So we're talking about "tinpan alley" classical, jazz, blues, and tango. What is the common denominator among all three of them? What is it about our music that makes it "our" music? > Oh, he rationalized it all pretty neatly, but rationality ain't enough > anymore, I guess. > There has to be silence sometimes among all the insane pipings? > The greatest Mythos-sponsored outing in classical music, anyway, has to be > Tippet's "The Masque of Time". > At the very least, it's what Yithian pop music sounds like. > This one I've not heard and I'll have to. I've always thought that Philip Glass was in tune to that Yithian Jam myself. I'll close with an interesting observation I heard Wynton Marsalis make once during a David Frost interview. The whole thing lasted about an hour and was one of the most fascinating interviews i've ever seen. It reinforced my belief that the elder Marsalis is the eminent mover and shaker in jazz music these days. No one else is close. What Marsalis basically said was this (I have to paraphrase the first part, because I don't recall the exact quote. The latter half I do remember): It's not how you play the notes, it's how you handle the space between one note and the next. "There's a lot of juice in there". I believe that man, and the Lizard King. It's more than the notes you play, it's what you do with them, and with what's in between them. What? You think there's just silence in between notes on a musical page? Wrong! that's where the whole secret to the music is....in the transitions between silence and sound, in the places where you should be hearing notes, but somehow can only hear a musician defying the universe and everything unfair and cruel in it (or being unfair or cruel himself, in many cases). That's where, IMHO, the secret to music is - - not in the notes or words, but in how you move from one word or one note to the other. But here I'll stop and let someone else run with this ball... - -Jimmie "Moanin' the Blues" Bise ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 12:48:40 -0400 From: graemep@immagene.mcg.edu (Graeme Price) Subject: Re: DG: What happened to NASA? Davide (visitor 21) wrote: >What if they are covering up evidence of _terrestrial_ life on Mars? >Just a silly notion. Or is it? I wonder how well NASA (which as all conspiracy theorists know, is just the NSA with an extra letter) sterilizes all it's space probes before launch... Bacteria on Mars? Oh yes. They're the first colonists from Earth! Just like The Andromeda Strain, only back to front. Later Graeme graemep@immag.mcg.edu ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 19:31:34 +0200 From: EHuelshoff@t-online.de (Eckhard Huelshoff) Subject: Re: DG: Orff and Who is on our Musical Side LizardRoi@aol.com schrieb: > > I know that the Blues is not alone in this stance. I know some Irish folk > songs that sound like John Lee Hooker playing with the Chieftains. Russian > songs as well. > Any others? I always considered some of the Traditional Irish Battles Songs as giving an apropriate mood. And thinking of Delta Green one of my favourite verses would be from "The Rising of the Moon": "And above their shining weapons flew their own beloved Green". ECKHARD ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 21:54:23 +0200 From: Davide Mana Subject: Re: DG: Orff and Who is on our Musical Side Looks like some list members are preparing for a long quirky jam and them some boozy talk afterwards. It's fine by me - I'm writing and listening to Duke Ellington. Jimmie "Moanin' the Blues" Bise gave us >Oh I agree here. So we're talking about "tinpan alley" classical, jazz, blues, and >tango. What is the common denominator among all three of them? What is it about our >music that makes it "our" music? Off the top of my head - they all scared off all my former girlfriends. But maybe that's a little too personal ;> Maybe, it's the fact that both technically and intellectually, both for the player and the listener (and the dancer), these musical styles require you to choose your own path and follow it boldly. You're alone to face the music. Hesitation kills. Compare tango with waltz to see what I mean. Compare a symphonic orchestra with "a guy in a jacket playing a guitar with his back to the audience" (to quote Donald Fagen again). >> Tippet's "The Masque of Time". > >This one I've not heard and I'll have to. I've always thought that Philip Glass was >in tune to that Yithian Jam myself. Glass is "Top of the Pops" in comparison. AFAIK, there's only one edition available of "The Masque of Time", the double-CD EMI Classics (British Composers series) World Premiere, 1993, conducted by Andrew Davis. It's a work for chorus, soloists and full orchestra. A first part focuses on history, from the beginning of the universe up to now; the second, centers on the meaning of the individual in the flow of history through a series of set-pieces. It has a bibliography that's long and varied - from Yeats to Bronowski's "The Ascent of Man", through I-Ching, Native American mythology and Hiroshima survivor memoires. And Camus, of course. It's impossible to summarize in words. It's heavy but weirdly fascinating. > It's not how >you play the notes, it's how you handle the space between one note and the next. >"There's a lot of juice in there". I believe that man, and the Lizard King. It's >more than the notes you play, it's what you do with them, and with what's in between >them. It's like one of those "connect the dots" pictures. And you'll have to provide your own pencil and numbers for the job. And here I stop for the time being and go scan the net for an on-line tango course. Later. Davide Mana Torino, Italy doctor.dee@iol.it The Ice Cave - http://www.fortunecity.com/tattooine/leiber/50/ice_cave.htm ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 25 Sep 1999 22:13:20 +0200 From: EHuelshoff@t-online.de (Eckhard Huelshoff) Subject: Re: DG: Orff and Who is on our Musical Side Davide Mana schrieb: > Looks like some list members are preparing for a long quirky jam and them > some boozy talk afterwards. > It's fine by me - I'm writing and listening to Duke Ellington. > > Jimmie "Moanin' the Blues" Bise gave us > > >Oh I agree here. So we're talking about "tinpan alley" classical, jazz, > blues, and > >tango. What is the common denominator among all three of them? What is it > about our > >music that makes it "our" music? > > Off the top of my head - they all scared off all my former girlfriends. > But maybe that's a little too personal ;> Whenever you loose a girlfriend, get yourself a couple of bottles of your favourite poison and listen to "That Woman`s got me drinking" and "Her father didn`t like me anyway". Only these two songs. And the booze. It's off-topic, but it helps. ECKHARD, Who always tries to be helpful. ------------------------------ End of deltagreen-digest V2 #80 *******************************