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Fictionlet
“Well, you know, I wanted to like Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow,” said Brigid, starting a fresh piece of pizza. “I mean, I was all into Tale Spin and I really like that whole Steampunk vibe.”
“Dieselpunk,” said Alex.
“What?” said Brigid.
“The planes have diesel engines,” said Greg, nodding at Alex. “So it’s Dieselpunk, not Steampunk.”
“Oh come on,” said Brigid. “What difference does it make?”
“I didn’t make the term,” said Alex. “I’m just pointing it out!”
“That’s just stupid,” said Brigid. “The planes in Sky Captain weren’t powered by anything but special effects. Besides, there was a car in League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, and you said that was Steampunk.”
“Well,” said Alex, unconvincingly.
“Although strictly speaking, if we’re going to pull all this stuff apart,” said Greg, “the real problem is the appellation ‘-punk.’ I mean honestly, how does putting goggles, straps, and gears on everything have anything to do with an ideology of aggressive anti-authoritariansim and critique of mainstream consumerism?”
“Do what?” said Brigid.
“Really, if anything, with all its pseudo-Victorian ‘God save the Queen’-ing, the genre should be called ‘SteamRetroImperialism.’ Or possibly ‘SteamSellingOut’.”
“Well, no genre makes it into the mainstream without selling out,” said Alex. “I hate to tell you this, but at their core, ninety percent of the population actually prefers tyranny. Do you really think an antiestablishment genre can survive? Even among fandom geeks, people prefer divine-right monarchies and happy endings over the messy realities of life and politics.”
“Hold on,” said Brigid. “I thought we were talking about Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow.”
“Eh?” said Alex. “I thought we were talking about Steampunk.”
“Dieselpunk,” said Greg. “Or possibly, DieselRetroImperialism.”
-The Gneech
Fictionlet
Greg emerged from the hallway to find his Uncle Bob in the living room, which was not particularly a surprise, splayed on the couch nude except for a pair of flip-flops, which was. Greg’s mother’s brother was watching what appeared to be a morning talkshow on the television, while drinking a beer and digging into a bag of potato chips.
After a brief, inarticulate cry of horror and a judicious repositioning to limit his field of view, Greg said, “Um, Uncle Bob, what are you doing here?”
“Washing machine’s out,” said Uncle Bob, not turning away from the television. “So I came to use yours. You don’t mind.”
Greg frowned. “How did you get in?”
“Brigid let me in before she went off to work.”
“I assume you weren’t dressed like that at the time,” Greg said.
“Don’t be stupid, boy, of course not,” said Bob. “I don’t lounge around naked in front of women. That would be weird.”
“Uh huh,” said Greg. “You do know that I work in the living room, right?”
“Go right ahead,” said Bob. “Doesn’t bother me.” Then, shaking his head at the television, said, “These dumb broads. First they run a segment about how fat women all are and how they need to go on diets, then ten minutes later they’re showing off a cupcake recipe.”
Greg shook his own head, then said, “You know, Uncle Bob, I have a bathrobe you could borrow.”
“That’s very thoughtful, my boy,” said Uncle Bob. “But I’m fine. Oh damn, out of chips. You don’t have any more, do you?” He stood and flip-flopped his way to the kitchen cupboard.
“Gaah!” said Greg, scooped up his laptop in a frenzy, and retreated to his room for the rest of the day.
-The Gneech
Fictionlet
“It is one of the great tragedies of my life,” Greg announced, “that nobody has ever asked me, ‘Would you do it for a Scooby-Snack?’.”
“Well what do you expect?” said Brigid. “Anybody who knows you would realize you wouldn’t do it without at least flowers, dinner, and two excruciating weeks of romantic poetry back and forth.”
Greg blinked. “I think we may be talking about different things,” he said.
-The Gneech
Fictionlet
“Oh sure,” said Brigid. “You talk a good game, with your Herbert Lom and your Vic Tayback, but I bet you don’t know a thing about Anson Williams.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Greg, a little baffled at her announcement as they’d been riding along in silence for the past twenty minutes.
“Anson William Heimlick,” said Brigid, “more commonly known as Anson Williams. I suppose a mere layman such as yourself would only know him for winning the hearts of the nation as Potsie on ‘Happy Days.’ But what about his directorial prowess? Surely as the director of what is considered by many the best anti-drug after school special ever made, he has earned his place in celebrity valhalla!”
“You should have watched it,” said Greg, navigating a turn.
“Did you know that he is the second cousin of the man who invented the Heimlich Maneuver?”
“No, I must admit, I wasn’t privy to that.”
“But don’t let his lovable, clean-cut image fool you. Anson Williams is nothing short of a mad dog. Why, he’s so mean that he once shot Scott Baio just for snoring too loud.”
“Ah,” said Greg. “Been consulting LiarPedia again, I take it.”
-The Gneech
Fictionlet
“Well, the way I see it,” said Brigid, copping a handful of pretzels, “quantum mechanics proves the necessary existence of God.”
“Eh?” said Greg. “How do you work that one out?”
“Well, if I understand it right, in quantum mechanics, nothing actually exists until it’s observed somehow, it only kinda-sorta-exists as a probability. But if that’s the case, what happened before people were around? What could have possibly caused the Big Bang if there wasn’t anybody there to observe it happening?”
“Uh, well…” said Greg.
“Thus, enter God, who observes the universe and thus brings it into being.”
“Or Brahma, who dreams it into existence,” said Greg.
“Something like that.”
Greg shook his head. “But God is omniscient, right? At least presumably. So that means He sees everything not just as it happens, but everything in the past and future, too. Thus, to God, the universe has already happened. All of the waveforms have collapsed.”
“Well, sure, for God,” said Brigid. “But not for us. Our bazillion-year-old universe may be incomprehensibly old to us, but it’s just a flash to an immortal, eternal God. Our only frame of reference is inside the waveform as it’s collapsing. We’re like mayflies born during a hurricane. We’re born, live, and die without ever knowing a sunny day.”
“Well that’s a depressing thought,” said Greg. “I thought you were all about the omnibenevolent Daddy-In-the-Sky.”
“I am,” said Brigid. “I’m just trying to find a model that reconciles my wishful thinking with the observed facts.”
“Heh,” said Greg. “Good luck with that.”
Treville, who’d been sitting on the sofa arm the whole time after a failed attempt to pick up a fellow partygoer, shook his head. “You guys talk about this stuff for fun. I’ll never understand you two.”
“Don’t feel bad,” said Brigid. “We don’t understand you, either.”
-The Gneech
Fictionlet
“Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” said Greg, adjusting his headphones.
“Do what with the where now?” said Brigid, from the couch.
“Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” Greg repeated.
“Oh yes?” said Brigid.
“Ei-NUH, Klei-NUH, Nachhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhht-moo-ZEEK!” Greg said, then wiped off his monitor.
“What about Eine Kleine Nachtmusik?” Brigid said with a weary sigh.
“It’s awesome,” said Greg.
Brigid blinked. “All that fuss, just to tell me that Eine Kleine Nachtmusik is ‘awesome.’”
“Well it is!” said Greg.
“Wow,” said Brigid. “You do have a way with words. Look out Shakespeare, there’s a new sheriff in town.”
“Le Nooooozze de Fiiiiiigaro!” Greg chanted, waving his fingers in the air like a conductor’s baton.
“I suppose you think that’s dope and phat,” Brigid said.
-The Gneech
