Selections From Tron

The Ruinous Chevrons

2007-12-06T23:56:00.000-05:00

"Fire!" the gunner barked. The glare of the main gun lit the tank. The
gunner watched for its effect. The flaring, ruinous chevrons reached
out, striking the span just where the cyclists rode.
--pg. 95

Don't you hate it when you're out for a lovely bike ride, just pedalin' away through the spring-time breezes when suddenly the bridge you're riding on is hit by ruinous chevrons? Well, now with new "Ruinous-Chevron-Away" your ruinous chevron problem is a thing of the past! With new "Ruinous-Chevron-Away" you get No More Ruinous Chevrons! Just flip the handy flip-top and spray. It's just that easy!

Dorothy looked over at her husband Lester. Her eyes narrowed. Outside beside the azaleas was a smoking crater. "You used all the Ruinous-Chevron-Away again."

Lester doesn't look up from his scrambled eggs. "I'll buy some more tomorrow."

"Tomorrow! Tomorrow doesn't cut it, mister! Just look at that crater out there. That could have been me!"

Lester flips to the classifieds. "Oh, look, dear! There's a trampoline for
sale. We could finally fulfill our dreams of bringing our "Bouncing Cat" act to Broadway!"

Dorothy smiles. "Lester, you're a mad crazy dreamer and that's why I married you." Dorothy puts her fingers to her lips and whistles. Three men and three women all dressed in identical black coveralls run into the house and begin assembling a gigantic abacus.

"Let's see, now..." Dorothy wets her fingertip with her tongue. "Carry the one... yep, it looks like we can afford both the Ruinous-Chevron-Away spray and the cat-bouncing trampoline. Of course, we're going to have to make a few teensy-tiny sacrifices." Dorothy yanks away Lester's plate of eggs. "No more scrambled eggs! From now on, we'll be eating raw eggs Rocky Balboa-style, slurpin' em down straight from a water glass. You got a problem with that?"

Lester frowns. "Yeah, I got a problem with that. I don't even like eggs and now you're saying I've got to drink them raw?" Lester leaps onto the table and misses by inches karanging his head off the chandelier. "Nuts to that! No more eggs! I want to be FREEEEE!"

Flaring,ruinous chevrons reach out and strike the table just where Dorothy's husband Lester stands. The gunner ducks his head through the freshly blasted hole in the house's wall to watch for the effect.

Dorothy cradles her husband's body in her arms. "Lester! LESTER!" Dorothy breaks down sobbing.

Lester's eyelids flutter.
"Lester! You're alive!" Dorothy's sobs choke into grateful, joyous laughter.

"Lester, you dang fool. If you didn't like eggs so much, why didn't you just say so?"

Unutterable Gladness

2007-03-22T13:07:00.000-04:00

"The window abruptly snapped shut in the guards' cowled faces. Yori's expression held unutterable gladness.

'Who is your user, Program?' Dumont intoned, in the formalized procedure they all knew so well."
pg. 121

Spring is here, yes, Spring is here at last. Big thunderous rains biting
through those nasty-ass stubborn snowbanks, full of cigarette butts and
dog crap. Splashing happy through puddles, flowers blooming, air so
fresh, so clean.

"Psst! Hey, guys! Isn't that Yori?" Joe slicked back his forelock and adjusted his cummerbund.
Chad swayed and slurred. "Yeah! That's Yori, all right. G'wan, ask her to dance!"
Joe gulped nervously and tugged at his tuxedo collar.
Chad points. "Hey, she's coming over!"

Yori, resplendent in pink and purple to match the streamers hanging from the gymnasium ceiling, bounced over to the boys.

"Howdy, boys! Gosh, what a swell night! I sure feel glad!"
Joe flinched. "Ssh, Yori! Don't utter about it! You know that here in The Land of Permanent Midnight gladness is prohibited."

Yori wrinkled her nose. "'The Land of Permanent Midnight'-- who picked that stupid prom theme anyway?"

Chad burped and pointed. "They did."
Yori followed Chad's finger up to the two hunched shadows on the gymnasium catwalk.
Joe stamped his foot. "God Dammit! I hate those Robotic Overseers! I'm going to find out who programmed those things."

Chad,swaying, stepped in front of Joe. "Don't do it, Homes. Those robot
guards are ferocious. They've got carefully filed steel teeth that can
bite your leg right off."

Yori shook her head. "But then how do we find out who programmed the Robotic Overseers?"

Mr. Ellis The Gym Teacher (face like a purple eggplant as he struggled to
breathe in a too-tight suit) stepped forward and intoned, "All Who
Question The Robotic Overseers Are To Be Considered Traitors To The
Realm And Must Therefore Be Put to Death."

"Put to death! Well, that's just great. Thanks a lot, Yori."
"Yeah. Good one, Yori."

Tron & The Abyss (pg. 95)

2007-02-23T07:50:00.000-05:00

Face contorted in grief, Tron looked into The Abyss.

For Ram and Flynn to have survived the Game Grid, won their freedom, and come so close to the Input/Output Tower only to fall--

Tron could make no sense of it.

He let out a cry that was mourning, indictment, and plea, "NO-oo!"

Hey! It's The Selections From Tron Happy Anniversary Show!

2007-02-18T08:24:00.000-05:00

FADE IN. A murkily-lit stage covered with guitars, keyboards, cellos, vibraphones, glass harmonicas, tin-whistles, double-belled euphoniums, zithers, amplifiers and miles of black cords. Eerie blue spotlight snaps onto a bare spot on the stage: dust motes bob and circle.

DUSTMOTE BOB: Well, it's been a hellofa first year here at 'Selections From Tron.' Lotta ins, lotta outs. But, as The Book says, "The Carrier must bear the major part of the responsiblity for search and apprehension; Recos were too slow and short-range to be of much use."

DUSTMOTE CIRCLE: True Dat.

DUSTMOTE BOB: We've got a lot of people we'd like to thank, and some of them aren't even people. Like Geko The Wonder Pooch our new lovable mascot! Say 'Hi' to the people, Geko!

GEKO THE WONDER POOCH: Arf!

DUSTMOTE BOB: Aww! Don't that just melt your heart?

DUSTMOTE CIRCLE: Trude At.

CUT TO: Slim Hobo kicking a can along a concrete culvert. Hobo looks up and smiles.

HOBO SLIM: Yep, even us Hobos got some lovin.

CUT TO: grainy 1970s home movie quality footage of Hobo Slim swiping pies offa Mrs. Fitzhenry's curtained windowsill

HOBO SLIM VOICE OVER: Readin' that 'Selections From Tron' entry about Hobos was about the best damn time I ever had.

CUT TO: Olde-Tymey Fiddle Music and Scratchy Black & White 1920s style animation: Hobo Slim with a big fat belly sittin' on a hilltop muzzling moonshine from a gallon jug marked 'XXX' and chowin' down on a giant platter of fried chicken.

CUT TO: grainy 1970s home movie footage of Hobo Slim standing in Mrs. Fitzhenry's garden, rubbing his chin.

CUT TO: The stage and the instruments. DUSTMOTE CIRCLE pushes past DUSTMOTE BOB.

DUSTMOTE CIRCLE: You know, I'm really feeling marginalized here. I mean, I don't know what your policy is toward dustmites but I feel I have to tell you we have a really powerful union.

AGP (stepping from behind the black velevt stage curtain): I'm sorry, Dustmote Circle. What can I do personally as a human being to make you feel 10,000% better?

DUSTMOTE CIRCLE: I... you think... would it be okay if The Selections From Tron Band played a song I wrote?

AGP: You got it, Pal. Hit it!

On stage all the instruments start playing by themselves. First, a single guitar string plucks, sending up clouds of dust. Then a piano note. The instruments play slowly and quietly at first and then build, Orchestral Sweeping strings and delicate burbling melody, building, dust flying, dust clouds everywhere, massive bass drum and cymbols, alpine horn, gong.

Must Be Allergies

2007-02-18T07:57:00.000-05:00

"They entered the division and descended a long downgrade, moving slowly in the murk."
pg. 89

Man, my eyes hurt. I mean my eyes sting! Your eyes too? My eyes sting too!

The Memory Guards

2006-12-13T10:39:00.000-05:00

"He'd meant the doors at the far end of the gigantic corridor, but when he turned that way, Tron noticed that the huge innermost door was now closed, the Memory Guards shut out for the time being."
pg. 120

Memory Guards shut out-- Memories come rushing back. Smell of Lake: sandy seaweed and fish. Dogs frolicking in dead fish. Same as putting on hair conditioner, I guess.

Memory Guards protect your mind from The Memory Pirates. Stealing your thoughts, sucking them straight from your brain as you lay sleeping. No, wait-- that's the Memory Vampires.

Memories locked in a reinforced brain vault protected by The Memory Guards in steam-pressed blue uniforms. Pants with one black stripe along the leg. Peaked 1950s-milkman style caps.

Roscoe The Memory Guard tosses his peaked cap onto the floor of the brain vault. "Milk-Man style! Dagnabit, I ain't no milk-man!" It's true. Roscoe only guards and steps aside when The Chief wants to milk the lobes for memories.

The Chief pushes up his peaked milk-man style cap. "Hey Roscoe! Remember that time The Memory Vampire tried to sneak into the vault dressed up like me?" The Chief chuckles and shakes his head. "Whatever happened to that Memory Vampire?"

"Uh..." Roscoe looks down at the ground. "He got away clean, Chief. Sucked down a week's worth of memories and then vanished in a swirling black vortex."

The Chief closes his eyes and counts to ten. "Roscoe, we've discussed this. You're going to have to start doing a better job guarding those Memories."

"I know, Chief, but it's tough! We need reinforcements! And also, better hats."

The Standard Substandard

2006-11-13T08:02:00.000-05:00

"The chilling voice boomed from the sky again. 'Those of you who continue to profess a belief in the Users will receive the standard substandard training. This will result in your eventual elimination."
--pg. 67

Ah yes-- The Standard Substandard. So much better than The Nonstandard Substandard. "Wow-- this training sets a new standard in substandard standards!" There are Standard Standards and there are Substandard Standards and there are Standard Substandards. We must make sure your substandard training meets our substandard standards. "His training is deviating from our standards. Quick, lower the bar. Ah, that's better. Now that's substandard! Substandard enough to meet our standards."

Elb

2006-11-11T19:10:00.000-05:00

"The walls were marked with giant numerals, strange ciphers, and symbols unintelligible to Flynn, in varieties and combinations of gleaming colors."
--pg. 83

Walking dizzy down the alley, dried blood on the lapel of your suit jacket-- yours? You press your hands against your throbbing head. Blood roaring in your ears. A man walks by hand in hand with a young child. The man reaches out, concern in his eyes, and plucks your head from your shoulders. Your hands pat the air around your now-absent head. Your body flails its arms in the air.

In the man's arms, you blink. You are staring up at the face of the child. A young boy, you decide, or a girl in a baseball cap. The kid has coal-smeared cheeks and a green crust of snot in the right nostril. Behind you your body crashes blindly into a row of garbage cans. Stay down, you think. Duck and Cover. Stop Drop and Roll.

The man holds your head up to the child's ear. "See, Jenny?" The man smiles. "You can hear the ocean." Jenny nods, solemn and wide-eyed. Her baseball cap says 'Elb.' You don't understand. You open your mouth to speak. No sound escapes your mouth. A massive headache explodes behind your eyes like a starburst.

You close your eyes.

"They Glowed and Pulsed"

2006-10-11T17:33:00.000-04:00

"He leaned against the door, looking down at his hands. They glowed and pulsed. He was willing to bet that he was no longer seeing in the 3700-to-7000 angstrom range, and wasn't particularly eager to think about the rest of his bodily functions."
--pg. 63

Title:
The Spectrophotometric Measurements of the Moon in the 1900-2750 Angstrom Range from the Zond 3 Automatic Space Probe
Authors:
Lebedinsky, A. I.; Krasnopolsky, V. A.; Krysko, A. A.
Publication:
IN: MOON AND PLANETS, (EDITED BY A. DOLLFUS) AMSTERDAM, NORTH-HOLLAND PUBLISHING CO. (1974), PP. 59-64.
Publication Date:
00/1967
Origin:
LPI [AN-670082]
Bibliographic Code:
1967mopl.book...59L

Abstract
Not Available

Spotlight cuts through the fog to shine upon the stage. Massive feedback shakes the stacks: alien reverb Whompwhompwhompwhop sound of paranoia and black helicopters. High pitched squeals. Dinosaur bass-thumps footprints through Lunar dust. The guitarist raises his arm. The lead singer places his megaphone against the microphone.
"The name of this song... the name of this song is... the name of this song is "The Spectrophotometric Measurements of the Moon in the 1900-2750 Angstrom Range from the Zond 3 Automatic Space Probe!"

The crowd cheers. "Yeah! They're gonna 'Zond 3' it up!"
"Old School!"

The Training Procedures

2006-08-12T12:17:00.000-04:00

"He exhorted them with an uplifted staff. "Look operative, you guys! Command Program Sark will explain the training procedures.'"
pg. 67

Yes, we must look operative. Lay down your staff. No need to exhort. We are operators. We operate. That's what we do. For a delicate operation, you need operators who can operate. We know all about The Training Procedures. We are well versed. First, we duck their heads in the water bucket. Then, we bring in the attack dogs. After the flogging comes a light brunch: slices of honey dew and cottage cheese. And that's how you learn how to ride a bicycle.

****SPECIAL BONUS QUESTION!****

Should The City of Toronto change its name to The City of Trononto?
Selections From Tron wants to hear from YOU!

The Enemy's Maneuvers

2006-08-11T08:55:00.000-04:00

"The arena had become a labyrinth where split-second decisions and constant attention were required to keep colliding with something; the enemy's maneuvers were an unceasing threat."
--pg. 85

An unceasing threat. Bomb drills and air raid sirens. Jugs of fresh water squirreled away in the crawlspace. 50s era bomb shelter dug in the backyard: concrete lined with naughahyde. I carry four rolls of duct tape on my person at all times. Deploy the trained dolphins to sniff out bombs in the ocean. Surrender all Water Bottles.

There, that guy with the beard-- don't he look Different? Go bust out his kneecap with a rusty crowbar. That'll learn him. Add your seven-year-old daughter to the FBI watchlist. JUST IN CASE. She's been asking a lot of questions recently. You found nuclear plant blueprints mixed in with Babar and The Berenstain Bears.

Add another strip of duct tape to the door and add another layer of tinfoil to the windows. That'll block out anything. Sit there in the dark drinking Jim Beam and cradling a shotgun. If a tree branch scrapes against the side of the house try not to shit yourself.

Increase your investments in Death Rays. For every village bombed, for every man, woman, and child burned, broken and blackened you get a nickel. Go into debit and put a down payment on that big screen Plasma T.V. Now how can you argue with the news? Look how big their heads are!

Put on your blindfold and stumble around in the dark. Are you elected yet?

A Jubilant Snatching

2006-07-29T22:07:00.000-04:00

"My disc! He reached up for it as it descended slowly; he took it reverently, jubilantly, snatching it to him, hardly able to believe his eyes."
--pg.127

A Slow Descent
Taking It Reverently
A Jubilant Snatching.

When your disc descends, you must prepare for a jubilant snatching. You must reach up for it, you must slow its descent. Now is your moment.

Have You Seen The Bridge?

2006-07-27T15:58:00.000-04:00

"Tron thought he could see, through the blurring of the intangible outline of the ship, figures standing within the remaining portion of the bridge."
pg. 163

The City Has Changed

2006-07-19T09:48:00.000-04:00

"The City had changed since Tron had last been there."
pg. 103

It's true what they say: you can't go home again. You travel for miles, hundreds, thousands of miles, propping your head against the vibrating side of the airplane, shivering in the recirculating air, stomach rumbling ("Chicken or Fish?") with every jerk and jolt... you almost miss the bus but you catch it, sitting cramped with sore knees, reading crappy magazines ("Angelina & Brad SHOCKER! Angelina wants to adopt Jennifer Aniston!") and eating crackers and cheese... braving the tiny bathroom at the back and then returning to your seat right across the aisle from the fragrant gentlemen with the lobotomy scars who is Staring Right At You. In the bus station parking lot you shoulder your pack and whistle for a cab. The driver, an alcoholic ex-boxer, weaves in and out of traffic, leaning on the horn, shouting curses, flipping people off. At a corner he gets into a screaming match with another cabbie who gets out of his cab and advances menacingly. "Stay here," your driver says, reaching for a tire iron. "This could get ugly."

You leap out of the cab and split, leaving a handful of thrown dollar bills floating in your wake. You walk down the strip, past Diamond Joe's Liquor Guns & Pawn, past the hooker in the bikini, cowboy hat and a fake fur coat ("What is that-- Rat?") arguing with a drunk man wearing a wifebeater t-shirt and a shower cap. You walk the remaining miles, feet blistering, backpack strap chafing, sweat dripping down your forehead and stinging your eyes but you're almost there, you're so close-- turning down the tree-lined laneway, breathing in the smells of summer: lilacs and freshly mown grass. You're almost there. You turn the corner:

And your home, your childhood home, is now a concrete parking lot for the Christian Scientist church next door.

Breathe deep-- stay strong. You have your memories, don't you? Share them with family, share them with friends. And not everything has changed. While you're in The City, why not go to that BBQ joint you like? Mmm-mm, Ribs.

The Digital Hobo

2006-07-16T12:08:00.000-04:00

"'I, uh,' Flynn fumbled, knowing now that this was no digitized man of the Other World."
--pg. 82

Ah, yes, the Other World-- a world of train whistles and lonely boxcars, cans of beans simmering above cook fires, the lip of a greasy bottle of cooking sherry wiped with a shirtsleeve and passed on... a world without Health Insurance and Mortgage Brokers, without Guest Towels and Lawn Mowers...

A world in which it is possible to lie on one's back and flip open one's tattered and battered copy of 'Tron: A Novel by Brian Daley based on a Screenplay by Steven Lisberger Story by Steven Lisberger and Bonnie MacBird' to the 'About The Author' page and read this: "Brian Daley was born in rural New Jersey in 1947 and currently lives at no fixed address."

That's right, Ladies and Gentlemen. I refer to none other than the world of the Hobo.

But wait-- A Digitized Hobo? Does such a being exist? Someone who tosses their Blackberry in a Bindle and hops onto the Information Monorail? Behold The Wisdom of The Internets: "Some hobos now communicate via cellular phones and e-mail."

In this Brave New World of Digital Hoboing, one can approach a friendly house with hat in hand: "Excuse me, Ma'am. Spare any Bandwidth?"

Ah, woe. Whatever happened to the simple hoboing days of yore? When a man could get beaten up by railroad bulls without instantly running down to the local internet cafe to blog about it on Hobobeatdown.com? Those days, my friend, have flown-- retreating ever father into the sepia-toned sunset of history.

Are You Embezzling?

2006-06-23T09:56:00.000-04:00

"The man had no use for lies or evasion, non sequiturs or dishonesty. Alan sat down to Flynn's right and asked, 'Flynn, are you embezzling?'"
--pg. 45

Yes. I am embezzling The Truth. I store it in concrete lead-lined vaults far below the surface of the earth. Goblins and trolls slobber against the bars. The truth angers them, you see. Makes their skin bubble like holy water on a vampire. And the smell-- don't get me started on the smell. In the vaults, The Truth multiplies due to the Awesome Power of Compound Interest. Start with a small amount of The Truth and watch it grow in tiny increments like a snowball rolling down a hill, gathering mass flake by flake. Skimming off the cream of The Truth and placing it in nondescript canisters. Hidden in plain sight inside a Mr. T thermos from an eighties lunchbox.

Man, if I had only kept all those classic metal lunchboxes from my childhood. The 'Masterpiece Theater' lunchbox with Alistair Cooke sitting in his armchair by the fire. The lunchbox with the picture of Tom Brokaw looking up Connie Chung's skirt. All that shit's worth a fortune now. Yeah, going to school with a bologna sandwich on whole wheat with French's mustard and a handful of carrot sticks wrapped up in plastic wrap. Whole Milk in a cracked thermos. Are you guzzling? Yeah-- gulp down that milk and run outside to play. Years flash past: calendar pages ripped off the wall and smoked Rastafarian style. Shit, I been Safari-ing since before you were born. Guzzling beer by the bucketful. Glint of green glass."

"You're evading the question. I didn't ask about Guzzling, I asked about Embezzling."

"Pull down that cornet from its glass case and we can go Em-Mezzling. Remember that time I went trick or treating as Mezz Mezzrow? 'Who are you supposed to be, little boy?' 'I'm Mezz Mezzrow, Louis Armstrong's pot dealer. The bringer of the Mighty New Orleans Gold Leaf up to Harlem. Slingin' happiness by The Tree of Life.' That tree's not there anymore, did you know that? Chopped down to make wooden shoe-horns for Bill Clinton. It all depends on what the meaning of 'meaning' is. I hear he has to wake up early in the morning to polish his wife's brass ovaries."

"I hear the same thing."

Thoughtlessness

2006-05-22T17:30:00.000-04:00

"He fell and fell, completely disoriented, amazed nearly to the point of thoughtlessness, absorbing all that he saw."
--pg. 57

The Golden Age of Gaming

2006-05-02T16:25:00.000-04:00

"Far from the Game Grid, the boy turned to the girl, mortified at the ease with which she'd won. 'Lemme play you again?' He figured he had her technique analyzed now, and was positive that he could beat her this time.
She shrugged; she sort of liked him, and enjoyed sharking him. 'Yeah, if you've got another quarter.' Into the video game went the coin, where it joined millions upon millions of others earned by the programs. They and their playing fields, the videogames, were one of the most popular entertainment innovations in history."
--pg. 9

Apparently the 1982 Tron Video Game (ah, the Golden Age of Gaming) made more money than the actual movie. I guarantee that the 1982 Tron Video Game made more money than Tron A Novel by Brain Daley based on a Screenplay by Steven Lisberger Story by Steven Lisberger and Bonnie MacBird. I don't have the actual facts and figures at my fingertips, but if you contact the Walt Disney Corporation I'm sure they'd be happy to answer any of your Tron-related questions:

Walt Disney Co.
500 South Buena Vista Street
Burbank, CA 91521
Phone: 818-560-1000
Fax: 818-560-1930
Web Site: http://www.disney.go.com

AND NOW (drum roll, please, Maestro) PRESENTING FOR YOUR LISTENING PLEASURE, AN ACTUAL FIELD RECORDING OF THE 1982 TRON VIDEO GAME!

Just follow the link to CoinOpVideogames.com!

Half-Sneer/Half-Man

2006-05-02T15:38:00.000-04:00

"Alan arched his back, stiff from the ride to the arcade and hours at his terminal. He gazed through the blinds at the arcade. 'The best programmer ENCOM ever saw,' Alan half-sneered, 'and he ends up playing space cowboy in some sleazy back room.'"
--pg. 44

Half-sneered? Is the sneer half empty, or is it half full? If you half-sneer, what's the other half? Half-sneer/half-laugh? Half-sneer/half-sob? Half-sneer/half-smirk? Is a half-sneer even possible? Even if you're only sneering a little bit, aren't you still sneering? Take snoring, for example. If you're snoring a little bit, you're still snoring. Can one equate sneering and snoring? Can one sneer in one's sleep? Can one attach special glue-coated 'nonsneer' strips to one's lips in an effort to prevent sleep-sneering?

TV Announcer (looking grave)
Sleep Sneering. The Number One Problem Facing Our Nation today. We'll Tell You How To Combat It Right After These Messages.

CUT TO:

Young Jimmy being chastised by his Mother.

"Don't you sneer at me, young man."
"Aw, Ma! I ain't sneerin'. This here's a half-sneer."
Ma glowers (a full glower) down at Jimmy. "Oh, so? We'll see about that!"
Ma rummages through a kitchen drawer, brings out the Sneer Spectrometer and takes a measurement of Jimmy's face.
"Aha! Just as I suspected! According to the Sneer Spectrometer your face is engaged in a 65% sneer-- well above the 50% threshold. Go to your room, young man!"

Would a Space Cowboy sneer? What's he got to sneer about? He's floating around in space, wrangling asteroids, oversized white Stetson perched on top of his space suit helmet. Is he riding a space horse? Yes: a mechanized robotic horse that shoots out orange-red flames from its jets as it gallops across the cosmos.

The Space Cowboy, ironically, has a sleazy front room in his home back on
Earth.
"Hey, how are ya, c'mon in. Sorry it's so sleazy in here. C'mon to the back room-- it's exquisite. We're talkin' Antique Mahogany Armchairs and a gilded chandelier. This chandelier here, well... it's made of discounted Christmas lights stuck inside sawed-off Coors cans. Yeah, it's pretty sleazy."

A gilded chandelier. Now that's nothing to sneer at, half-way or otherwise.

A True Solar Sailor

2006-04-22T22:58:00.000-04:00

"He recognized her, now that he'd had the leisure to, as a simulation for a video game, one drawn from NASA concepts but operating, here in the System, on different principles from a true Solar Sailor's."

--page 138

What's Happening? What's Happening Now?

2006-04-22T22:26:00.000-04:00

"Flynn didn't question what was happening; it was a phenomenon he could only partially control, and couldn't begin to analyze."

--page 100

Scintillation

2006-03-07T12:27:00.000-05:00

"Tron and Ram both leaned down over it and drank deeply from flowing scintillation. Tron, pausing, pronounced with great enjoyment, 'Ah, nice! You forget how good the power feels till you get to a pure source."
pg. 92

scin·til·la·tion

1. The act of scintillating.
2. A spark; a flash.
3. Astronomy Rapid variation in the light of a celestial body caused by turbulence in Earth's atmosphere; a twinkling.
4. Physics A flash of light produced in a phosphor by absorption of an ionizing particle or photon.

More:

1.(physics) a flash of light that is produced in a phosphor when it absorbs a photon or ionizing particle
natural philosophy, physical science, physics - the science of matter and energy and their interactions
light, visible light, visible radiation - (physics) electromagnetic radiation that can produce a visual sensation; "the light was filtered through a soft glass window"

2. a rapid change in brightness; a brief spark or flash
sparkling, twinkle, alteration, change, modification - an event that occurs when something passes from one state or phase to another; "the change was intended to increase sales"; "this storm is certainly a change for the worse"; "the neighborhood had undergone few modifications since his last visit years ago"

3. a brilliant display of wit
genius, brilliance - unusual mental ability

4. the quality of glittering or sparkling brightly
glisten, glister, glitter, sparkle
brightness - the location of a visual perception along the black-to-white continuum

5. the twinkling of the stars caused when changes in the density of the earth's atmosphere produce uneven refraction of starlight
wavering, fluctuation - the quality of being unsteady and subject to fluctuations; "he kept a record of price fluctuations"

Definitions from www.thefreedictionary.com
Image from http://www.mikebonnell.com

2006-03-01T12:08:00.000-05:00

"Tron glanced upward, waiting, all his hopes pinned to the Communication Beam. All at once a voice filled the room, enormous, distorted, echoing like rolling thunder, familiar and yet alien.
TRON. TRON. LOCATION QUERY. LOCATION QUERY. CONFIRM."
pg. 126

You should never pin all your hopes to the Communication Beam... sitting there desperately wringing your hands, sweat-drops glistening on your fevered brow, legs jiggling nervously-- WHY DON'T THEY CALL? No, man-- pin some of your hopes elsewhere like a drunken child at a birthday party playing 'pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, giggling and stumbling all over the living room, pinning that tatter of grey felt onto a priceless Matisse before falling backward over the ottoman and then vomiting pink frosting all over the bearskin rug... if this was a Fairy Tale the bearskin rug would then spring to life, filling out all its bearly proportions, shaking that massive furry head and letting loose a confused growl as if to say, 'Wha--? What the hell am I doing standing in a suburban living room surrounded by screaming children? And hey-- is that one kid drunk? Who the hell was giving that kid booze?' And of course no one was giving that kid (Peter Torrence from Home Room Class) booze, oh no, Li'l Petey found Mr. Bishop's bottle of Grade 'B' Whiskey (in a plastic gallon bottle, straight from the rolling wheat fields of Alberta) all by himself:

PETEY rushes into the kitchen and draws up short. PETEY spots the giant bottle of golden whiskey resting on the counter and his eyes grow wide. Just like Grampa drinks! Petey pours four fingers of Grade 'B' Whiskey into his apple juice and proceeds to get Sauced Off His Ass.

What Happens Next? Petey raises his head from the bearskin rug, pink frosted vomit hanging in tendrils from his lower lip. Suddenly a voice fills the room, enormous, distorted, echoing like rolling thunder, familiar and yet alien: "OH MY GOD! THE FUCKING MATISSE!" Mr. Bishop rushes over and plucks the donkey-tail from his Most Prized possession then collapses, folding like a house of cards reposessed by the bank for nonpayment of mortgage in the middle of his daughter Steffie's Birthday Party. Mr. Bishop begins to weep. Isabella the Maid gently herds the frightened children into the Sun Room, where they can finish their juice and soak up a few rays before being picked up by their parents. Petey's Grandfather Otis fastens Petey into the front seat of the family pick-up truck and then rattles off down the road.
GRANDPA OTIS: "Well, I don't suspect you've done anything really wrong... why, when I was your age we used to get drunk and ruin valuable paintings all the time. Of course, it was World War II and we were looting all the great homes in Europe... plenty of booze, plenty of paintings, plenty of dames." Grampa Otis sighs. Petey vomits more pink frosting out the window and passes out, dreaming of a bearskin rug come to life. A week later Mr. Bishop, deep in the depths of a darkest depression, is fired from his job. Eight years later Steffie Bishop gets knocked up beneath the high school bleachers and takes the bus by herself to Tijuana for an abortion. When she gets off the bus she realizes she can't do it, no way-- she cannot go through with it. She heads further into Mexico and hooks up with a peasant's son named Ricardo: tall and tan with surprisingly white and brilliant teeth. They build a hut on the beach and every night dance with their baby around the bonfire. Mr. Bishop gets a new job, a better job and buys another Matisse. He sits in his living room with his feet up, sipping Grade 'A' scotch and staring at his painting. Now and then he wonders about his daughter: how is she? What is she up to? Where is she? LOCATION QUERY: CONFIRM. One fine June Morning Mr. Bishop gets a postcard: the next day he is flying to Mexico to visit his daughter, his daughter's husband and his seven grandchildren. And Li'l Petey? He becomes the nation's #1 Art Restorer and he never drinks again.

Valentine's Day

2006-02-16T17:37:00.000-05:00

"They extended their hands until they nearly touched, palm to upraised palm. A blissful ray sprang between them, widening to envelop them, until they were like bright filaments. Celestials, they shared energy, were one. They sank down among the reclining-contours; the room shone with glory.
'I love you, Tron.'"
--pg. 112

'The room shone with glory'-- yes. Yes!

Baby, you are my bright filament. I love to sink down among your reclining-contours. Touch my palm and share my energy: Let a blissful ray spring between us always.

2006-01-31T01:32:00.000-05:00

"A sound grew; the whine of engines echoed up from the throat of the cave. All at once the three light-cycles shot from it like torpedoes, once more in tight formation, their riders bent low over the handlebars."

--pg. 94

Yeah! That's more like it. Sock it to me, Tron: A Novel!

It's the Birthing Process, you dig? Especially if you're giving birth to triplets. Or even more especially if you're giving birth to motorcycles made of pure light.

PROUD FATHER (Holding Baby Light-Cycle up to the light)
He's perfect. What shall we call him?

EXHAUSTED MOTHER
I don't know. Let's call him Charles. And oh by the way, I've been meaning to tell you... I had an affair with a light-cycle.

"FATHER"
Charlene! How could you?

CHARLENE
I don't know. It was just one of those things.

"FATHER"
No, I mean how is it even physically possible?

CUT TO: diagrams and schematics.

What Happens Next? The Fake Father runs off down the road, hoboing from train to train up to Eugene, Oregon where he goes granola: grows his hair, goes barefoot, eats his weight in leafy greens daily like a lowland gorilla. Two years after his ex Charlene gave birth to that Light-Cycle The Fake Father (whose name is Yusef, by the way-- Yusef Jackson) finds love again: a beautiful strawberry blonde named Jasmine who wears her hair tied in a Renaissance Knot-- The Mother Charlene takes her baby light-cycle and vows to raise it right, with or without the Light-Cycle father, that digital lothario-- The Baby Light-Cycle Grows Into A Teenage Light-Cycle Who Excels At Sports (Especially Track) Charlene gets a good job dealing BlackJack at the local Casino and marries her pit-boss Jaron, a violent red-faced man who pounds fist-sized holes in the fake wood lining the walls of their trailer-- The Teenage Light-Cycle feels different from his peers, alienated from the other kids at school... The Teenage Light-Cycle starts spending more and more time hanging out in The Parking Lot next to Mr. Johansen The Chemistry Teacher's Motorcycle... The Teenage Light-Cycle starts to get strange tingly feelings down there and eight months later Charles The Teenage Light-Cycle takes Mr. Johansen's Motorcycle (a cute little number named Melinda) to the prom and nine months after that, Charles The Teenage Light-Cycle is a father of triplets, three tiny light-cycles, all with his eyes.

Tron Is In The House

2006-01-28T22:40:00.000-05:00

HALLELUJAH!

Aye, I have found my copy of Tron: A Novel by Brian Daley Based On A Screenplay by Steven Lisberger * Story by Steven Lisberger and Bonnie MacBird" First Edition: June 1982!

Special Guest Star: Star Man

2006-01-28T22:05:00.000-05:00

Do not be alarmed, Ladies & Gentlemen, but I seem to have misplaced my copy of "Tron: A Novel by Brian Daley Based On A Screenplay by Steven Lisberger * Story by Steven Lisberger and Bonnie MacBird" First Edition: June 1982... it's around here somewhere... I'm sure it will turn up.

In the meantime, here's a Special Tide-You-Over Tidbit from "Starman: A Novel by Alan Dean Foster from The Screenplay by Bruce A. Evans & Raymond Gideon" First Edition: December 1984:

"Observing the verbal byplay, the starman decided it would be a propitious time for a display of politeness. Recalling his last polite parting he extended his middle finger of his right hand, as he'd seen the trucker at the service station do, and smiled broadly at Donnie-Bob and friends.
"Up Yours."
Already luckless and buckless, the hunter's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he went from furious to near incoherent. "I'm gonna kill that sumbitch!"
--pgs 155-156

Oh, starman... you cannot fill the void in my heart left by my copy of "Tron: A Novel by Brian Daley Based On A Screenplay by Steven Lisberger * Story by Steven Lisberger and Bonnie MacBird" First Edition: June 1982... try as you might... Alan Dean Foster, I'm sorry, buddy... I've enjoyed some of your work in the past, but brother, this stuff is rough... although I like that luckless and buckless. It's like the hunter's shit out of luck but in a real Southern Down-Home kinda way. Yeehaw!

Could the Tron book make me Yeehaw? Could be a point in Starman's favor. 100% on the Yeehaometer. But now will I be consciously wondering, watching and waiting for the Yeehaw every time I flip open my Tron Book? Oh, Starman! You have polluted my Tronful Waters!

I hunt for The Tron Book... I have become The Hunter. I cannot find The Tron Book. I am luckless and buckless, going from furious to near incoherent.

WILL A.G. FIND THE TRON BOOK? IS COLONEL MONTOYA'S SISTER REALLY POSING AS THE POPE? CAN CLEOPATRA THE DANCING CHIMPANZEE GET OVER HER FEAR OF WATER IN TIME FOR THE BIG BEACH PARTY? STAY TUNED!

Get Your Tron On

2006-01-20T23:52:00.000-05:00

"Flynn glanced sharply to the other User-Believer as he passed Ram, curious about the legendary User-Champion. A tall figure stood there; Flynn got his first good look at Tron."
--pg. 82

2006-01-18T10:59:00.000-05:00

"Sark stared up wrathfully at the door. 'The Tower Guardian is helping him, he thinks!' Sark hissed. He turned and commanded a lieutenant, 'Bring the logic probe!'"
--page 125

I'm so tired I don't know whether to scream, cry or vomit. I could use some help from The Tower Guardian. Tower Guardian, take me away!

ME
So, uh... nice tower you've got here.

TOWER GUARDIAN (proudly)
Hey, thanks. I guard it myself, you know.

ME
Really. Well, uh... you want to go grab a beer?

TOWER GUARDIAN (shakes head negative)
Can't do it. Gotta guard The Tower.

ME
Yeah, I hear ya. (pause) Listen, I'm just going to lay it on the line. I need some sleep-- that's all-- just an hour or so of sweet, sweet slumber. Let me into The Tower for an hour. I don't need Maid Service-- I can fluff my own pillow. Can you dig it?

TOWER GUARDIAN
If I let you in, then I'd have to let everybody in. Then what kind of Tower Guardian would I be?

ME
Fine, forget it. (plops down on curb, holds head in hands, tries not to cry)

TOWER GUARDIAN
Hey, hey. Don't cry. Tell you what I'll do. You can have this. (presents a metal sphere covered in blinking lights.)

ME
Wow, my very own logic probe!

TOWER GUARDIAN
That's right! Go on, ask it a question.

ME
Logic Probe, should I go back to sleep, wake up again and start the day fresh?

LOGIC PROBE
All Signs Point To Yes.

A Note On The Methodology

2006-01-13T10:21:00.000-05:00

AGP, I hear you asking, Tron is a Mighty Tome. How do you ferret out the choicest tidbits?

Ah, a fair question, Gentle Reader. Here's how I work it:

First, I contemplate. This might be something as specific as a Magic 8-Ball style question ("Why am I so Happy today?" or "Why so Glum, chum?") or something as amorphous as "Ah, spring..." Then, I reach for the ol' Tron book (pictured above: not my copy) and flip it open at random. Without looking, my finger finds a passage. I then read the passage. If nothing stirs brainwise, then I flip again. I repeat as necessary until the perfect synergy of Tron Prose and Mental State occurs and brilliant diamonds begin forming in the mind. I then share those diamonds with you and yours. Merry Christmas!

Why the Novelization of Tron? Because no matter what colored lens you use when you look at The World, it's still The World. Word Up, Aw Yeah.

2006-01-10T11:23:00.000-05:00

"Outside the Game Grid for the first time, Flynn found himself riding for his life through a fantastic landscape of glowing walls, modular shapes, and darting vector lines. He was not unhappy."
--pg. 88

Happiness is riding for your life through darting vector lines... although being 'not unhappy' is not the same as 'being happy.' You're not unhappy; you're tired, hungry, confused... not exactly happy, but not exactly unhappy, either.

'How are you?'
'Well, I'm not unhappy. And yourself?'
'Of course you're not unhappy. Look at those glowing walls! Dig those modular shapes! And look at those vector lines: how they dart about! Why, that's enough to turn anyone's frown upside down!'

Simpsons: "That's a smile, not an upside-down frown."

2006-01-09T10:24:00.000-05:00

"Dillinger suddenly felt weak, weary. 'It's my fault,' he told himself as well as the MCP.* 'I programmed you to want so much.' As I do, he finished silently, staring out at the city.
--page 30

*Master Control Program

Buddhists believe in the Four Noble Truths:
1) Suffering exists
2) Suffering arises from attachment to desires
3) Suffering ceases when attachment to desire ceases
4) Freedom from suffering is possible by practicing the Eightfold Path.

The Eightfold Path is:
Right View
Right Thought
Right Speech
Right Action
Right Livelihood
Right Effort
Right Mindfulness
Right Contemplation

Note that programming a supercomputer to desire World Domination is not part of the Eightfold Path.

Does this mean Dillinger is suffering? Yes. Is there hope for him, for you, for all of us? Yes. Write your local Political Representative and demand they spearhead construction on a new kind of supercomputer: a supercomputer that runs on Buddhist Artificial Intelligence.

Sample Program follows:

10 Run "Quiet Contemplation"
20 GoTo 10

2006-01-08T10:43:00.000-05:00

"The air was filled with the noises of the diverse machines. Their scoring tones sounded, and the challenges and taunts some of them threw at their human competitors. The beeps and deep tones of victory and defeat came endlessly. Death knells and dirges sounded as players lost a last spaceship or tank; explosions, warp drives, six-guns, missiles, energy beams, all to the constant tapping of firing buttons. There was the rapid working of controls of all types: steering wheels, lever-grips, joysticks, foot pedals, and periscopes."

-- page 41 (emphasis mine)

Can you relate? Can you relate to the beeps of victory and the deep tones of defeat? Have you lost your last spaceship?

Rapidly work your periscope and know this: you are not alone.

2006-01-07T21:55:00.000-05:00

"THAT OTHER WORLD is vast, too; to its inhabitants, their System is limitless."