Distant
Galaxies
And Disneyland
(And Microsoft Word)

Part I

The sign above the little shop on Phinney Avenue read: "Outer Space Exploration." By a happy coincidence, a program of exploring outer space is exactly what I have in mind after my imminent full retirement from the University.

Stepping in, I examined shelves on all sides which offered an assortment of items for the eager space traveller. At the back of the shop, for example, there was a transporter portal by which one could beam instantly into a distant galaxy, located in the shop's back-room.

The shelves were well-stocked with star-maps, ray-guns, beanies for extra-terrestrial wear, and such useful devices as a "gravity testing kit." The kit contained four small, hard rubber balls, and the instruction manual advised the user simply to drop them: if gravity is operating, they fall right to the ground. Sure enough, I was able to confirm that there was gravity right there in the Outer Space Exploration shop.

I purchased one of these kits for my daughter Joanna so that she could check on gravity in different parts of her new apartment. When we installed her magic electric fireplace in the living room a few months ago, I could have sworn there was a lot more gravity there than in the kitchen. But, contrary to my suspicions, the rubber balls showed that there was about the same amount of gravity everywhere in the apartment, This is reassuring. Of course, I haven't carefully calibrated the rubber balls, for example by dropping them on different planets, or in the distant galaxy in the Outer Space Shop's back-room.

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I could try that when I visit the shop again sometime, if it is there next time I visit Phinney Avenue. Things seem to appear and disappear nowadays more than they used to. Have you noticed?

Those of us who spend a lot of time with Microsoft Word grow familiar with the way things appear and disappear. Whole paragraphs, for example. There is also the way lines move around mysteriously, fonts change on their own, letters at the beginning of lines capitalize themselves, and every move seems to take place in a surrealist painting. In desperation, one clicks on a button labelled "Help." Help arrives in a language which looks something like English but consists of sentences like this: "You can use a linked object or an embedded object to add all or part of a file created in an Office program, or in any program that supports linked and embedded objects, to another file in a platform that supports linked and embedded objects." This language is Surrenglish, and naturally it belongs to the world in which empty spaces have a font, letters capitalize themselves, watches melt, and Salvador Dali would be right at home. The whole experience of MS Word is the next best thing to psychotic breakdown, although a little less fun.