Fin

Editor's Note: It seemed fitting to write an epitaph for the News of the Roundtable. I procrastinated for a while, but, now, here it is.

There was a fake newspaper of gloriously classy proportions, and its contributors abandoned it. The rest is details. (Or is it all details? But no matter, for that is merely a detail, too.)

But before we begin with them, we should offer Our thanks to the loyal and brave ShatzMaster3000, also known as JKFA. When others abandoned the News of the Roundtable, even when I did, Mr. Shatz was still there. It is no coincidence that, besides for this, the final articles for the News were made by this stalwart contributor.

I was a late-comer to the News; I spent most of my fourth-period-friday-lunches doing decidedly unclassy things in the reading room (mostly reading old Science Fiction novels and making Year of the P----- signs). I was recruited as a fashion columnist - obviously, I am far more fashionable than anyone else I know. My skill at providing classy fashion choices is only surpassed by, well, everything.

(Fashion tip of the day: Spiderwebs are rarely fashionable accessories. Try wearing hats instead.)

As the varied Fiends and Associates (I, for one, always felt more an Associate of Fiends than a true greenblooded fiend.) stopped being high schoolers and began being international (or at least interstate) expatriates, the News was obviously and adversely affected. But when the Master of Shatz and I, with assistance from 'WickedJumbo,' a redhead* who is studying at a barrel-making institution, and a particularly wise oracular potato, the News of the Roundtable: Online Edition was established. Accessible through the Al Gore's new glorious International Webbing, NotR: Online promised to increase clasiness a hundredfold. Despite a small pool of literary contributions and a complete and unfortunate lack of monetary contributions** NotR: Online managed to keep pumping out articles for a total of six months and 48 articles.

So. Our thanks to our contributors. To those of you who could contribute but didn't, I pronounce you thrice-accursed, mostly because, when I am cursing something, I don't get a chance to make it thrice-accursed (I average about 1.2-times-accursed) and I really wanted to. (To those of you who couldn't contribute because of what you were doing at your respective and indubitably honorable Institutions of Learning abroad, you don't even need to be excused - and in many ways, I envy you.)

We stand here at a crossroads. We can, if anyone actually bothers to read this, bring NotR: Online back to its former glory. (Send to contributions, as always, to askthetube@gmail.com .) Or we can abandon this work. The choice, dear readers, is yours.

Either way, this is the end of an era. A small and utterly unimportant era, but an era nonetheless.

---

*: Not that he helped much.

**: And we don't need money to run NotR: Online. But we sure would like it.

---

Notes:

1. I had some statistics above, but accidentally deleted them. Fear not: hey are of no consequence.
2. I will tag this post, in addition to normal, appropriate tags, with 'Eldritch' and 'Gilgamesh,' mostly for the fun of it.
3. I still claim to be working on the Arash: Flying Bicycle game. At least in theory.

FIN

Book Review: The Somnambulist

First off, my apologies. Like our previous book review, the book I am about to mention is real. However, it may not be of as much interest to you. Nontheless, it is important to mention.

I normally read what might be considered not quite normal books. (But then again, reading books in and of itself is probably not quite normal in this day and age.) I am perfectly comfortable with, and to some extent, prefer, books in which, for example, Isaac Newton gets very angry about certain elements of the invention of Calculus. Or, as another example, in which the Trojan War is recreated with quantum mechanics. Or perhaps in which a stand in for J.R.R. Tolkein gets into a fistfight with the Devil and manages to kill him. (Yes, you heard that right. Step aside, Chuck Norris. Tolkein can kill the Devil with his bare hands!)

I don't normally mention books like these, except to people who I know to be interested in them. But The Somnambulist was different. It quite literally begged to be reviewed on the News of the Roundtable. On the very back of the book, a reviewer called it "one of the classiest entertainments I've read in a long, long time."

No. NO. NO.

Let's completely ignore the fact that the reviewer implies that classy entertainments must be readable. I'm a big fan of books - but I recognize that movies, TV shows, sporting events, and vidjagames have the potential to be extremely classy as well. And I'm sure even the biggest hater of books amongst the Fiends of the Roundtable would admit that it is theoretically possible to have a classy book.

The fact is, despite what this 'reviewer' said, The Somnambulist is anything but classy.

I'm not saying it's a bad book. I'm just not saying it's a great one - and, more importantly, it's hardly classy.

The book is set in Victorian London - to the best of my humble knowledge, that's a very classy place and time. If you don't believe me, take a look at the enclosed picture of some random Somwhat Important Victorian Dude that I found on Wikipedia. Observe his classy clothes and hat. Now consider that, in Victorian London, those clothes and hat were the standard garb for men. Is that classy, or is it just me?

(Actually, his hat is pretty ugly compared to the Victorian standard. But that's not the point.)

So merely because the book is set in Victorian London, one might assume that the book is classy. That is hardly the case.

First of all, hardly anything classy actually happens. Second of all, plenty of unclassy things happen.

Like, what was up with the bearded lady?

(Answer: you really don't want to know. And yes, the bearded lady did indeed play a major role in the plot.)

And how could that albino guy not have realized that his actions would end up killing his son?

(Answer: because he tried being classy, failed, and ended up showing us the idiot he really was.)

Most importantly, what was up with the milk?

(I have no idea! It was crazy! That was more of a mystery than the plot of the book was!)

Again, I'm not saying the book was especially bad.
I wasn't tortured while reading it.

I wasn't forced to stop reading (because otherwise I would go crazy) and then fake all future assignments based on the book through skilled use of Wikipedia.

And I didn't actually go crazy and summon otherworldly horrors as a result of reading it.

The book even had some redeeming features, like (Spoilers. Highlight if you want to read them.) Lovecraftian Schoolboys, Strange Cults, and Zombie Samuel Coleridge.

But really, it just wasn't all that great. And it most certainly was not classy.

If you for some reason want to purchase it, The Somnambulist is available in hardcover on Barnes & Noble's Website for the awfully low price of $3.99. But if I were you, I'd buy something better instead.

The Soundtrack to My Nightmares

The Soundtrack to My Nightmares was envisioned by the alleged "Shatzmaster 3000" after a certain English class. As no one actually bothered I writing it, I decided, hey, why not?

I spent about 30 minutes working on it while in the "Z-Zone," as that classroom was called. This thing is supposed to be a joke. Why can't you realize it is a joke? Why do you insist upon telling me that this is good!? This is not good! This is a bad poem! Not a good poem! Why did someone submit this to Kally-Oppy?! What is wrong with you? What is wrong with me? What is wrong with the world?

Without further ado, The Soundtrack to My Nightmares.

Far beyond the shadowed sea
of sleep, the nightmares torment me.
A faint yet haunting melody
echoes in my mind.

And in the Hall of Thousand Doors
(by locks unburdened since the wars)
I wander as the music roars
the soundtrack to my nightmares.

Arnold Schoenberg's corpse yet walks;
about 'Number Nine' a Beetle talks;
even a velociraptor balks
before the awful tune.   

I try to flee; I turn a knob,
(above, the vultures just wait and bob)
but my hands cannot do the job:
the door refuses to open.

Other portals respond the same,
I cannot but must play this grim game.
The only soul here bears my name
but it is fading.

But for the song there is no sound.
My life leaves me with a single bound.
But the music still plays, all around,
the soundtrack to my nightmares.