Fahrenheit 0

(or the more accurate, but less lyrical, Fahrenheit Room Temperature, from Monty)

Or

Something Lifeless This Way Comes

(Props to Monty)

Or

Sing the Body Stagnant

Or

Farewell Summer… and Fall and Winter and Spring…

Or

Ray Brad-buried

Ray Bradbury, who spent a lifetime imagining fantastic worlds where crazy old men didn’t get hypocritically pissy when others expropriated titles decades after they had done the same thing, is to the dust returned at the age of 91. Over his nearly 70-year career, many of his short stories and novels envisioned the mess the human race would make of the world. He presaged our current disdain for literacy in Fahrenheit 451 (which he typed on a typewriter rented at the UCLA library for 10 cents a half hour, costing him $9.80), pollution and immigration crises in The Martian Chronicles and the bizarre obsession with tattooing in The Illustrated Man. In pursuing a wider audience than the pulp magazines he had read as a child, Bradbury eschewed dense technological jargon and pesky facts, such as by making the air on Mars breathable. His interest in the genre and in writing were evident when he wrote a sequel to Edgar Rice Burroughs’ The Warlord of Mars at the age of 12. Disney had optioned the book, but instead decided to just dig a hole and throw $150 million in it. In 2005, Bradbury objected to the similarity in titles of Michael Moore’s traitorous polemic Fahrenheit 9/11, something Bradbury never would have done to the writers he admired, like William Shakespeare (Something Wicked This Way Comes), Walt Whitman (I Sing the Body Electric!) or William Butler Yeats (Golden Apples of the Sun).