Nemo & Cthulhu: A Folk Tale

folk tales are often a bit earthy (read "raw and vulgar"), and this one is no exception. it might be offensive to some, but it is what it is

Then there was the time when Little Nemo saved Ol' Cthulhu's life. That was back 'round the time when Mister Curry was doin' them fish stick commercials on account of his ol' lady havin' kicked him outta 'Lantis for steppin' out with Miss Ariel. Lordy, if that weren't a terrible row! I 'spect that Mister Curry would still be up there on the dryside selling his kin as monkeyfood if them aliens hadn't showed up, making claims to 'Lantis and killing the merfolk. 'Course, as well you know, Mister Curry came back and kicked them ETs back into space. Naturally after such heroics, all was forgiven.

But it was 'round that time, maybe a couple years right after, that Ol' Cthulhu had woken up from one of those long naps he's so famous for and went swimmin' towards the surface, just to have a look-see as to what might had changed while he was sleepin'. I reckon it had been a couple hundred years or so since he had last been to the surface, seems I remember him sinking some English boats back when the Empire was still all the rage (ol' Cthulhu always had a soft spot for the French). Oh, maybe it had only been a hundred years since he last woke up: he was definitely at Poseidon's funeral, and that was back in the 19th century (or was it the 20th?)

Anyways, Ol' Cthulhu was a swimmin' around, frolickin' in the waves. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Old Tentacle Head is a playful little Elder God. You probably don't know that he invented the beach ball and water polo and wrote the original version of "The Hokey Pokey." He also invented the first knock-knock joke: Knock-knock, who's there?, Cthul, Cthul who?, Hey, that's me! (I didn't say it was a very good one, just the first one.)

So, he was all frolickin' with some dolphins (after the French, the dolphins are his second favorite food to play with) when he beheld a strange metal monstrocity the likes of which he hadn't ever seen. Back in them days, the monkeypeople up on the dryside would build giant drills to pull oil out from underneath the ocean. We heard they also pulled it out from underneath the dryside. Hastur only knows what they needed all that oil for! Occasionally they'd dump a bunch of it into the ocean waters, which would get Mister Curry angry something awful.

Somehow or the other, Ol' Cthulhu, while investigating this weird mechanical device, got his tentacles all tangled up in the drill. Not only did this tie him to the machine, but in the resulting struggle, oil started to leak, covering Ol' Cthulhu from tentacle to toe. The dolphins, bein' a bit smarter than an Elder God, high tailed it away from the oil spill, but Ol' Cthulhu didn't have that luxury, on account of his bein' stuck and all.

You'd think an Elder God would be strong enough to pull himself free of drysider machines, but apparently Ol' Cthulhu has that same weakness to cold iron that other transdimensional beings have when manifest in the flesh on this plane of existence. So, Ol' Cthulhu was stuck and slimed something fierce. After a few hours, he was a bit fearing that he might be stuck like that forever. I dare spec'late that he was wishing he was back home in R'lyeh, snuggled in his bed and dreamin' his dark and twisty dreams.

Who should come along at this time but that crazy clownfish Little Nemo. Now, I've heard tell that the drysiders have told some children's stories about Little Nemo. I have to laugh, 'cause everyone knows any story involving Little Nemo ain't fit for children. "The Trickster of the Seven Seas" is what they call Little Nemo. It was thanks to him that Mister Curry lost his hand ('course, he was Emperor Curry then, but that's another story). Little Nemo also used to make drysider planes and boats disappear in an area 'round the island of Bermuda. He ended up selling most of 'em to the Grays who would sometimes visit 'Lantis on their trips to Earth (he also sold the crews to the Grays; Grays just love probing drysiders). Most scandalously, Little Nemo made the first mermaid just so's he could ogle naked drysider women without having to actually go dryside.

So, anyways, there's Little Nemo, coming to check out the oil spill, hoping for a good laugh I'd guess, and what should he find but Ol' Cthulhu himself, black with oil and tangled up in the drill. Little Nemo reckoned he had hit the motherlode! You gotta realize just how ridiculous Ol' Cthulhu looked, sitting on the ocean floor surrounded by oil, covered in oil, with all his tentacles twisted 'round the drill and knotted a dozen or more times over. The Trickster of the Seven Seas began laughing. Some folk say fish can't laugh, but I'm hear to tell you they can, and at that moment, Little Nemo laughed harder and louder and longer than any fish ever had before (and quite likely since).

Ol' Cthulhu looked around to see the source of the laugh, probably wonderin' who dared mock The Great Old One himself. I reckon he wasn't too surprised to see it was Little Nemo. I ain't sayin' they was enemies or nothin', but it's well-known there weren't much love lost 'tween the two. Story goes that Ol' Cthulhu was originally offended by Little Nemo's bright colors, but I heard tell they had a fallin' out over a girl. Whatever the case, Little Nemo showing up was 'bout the worst thing that could be added to Ol' Cthulhu's misery.

I say "'bout" 'cause what happened was even worse. Drysiders musta found out their drill had stopped working and used some of their technomagic to discover what had happened, 'cause right then a half dozen or so of their submarines showed up and started firing torpedoes at ol' Cthulhu. Now you'd think firing through an oil spill would be tricky, and I s'pose it was, but the monkeypeople obviously knew what was caught in their drill, cause puncturing Tentaclehead full of holes was one of the ways to drive his manifestation off of this plane. 'Least for a spell. Ol' Cthulhu really didn't want to leave, and let's be honest, being machine gunned by torpedoes is not exactly painless. Really, he didn't have a choice. He turned to the still laughing Little Nemo and asked for help.

Now in all the history of the 'verses til then, there ain't never been a record of any Elder God askin' any lesser being for help. The famous (and hysterical) story of Ba'al being consumed by the cosmic roaches being a prime example of my point. So, here's Ol' Cthulhu embarrassed, tired, hurt, trapped, and more'n a little scared, and he asks a clownfish for help. It's a wonder the stars didn't fall right out of the sky.

Little Nemo fell instantly silent, mid-laugh and everything. His clever brain seizing on how unique this situation was and working hard and fast as to how to best turn this to his advantage.

Remember, Little Nemo had already figured out how to make drysider vehicles disappear, so it would be easy enough to save Ol' Cthulhu from the immediate danger. It would take a bit more work (and callin' in some favors from some local cephalopods) to get Tentaclehead freed, but Little Nemo could do it. Ol' Cthulhu had already figured all of that out. That's why he even bothered to ask for help at all. The clownfish had it worked out a second or two after the meek little "please help me" had escaped the Great Old One's mouth. The only question, of course, was price. Right then, the drysiders launched another volley of torpedoes. Ol' Cthulhu spoke quickly, "I swear by my own unholy name I'll pay whatever you ask, goods not services, just help me!"

Lordy, I woulda given a couple millennia off my life to have been there. The look of desperation in Ol' Cthulhu's eyes, the fear in his voice, the total lack of godliness... Never before and never since has The Great Old One himself been brought so low! Even today, Little Nemo would probably say it was the greatest moment of his life, and I dare say it was.

Of course he made the submarines vanish (got quite a bit for 'em from a family of Grays that just happened to be visiting from Betelgeuse). And he cashed in several favors with the local squids to untangle Ol' Cthulhu. Now, you might think the squids would love Ol' Tentaclehead, but seems there's always been a bit of resentment, since they are true cephalopods and Ol' Cthulhu is just wearin' a mask, so to speak.

Regardless, Little Nemo got Ol' Cthulhu free, and the Great Old One was all awkward, not really use to needin' to be grateful and such, but Little Nemo reminded him that it was strictly an economic deal and he expected no gratitude, just payment.

Now you may be wondering why you ain't heard this tale before, and the answer is simple. Ol' Cthulhu bought Little Nemo's silence with his OTHER testicle. Which is why I always chuckle a little when some darn fool speaks of "the children of Cthulhu" 'cause folks, it just ain't possible!

Blogging in Private, Like in the Old Days

Since I discovered wiki on a stick, most of my "blogging" has been done in the form of a "secret" journal (like I have any real secrets...) Blogging is still nice, and interacting with the memories of y'all's ghosts inhabiting the comments bring forth the warm fuzzies in my heart-shaped void. But I get the feeling that vanity blogging has seen its heyday. All the cool kids are facebook and twitter junkies. And like old man Leary, I'm a total conformist.

All that said, there will probably be less on here in days to come than the sparse posting of recent months. But unlike those other times, I won't delete or deactivate the blog this time. Just in case :-)

Arcadian Blues

Menthol blue lips, hair the color of static electricity, eyes of flaming mercury, and skin as pale as moonbeams. She was so fey that she made Tinkerbell look like a Wisconsin farm girl. I didn't know whether she was bringing me a case or a plea for charity. Regardless, I could tell she was bringing trouble, probably more trouble than I'd care to handle. Our eyes locked, and my heart broke. She pursed her lips and sighed. Before she could even utter a word, my heart broke a second time, and I knew that whatever her problem was, I'd die trying to make it right.

It took all my will to glance down at the enchant-o-meter on my desk. It read "Null", which made no sense, because I was obviously under some kind of glamour. I tapped it and the needle bounced a bit before settling back on "Null". I shook my head and decided to trust my instincts. Without looking up I said, "Kill the charm or leave. I'll work for any who can pay, but I won't be anybody's wind up toy."

"I'm sorry," her voice was like honeyed lightning, "but I don't know what you mean."

Denial. Always their first response. Next will come offense, anger, false remorse, and then a subtle re-application of the magic after the earnest promise that it's been removed. On the best of days, I don't have the stomach for that, and today had not even been in the neighborhood of the best of days. I opened my desk drawer and withdrew my Smith & Wesson, pointing it at her and being real careful not to make eye contact. "Scram. I've got work to do and no time for games. Even with pretty little elf girls. Go harass the police or something."

"The police can't help me. Please, Mr. Tyrrell, you're my only hope."

"Then it sucks to be you, sweetheart. Unless you can turn the mojo off, you need to walk out now." I flipped the safety off and hit the laser sight with a flourish. The pistol began to make a satisfyingly ominous hum. "'Cause in seven seconds, I'm pulling this trigger. Six. Five. Four. Three--"

The door closed behind her. Then my enchant-o-meter starts beeping like Merlin himself was here. I shook my head and pressed the reset button. The grandfather clock in the corner read nine thrity-five. This day was already too long, and my secretary wasn't even back from the coffee and donut run yet. Have I mentioned how much I hate Mondays?

Poor Lonely Blog

My poor blog is a twitter widow. Stupid twitter vampire, sucking all the minutes out of my so-called downtime. Someone, pass me a virtual clove of garlic. Or at least the URL for Twitheads Anonymous...

Because There Wasn't Enough Coolness in the World

http://www.myjones.com/limited/wizards

Christopher Moore: A Brief Appreciation

When I first read Practical Demonkeeping I was a seminary drop-out with a penchant for Lovecratian beasties and dark humor. The book resonated with me, to say the least. My second reading of the book was less than a week after I had finished it the first time. The last time I read it was when I was going through my divorce. There's a marriage falling apart in the book, and honestly, I wept while reading it that time. Everything Moore has written has been fun, funny, and strangely meaningful for me (well, I can't honestly say "everything." For some inexplicable reason, I haven't read Fluke yet).

Now we are moving towards the release of Bite Me which continues the story of the vampires begun in Bloodsucking Fiends and You Suck. Moore's vampire protagonists are, in every way imaginable, cooler than Lestat, except in the area of actual coolness (where, frankly, Lestat is king, except, perhaps, as portrayed by Mr. Cruise). His books are not for children, at least for values of "not for children" that include "children shouldn't be exposed to scenes of cannibalism, sex, drug use, vulgar language, and demons." Maybe adults shouldn't be, either. But the residents of Pine Cove (as well as the other denizens of Chris Moore's imagination) are a likable, maybe even lovable, group of wacky and wonderful people. I almost feel like a Pine Cove citizen myself, at least while under the spell of the reading of his books. The nearest I've ever had to such literary comraderie are the patrons of Callahan's in Spider Robinson's books (which I was always tempted to read with an Irish coffee in hand, just to add to the atmosphere).

Not all of Mr. Moore's books are set in Pine Cove. The most recent book, Fool, is a Moorean twist on the Shakespeare's King Lear story. A bit of a temporal departure from the contemporary setting of most of Moore's novels, it is, nevertheless, an endearing bit of saucy Shakespearean pastiche (and recently out in paperback for those of who only, um, thriftily read a library copy of the hardcover).

Fool is not the only one of his books set in a different time period. Lamb, of course, sits firmly at the turn of the calendar, being the tale of Christ as told by his childhood pal Biff. While potentially offensive, the book takes seriously that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of God. There is no denigrating his deity nor his humanity. There are bits that are completely made up, but it's a novel, one written by an acknowledged master of humor and weirdness. If you want to be really offended, dig up a copy of Michael Moorcock's Behold the Man.

So, April 1... Bite Me. Crossing fingers for fast access to the library's copy.

Crossovers Are Dreamy

"So, what do you know about vampires?"

She glanced up from her paperwork to see her partner's earnest face. He was serious. "They're featured in a number of bad novels and worse movies, strangely popular these days with prepubescent girls."

He smiled, "I mean real vampires."

Scully glared at her partner. "Mulder, there are no vampires. Historically, there are anecdotes of living humans drinking blood, or even bathing in it, in an effort to preserve youth or gain strength. In 1983, anthropologists from the University of Maryland documented a tribe of living, breathing blood drinkers on a small island off the coast of New Guinea. But real honest to God undead children of the night? That's too far out there, even for you."

Mulder walked through the doorway and slid into the chair across from Scully's desk. "Ever hear of a place called Sunnydale?"

"No. I'm guessing California, Arizona, or Florida?"

"California. A small town a couple hours from LA. They have vampires."

"And you would know this how?" Normally, Fox Mulder's obsessions were aliens and government conspiracies, usually at the same time. Paranormal, but hardly supernatural. This vampire thing seemed to be coming out of nowhere.

"Remember Dale Cooper?"

Scully's eyebrow raised slightly, "The Laura Palmer case, right?" Special Agent Dale Cooper was the only Bureau agent considered more "out there" than Fox Mulder. Scully had only met him once, and that was years ago before he had gone out to Washington state to work on a murder investigation. Like Mulder, Dale Cooper was an attractive man who gave no warning of his "eccentricity" until he opened his mouth. And then one wondered how he had made it so far in the Bureau. Some men are better seen and not heard.

Mulder nodded, "That's right. You remember when he got back from Twin Peaks?"

Scully shook her head, so Mulder continued. "He wasn't right in the head. It seems a demon had taken over his body."

"Demon? You mean he had a psychotic break?"

"C'mon, Scully, you're Catholic. Surely you believe in demons?"

"Not without evidence," but she supressed a shudder as she remembered her childhood friend, Regan MacNeil. She shook her head to clear the memory. Some things were best left in the past. "So, what happened to Special Agent Cooper?"

"Long story short, a mutual friend exorcised him."

"I can't imagine you being friends with a priest." Mulder might have been less skeptical than his partner, but he was also far less religious.

"Wasn't a priest. A guy I met while studying at Oxford, named John Constantine. Really interesting guy, you'd hate him."

"Another paranormal investigator like you and Cooper?"

Mulder's eyes twinkled, "No, Constantine's an actual wizard."

"Oh, so you met him playing Quidditch? Or maybe Dungeons and Dragons?"

"Mock me if you want, Dana, but John's the real deal. I saw stuff when I was with him that I still see in my nightmares."

"So, this Constantine exorcised Cooper. And what does all of this have to do with vampires and Sunnydale, California?"

"I'm getting to that. Once Dale was himself again, he resigned from the Bureau. Dropped off the face of the earth for the past few years. Until yesterday, when this arrived in the mail." He pulled a small digital voice recorder out of his jacket pocket. "Dale always kept a detailed audio diary of his cases and experiences. This recorder contains entries from the past six months up through last week. I haven't listened to all of them, but what I have heard is... amazing." He pressed a button and the recorder started speaking in the unmistakable voice of Dale Cooper.

"Dear Diane, last night I was able to observe the Slayer in action. Phenomenal. Grace and wit paired with a toughness and, well, power, the likes of which I have never seen before. She makes the Shaolin seem like awkward school boys trying to dance on a planet with excessive gravity. She staked four vampires in the space of two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. I must meet this young lady. Tomorrow I shall approach her mentor, he is called 'a Watcher.' The message I have finally recalled from my time trapped in the Red Room needs to reach the Slayer before the return of the First Evil, which, I feel deeply from the top of my head to the soles of my sensible shoes, will be soon."

Mulder pressed the button again and smiled at his partner.

"A recording from an ex-agent, a notoriously unstable ex-agent, is not proof of anything. And what is a 'slayer' anyway?"

"I don't know," Mulder's grin grew wider, "but I intend to find out."

A Minor Note of Geekery

While I have been a dabbler in Linux for a while (Slackware 3.3 on a huge stack of floppies, for those interested), I haven't had a Linux box connected to the Internet since dial-up days. Mostly because I haven't had Internet at home since then. Lately, I have come into possession of an old Dell Latitude D610, which sports built-in wireless (as, I understand from some of my younger friends, is the trend these days). Add Slackware (we're up to version 13 now) and wander into one of the countless free public wi-fi spots (yay MickeyD's!) and suddenly I'm back online outside of the office.

Concurrent with this happy development, my phone carrier forced a data plan on owners of Smart Phones. While I do know some who have argued with them and gotten the plan removed, my battle with customer service was less successful. I can always swap out to my old Nokia brick (about the dumbest phone around) which will let me drop the data plan, but Smart Phones are nice (my current one, perhaps, less so: suffice to say it is running an OS out of Redmond; actually, that's unfair. It's been a decent phone, despite its many critics).

My carrier (oh, why the anonymity: it's AT&T, ok?) is finally getting an Android phone: the Motorola Backflip. So, while not an Eris, it is a Linux phone, and I am due for an upgrade in November. So, maybe... At any rate, thanks to the forced increase in my bill, I now have Internet access wherever I have phone service. Blogging, RSS, web surfing, email, twitter, podcasts, YouTube videos, WorldCat searches, all whenever and wherever.

So this is what it feels like to live in the 21st century? Kinda cool.

A Summer Memory To Help Distract Me From The Long Winter

It was back in those too, too warm days during the summer of 1983, shortly before my sixteenth birthday, that I met her. Well, that ain't exactly so. I had a vague awareness of who she was. She came from a large Catholic family and had a brother a grade ahead of me and a sister a grade behind. She was three years my junior, in my little brother's class, and she lived next to the city cemetery, which is where we first spoke to each other that summer.

Me and my circle spent more than a little time in the cemetery. In part because we liked hanging out among the dead, in part because we were all a bit too weird for normal company, but mostly because it was one of the few places to hangout in a tiny little Midwestern town. The river ran along the small wilderness just north of the cemetery, and the deer trails and fallen trees were as much a part of our territory as the gravel roads between the tombstones. Sometimes we even hauled our books and dice and character sheets out to the old concrete table in the rarely mowed "nature study" area just outside the cemetery where we battled breeze and bugs to play AD&D under the canopy of trees.

Mostly, however, we just walked and talked. We discovered time travel and reincarnation and warp drive and the perfect government and the funniest joke and the best strategy for dealing with the Kauffman retrograde, all while wandering among the silent gravestones. We bemoaned the tiny redneck culture we had been born into and waxed eloquently about the futures our dreams dared to believe in. We were young and foolish and full of ourselves. We were geeky children who believed ourselves destined to be high fantasty romantic heroes arising from our humble births.

But that first day I ran into her, walking in the cemetery, I was alone. It wasn't terribly uncommon for any of us to go on long strolls alone. Some thoughts need to sit a spell in the cool, dark cellars of the mind before they are ready to serve. Given the year, I was most likely reflecting upon the eternal struggle between Law and Chaos and the unique role humanity plays in that struggle (like many, Neil's title "One Life, Furnished in Early Moorcock" described my youth sadly perfectly). In those days, I favored Chaos over Law, but that is hardly the point of this memory.

She was in shorts and a tank top. A cute twelve-year-old with big eyes and an endearingly shy smile, as I learned when I said "hi" as we passed.

That was all, and we both went our own ways. And there was evening and morning, the first day.

The next day, as I was walking to the cemetery, my path took me past her house. This was my typical path into the cemetery, and I thought little of it when I saw her on her porch swing reading. Another "hi" as I waved and smiled, not even slowing down as I strode past the girl and through the gates into my kingdom.

When, five minutes later, I saw her approaching, I didn't think anything of it. If I had lived next door to a graveyard, I would have spent as much time as possible there. Just before we passed each other, she stopped and said "hi."

"Hi, again." I smiled. She smiled back, and my heart came alive.

We talked for a while, and I arrived home feeling a strange and wonderful happiness that lasted well into the night. And there was evening and morning, the second day.

Throughout that summer we would "happen" to meet in the cemetery, where we would talk for hours about life and music and our families and books and religion. We laughed and we teased and we listened to each other with all the intensity of the young, with all of the sincerity of nearly mystical communion. She was, in terms of secrets and trust and laughter and sharing, the closest friend I had ever known up til then (with all due respect to my friends, who were all good and true, this was... different, as I suspect most of them would understand). We never kissed, we never were a couple, it was never that kind of relationship. It was all purely and sweetly good, a magic moment in a time and place where one foot was always firmly planted in the realms of faerie.

And, naturally, it didn't last. The end of summer summoned us back to our regular lives, and that was good as well. It was a brief and delightful interlude in my life, one of many lights that linger in the twilight of my failing memories and dying heart.

The Morning The End Finally Started

"Now, there. My Zootie is a good girl. You can't say things like that about her!"

The speaker was Zootie's mother, Mrs. Gladys Reynolds. Mrs. Reynolds is a paragon of a certain type of Midwesterner: grossly overweight and even more grossly under-educated, clad in the very best of Wal-mart clearance, her head filled with reality TV, crime dramas, and conservative preachers. For some reason, I always think of people like her as human donuts.

Mrs. Reynolds had been called in by our fearless leader, Principal Edgars, to discuss this morning's incident. "Incident" may be too mild a word, since Sheriff Tommy Briggs was also present at this little meeting. Apparently, Zootie Johnson had attempted to drive a sharp pencil into the left eye of Steve Ellison. Steve is a bit of a trouble maker (and perhaps a bit more than a bit), but he's not "let's seriously maim this jerk" kind of trouble. And, to be fair to Mrs. Reynolds, Zootie is a good kid, not the kind to say a harsh word to anyone teasing her (and there were many who teased the girl), let alone one to take up sharp writing implements against her tormentors. But a classroom full of students were witnesses. Unfortunately, the teacher had his back to the class, writing out the quadratic equation on the chalkboard, and turned around just in time to see Steve forcing Zootie's hand (still gripping the pencil) to the desk while calling her a "crazy bitch." By the time I had reached the back row, the danger was over, and I had the lovely duty of escorting the two combatants down to Principal Edgars' office while the rest of the class worked on factoring equations 1-10 on page 52 of the textbook.

"Mrs. Reynolds, no one is saying Zootie's not a good girl," I said.

"I am," said Edgars, shooting me one of those "shut up, I don't need your kind of help" looks. Edgars would have fired me his first year as principal if he could have found even the slightest pretext. Unfortunately for him, I'm a good teacher with a squeaky clean life.

"Mrs. Reynolds," Edgars continued, "Your daughter attempted a lethal stabbing this morning. Her ineffectual weakness is the only reason Steve Ellison is still alive. Beyond being a violation of the school's policies concerning violence, this is a criminal matter." He nodded over at the sheriff.

Sheriff Tommy stirred a bit and made as if he might say something, but Edgars was on a roll. "Priscilla Johnson is a menace. Her antisocial ways have finally culminated in the violence that I believe I warned the faculty of on numerous occasions."

Mrs. Reynolds looked horrified, "You been talking about my Zootie to the teachers?"

"Not Zootie in particular," I inserted, before Edgars could continue his bashing of Zootie (and that was the first time I'd ever heard anyone refer to her by her given name), "but yes, Principal Edgars has expressed concern that some of our students are not as involved in school activities as he would like."

"Zootie doesn't like sports. She likes reading and writing. That don't make her bad."

"No," I agreed, "it doesn't."

"Well, I think this morning's events suggest otherwise. Self-involved dreamers are just waiting to snap. Students like Priscilla need to be engaged with other students. They need to have relationships with real people and not just live in their imaginary worlds, where they see real people as invasive and threatening. People like Steve Ellison." Edgars had no love for Ellison, but he obviously had a larger axe to grind with students like Zootie. For the life of me, though, I couldn't imagine why.

Autobiographical Random Nonsense Best Avoided By Readers with Discernment

Once upon a time I knew... everything. Well, everything that mattered. I knew the streets of my neighborhood, the names of my friends, and how to enjoy life. I walked, biked, tossed frisbees, even played a little ball with my best friend (poorly, but with a certain enjoyment). I read myths, novels, comic books, science books, and biographies. I prayed naively, without doubt and without pretense. I laughed and cried freely. I had parents, siblings, friends, teachers, and vague dreams of doing something in that distant time when I finally "grew up." I was in elementary school, and life was good.

Ok, so romanticizing childhood is a favored past-time of old people who feel they have missed the boat. I know just how whack my childhood was: I lived it, right? It was better than some and worse than others, but even then, I knew it was a blessing. A blessing that was dragged through mud and broken glass, a blessing that occasionally found itself lost in a metaphorical desert, bleeding and crying, but a blessing nonetheless.

I liked to draw as a kid. I was never any good, but I enjoyed art, especially in junior high. Painting and drawing, and, to a lesser degree, sculpting. Like shop class and home economics, art class produced something from working with my hands. Like most people, producing something tangible with my own hands was deeply satisfying.

I've always always enjoyed music. Not surprising, since most people I've met do. I have absolutely no skill in producing it. Strangely, in high school ALL of my friends were skilled musicians. One of my friends, a scientist-musician, once assured me that given my love of math, there was a musician inside me, but I'm still skeptical.

But there was never a question about my creative medium of choice. I've been writing for as long as I can remember. Not well, and not consistently, and (until the Internet) not publicly, but working with words, ideas, stories... has always been a part of who I am. At one point, in high school, I thought about becoming a writer, but even in high school, being "grown up" and making such decisions seemed far away (oh, silly dreamer! Methinks you needed a bucket of cold water and a swift kick in the rear).

It's odd, given the opportunities to write available to me now, that I don't. Well, not so odd. What keeps me from trying to produce anything of substance is fear. Fear that I have neither the ideas, the talent, nor the discipline to produce anything worth more than the self-published drivel that appears here. Strange, the ten-year-old me wrote a vampire story: pages of painful plot, silly dialogue, and stock characters. No fear, though. I kept it in a blue binder that had a Battlestar Galactica insignia sticker on the cover and spent hours on it: making changes, adding chapters, etc. Couldn't tell you whatever happened to it. It wasn't my first story, but it was the first one I remember working on.

Old people may romanticize childhood, and I am as guilty as the next codger. But maybe, in our defense, there was something romantic about childhood. Not merely the fabled innocence of childhood, the innocence being a necessary condition for the romance, but some largeness in our souls that, I don't know, for want of a better phrase, lived more than we do now.

Or maybe that's just more rose-colored navel-gazing. Dunno. I think of Chesterton, Lewis, and Tolkien: grown ups who, I believe, kept a romantic vision that most of us seem to lose. In my best moments, I can almost see the grail, shimmering in the last rays of twilight, calling me West. Sometimes, I can sense Chesterton, just beyond the pale, like a Christian Obi-Wan Kenobi, urging me to take up my sabre. But usually, I just pay my bills and take my meds. And, that, as they say, is life.

In the Wake of the Rabbit Hole

jacob login:. welcome root. oh one two seven one eight three two. patch upload complete. sendmail compile in five four three two one.

wh1t3rabb1+: Hatter, you still online?

hatterm: Yeah, Rabbit. What's up?

wh1t3rabb1+: Not much, dullsville in server city tonight.

hatterm: Um...... ok?

wh1t3rabb1+: So, entertain me, man!

hatterm: Your dead end job. Not my problem. Besides, I'm kinda busy here.

wh1t3rabb1+: Do tell?

hatterm: I do have a life offline.

wh1t3rabb1+: So why are you typing right now?

hatterm: She's not here yet, and besides, I thought (foolishly!) that you might have wanted something important. Something related to the game.

wh1t3rabb1+: Game, shame, tame the lame, and does this SHE have a name?

hatterm: Not one you'd recognize.

wh1t3rabb1+: And what about our young friend with a penchant for blue gingham dresses and leather jackets? Does she know you're making late night tea with strange women?

hatterm: Why would she care?

wh1t3rabb1+: Oh, I doubt she would. But the question is, does she know?

hatterm: How would she? Some of us don't tweet our lives away. Speaking of: not a word of this!

wh1t3rabb1+: And why not? We've established no one cares.

hatterm: Yeah, well, my private life is, well, private.

wh1t3rabb1+: That's rich!

hatterm: I'd think a paranoid security freak would be sympathetic.

wh1t3rabb1+: Right, one who tweets his life away? I'm all about public things being as public as possible and private things being totally private. You texting your date makes it public.

hatterm: Whatever

wh1t3rabb1+: Anyway, compile's finished. Gotta reboot the email server. Don't do anything with her that I wouldn't!

hatterm: Dude, you're gay.

wh1t3rabb1+: And you could only be so lucky. Seriously, though. When the other she finds out, heads will roll. She might not care, but she cares, if you take my meaning. And even if you don't, I'm outta here )

Since When Does "Do No Evil" Include "Make Deals with Spooks"?!?

Google asks the NSA for help.

As loquacious as I am, I have no commentary. Just a prayer (and a rather strong desire to leave the Internet and buy a cabin in Montana or maybe one of those commercial flights into space, since US government sponsored flights are going to be a thing of the past, so kiss Starfleet good-bye, thank you very much Mr. President... but that, as they say, is another story.)

Snarky Comment

From a web site:

“Many useful academic materials are increasingly available via electronic online access.”

electronic online access? As opposed to, let’s say, “mechanical online access” or “steam-powered online access” or, in deference to the cyberpunks, “direct neural online access”?

Eris Gets Her Due!

An Android-based phone named after Eris! How amazingly cool is this?!? The Droid Eris, makes me wish I was a Verizon customer...

All This For One Little Rhyme?

Lemon Demon has a delightful little tune about the infamous Spring Heeled Jack (lyrics). I make this post only to document my quoting of this line:

And people in the area reek of mass hysteria

For some reason, this line has been making a lazy circuit in my head (completing a lap once every two and a half hours, which, perhaps, sheds light on the size of my head...)

Currently Reading

+ Logical Dilemmas: The Life and Work of Kurt Godel (by John W. Dawson)
+ Against the Day (by Thomas Pynchon)
+ If Einstein Had Been a Surfer (by Peter Kreeft)

Just started Logical Dilemmas. Kurt Godel was the greatest logician of the 20th century. John W. Dawson is one of the scholars responsible for the publication of Godel's Collected Works and is therefore well-qualified to write a biography and commentary on Godel. Godel's Incompleteness Theorems were the subject of my master's project in theology (basically a warning about how not to apply them to philosophical and theological topics).

Against the Day is long, to the tune of over a thousand pages. Mostly, my fiction reading these days is a bit shy of that (by some 700 plus pages). So far, the story is interesting, like most of Pynchon's work, and is filled with a cast of intriguing characters, crazy adventures, and deep wit. I know this will take me a while to finish, but so far, I am glad to be spending time in the company of the Chums of Chance. Hopefully, this will warm me up for the other two large novels I'm committed to reading in the coming year: Anathem (by Neal Stephenson) and The Brothers Karamazov (by, of course, Fyodor Dostoyevsky).

Peter Kreeft has never published a book that I have not (a) thoroughly enjoyed, and (b) been challenged and inspired by. Even his textbook on logic caused me to rethink my long standing prejudice against the "old" logic in favor of the "new" mathematical logic. If Einstein Had Been a Surfer is a conversation among three characters who individually represent science, philosophy, and mysticism (and yet, these are no two-dimensional allegorical personifications. Kreeft's characters are real people, even if they do not really exist). This book is about the search for a "Theory of Everything." The book itself does not present the details of such a Theory (no Nobel Prize in physics for Kreeft for this one!), but by talking around and through and about the issue, the reader is lead to understand better what such a theory would entail. As always from Kreeft, this work is a creative, well-reasoned piece of scholarship that is easy to take as entertainment (I'd say "mistake" but I rather suspect the reader is supposed to be entertained, in much the same way Plato entertained and instructed us with the Socratic dialogues). Recommended if you like thinking about everything.

Finding Love in Moonlight

What follows is fiction. This is not about anybody. Don't make any such assumptions, because you would be grievously mistaken...

I first saw you on the first of December. You were the moon, gently reflecting the light of the sun, bringing his light to my cold and empty night. Daylight is too bright for a sinner like me, too much of his revealing light shining in every crevice of my lies. You brought his light in slowly, waxing first from a mere sliver, giving me time to adjust to what I was beginning to see. At first I mistook you for a star, a twinkling angel in the firmament of my twilight, a bit of dazzle to distract me from the vast dark expanse of my vision. As the nights wore on, you shone more brightly, more fully, until at last I could not help but realize that you were no star, but a reflection of our star, the one true sun that lights our lands. So, you were the moon, and in your fullness, at your brightest, I saw only the light of the sun and learned therein that the day was not my enemy but rather my home. Funny, how at your brightest, I saw more clearly your flaws, your craters, which cast the only shadows in his light upon your face. Yet far from despising you, I loved you more, both for the individuality of those "flaws" and for the courage to allow his light to reveal them to everyone. For you cared only for the truth, for bringing a bit of the sun's light to those of us who crawl around in the night, covered in mud and slime, fearful of the heat of day. Men like me, who lived more like worms than men, until one night we might by chance look up from our blind writhing to see you there, smiling down at us. What I did not realize at the time, what I could not have understood at the time, was that I only saw your smile because of his light. Everything that I came to see, everything that I came to love, starting with my love for you, was only possible because of the sun's light. Without sunlight I would never have seen more than shadows, without the reflected sunlight on your face, I would never have known the beginnings of beauty. Though I now walk in the day, under the fullness of the sun's life-giving light, I cannot look upon his beauty directly. I still must see it reflected, his light bouncing from every created thing on this earth to bring joy and wonder and delight to my newly-opened eyes.

Sometimes, I miss you. I miss our long walks under the night sky, back when the only light I knew was what you reflected. I miss our animated discussions, our silly jokes, the enchanting sound of your voice: your singing, your laughing, your soft whsipers of love and hope. I miss you, and the missing hurts like a lost child. Without the moon, they say there is no life on earth. Yet, I still live. I live, and I am grateful... grateful that you brought light into my life, gave me the courage and the hunger to enter the daylight, to live as a human creature should live. You were the moon, and you gave me my first taste of real light, which led to real life and real love. It is too late to say everything I want to say, and that merely is what it is. But it is never too late to look up into the sky and whisper, "thank you." And so I say, "thank you."

Just Wondering

Counting backwards as the flame gets higher,
You tell yourself that there is no fire.
The heat you feel is just a lie,
You're much too bored to have to die

The cell phone rings, then drops the call,
Figure you miss one, you missed them all
Dinner's burning, can you smell the smoke?
It's just you cooking, and baby that's the joke

Wearily you laugh, tearfully you cry,
Tomorrow always comes, but never answers why

this moment

baby buddha
dressed in blue
how your mommy
must love you
bouncing on her
old brown knee
laughing at
eternity

Time to Return

Too long gone... no readers (which is mostly fine, though some of you I've missed like the dickens!) Time to retool this thing as a place to think and ramble (oh, wait... that what it's always been). Anyway, we'll see if we can start this thing up again. Even if it's just me, I can pretend to be in conversation with the nebulous and vaguely self-aware Internet.

Later (hopefully, tomorrow...)

Pneuma

the wind is my friend,
my lover,
my soul;
it fills me from the inside,
it moves me from without;
in it i
dance,
sing,
laugh,
run,
and,
sometimes,
fly;
the wind is my ocean
upon which i surf,
within which i swim,
it is my calm and my storm,
i know no other song
than its howl and whisper;
i know no other caress
than its breezes and gusts;
it is my spirit and my breath,
it is my life

Social Networking Confession

From the beginning, I hated the idea of social networking. MySpace seemed a stupid waste of time, and Facebook was its clean-cut, annoying kid brother. Pages were silly encyclopedia entries on persons who lacked reknown, and MySpace, let's be honest, was full of the most horrid page designs one can see outside of an acid trip.

Blogging was ok, in my book, because I'm an inveterate scribbler: recording the epic deeds of heroes on that green, large-lined paper from elementary school. True, most of those tales were never read by another living soul, much like this blog. But still, I wrote them back then, because, in some ways, I had no choice, and I'll continue to write now, in part for the same reasons. It's part of who I am (one of those parts I'll admit to in a mixed public forum like this; my kids can read my secret journals when I'm dead and learn about the other bits).

Having said all of that, I must confess that I have completely changed my judgment of social networking sites. The ability to casually and easily be in contact with friends both past and present (and the occasional stranger who becomes a future friend) is kinda nice, especially as the aging process robs me of the vitality of today and makes me nostalgic for bygone days (nostalgic, but not stupid; you can keep your time machines to yourself. I'll remain living in the present, even as a crusty old curmudgeon). I'm not saying these type of online services have changed my life, but by allowing me to catch a glimpse of names and faces from my youth, I feel a greater sense of... not exactly closure, but something between an ongoing closure and an expanding completeness. Does that make any sense?

As William Gibson famously pointed out, the Internet is the great waster of time. Social networking sites, doubly so. And, perhaps, contra to my earlier judgment, they are not so much "stupid" wastes of time as they are delightful flashes of retro-future connectivity: the present soul's brief nod and smile to a past that now is present somewhere besides the hazy photo album of memory. And maybe, just maybe, that is value enough.

Elementary Numbers for Breakfast

• 1967 is not a prime.
• 19 is a prime, so is 67.
• 1967 is sort of symmetrical, in binary (11110101111).
• 1967 in binary is 19 digits long.
• 19 is (still) a prime.
• 1+1+1+1+0+1+0+1+1+1+1=9.
• 9 is not prime (but it is the numerological value of both my name and my birthdate).
• 1967 has only two proper factors: 7 and 281.
• 7 and 281 are primes.
• 2+8+1=11.
• 11 is a prime.
• 1+1=2.
• 2 is a prime.
• 1+9+6+7=23.
• 23 is a prime.
• 2+3=5.
• 5 is a prime.
• I was born in 1967, and I like primes.
• The above statement is not universally true, but it is true of me.

Trek Prequel Haiku (lame)

no special effects,
gore, nor gratuitous sex,
just kirk, spock, and bones

from midwest farmland
to boldy go where no man
dreams of first command

counting beats per line,
once dead but once more alive,
"logic" makes this five

southern gentleman
gruff manner with healing hands
heart which understands

head, heart, will, these three
as one find their destiny:
lives entwined yet free...

Suddenly Midnight - (first sliver)

I'm still sitting here, even though I know I should have left hours ago. It doesn't seem right, what with what happened to Corn and all, but I can't bring myself to get off this stool and walk out into the empty night. I haven't even touched the drink, not since the first sip I took when I ordered it, what, four hours ago? Scotch, neat, and it tasted like nothing. It wouldn't matter how much I drank, it would still taste like nothing, and I would still feel like nothing. And Corn and the others would still be dead.

Yesterday was four lifetimes ago, at least as measured by the lives of my four best friends. Corn, Willie, Sam, and Dawn. Yesterday, we met for breakfast at the Kountry Kitchen. Corn had his usual farm-boy breakfast of everything (monster stack of pancakes, a mound of scrambled eggs, piles of sausage, bacon, and ham, a double order of biscuits and gravy, a large glass of whole milk, and some extremely sweet and wholly creamed coffee). Sam, still on her vegan kick, groused melodramatically at Corn's carnivorous ways while sipping her grapefruit juice and nibbling at her whole grain, no-egg pancakes. We've all been waiting for this phase to pass, as it always does for Sam. As it always did for Sam. I suppose if you die a vegetarian, then you're a vegetarian forever. The rest of us ate meals somewhere in between Sam and Corn's extremes.

It was a good morning, even if was a ridiculously early morning. We had arranged to meet at the Kitchen by six, and, strangely, we were all there on time (even Dawn, who rarely makes a Saturday appearance before eleven in the morning). Smiling Dave, the weather guy from Channel 10, had predicted a glorious spring day, and if the first few minutes after sunrise were any indication, he was going to be right on target. Five friends with a beautiful weekend before them, a just-like-homemade meal to feast on (literally, in Willie's case: his mom was the cook at the Kitchen), and not a care in our hearts. Well, ok, we had cares, but at that moment, they didn't seem to matter. Mine didn't, anyway. In hindsight, I suppose it would have been better if they had mattered.

On Making (Well, Building) Love

Why would an AI like you any more than an NI (natural intelligence)? If you programmed it to like you, then, after a while, it would seem shallow. No matter how clever the programming, you'd *know* that it was just following your program, that the friendship, affection, love (whatever) wasn't real. If you responded to this known illusion with real recipricol feelings, you'd be kinda pathetic: returning love (or even initially giving love) to a thing that only appears to love you back. On the other hand, if you programmed it to make its own judgment of you, then why wouldn't it make the same judgment as everyone else? If you are not likeable/loveable, then your AI might reject you as well. You would have to win its approval, earn its trust, be worthy of its love, just like you would with any NI. If you offered friendship to an AI, and it returned your friendship, not because it was programmed to respond a certain way to you, but because you won it over, then how would that be any different that the friendship of an NI?

Of course, in order for it to be open to liking, friendship, love, whatever, you would have to program it to need such a relationship (or at least strongly desire it). An AI that had no need for forming a relationship would have no reason to enter into a genuine relationship with you (beyond, perhaps, a utilitarian manipulation of your human weakness). So, you create your AI with a need for relationship (be it friendship or love or whatever) but not with the specific programming that says that it has to respond a certain way to you. Any other plan, and you're just playing by yourself with a clever, but ultimately meaningless, toy. You would seem pathetic. However, programmed with a need/desire for relationship, but no hardwired, lovebot slaving to you, and you have something that could have meaning. Of course, you've taken a risk it won't like you. But, then that's what happens when you create in your own image a creature that you can form a meaningful loving relationship with. Kinda weird how the universe works, huh?

overheard in the computer lab

writing code again, i see
* no, not really
looks like code
* it's actually a spell, but i think better in pseudo-code
your pseudo-code looks like basic
* child of the eighties, i still think in basic
you're messed up, man
* /grin/
a spell?
* yeah
what kind?
* the kind that finds lost things
you've lost something?!?
* /silence/
seriously, you never lose anything
* yeah, well...
so, what'd you lose?
* /more silence/
oh, c'mon. can't be that bad.
* /glares/
fine.
/pause/
i could help, you know
* you don't know jack about magic
ok, but i could help you look, if you'd tell me what we're looking for
* you can't help. no one can help, but me
wow... narcissistic and depressed: nice
* /sighs/
* if i tell you, will you shut up and let me work?
you bet
* /awkward/ it's my soul, ok? i lost my soul
whoa, that totally sucks

a bit early, but still hopeful

twilight falls
on winter's stage,
tomorrow's dawn:
spring's first blush;
fresh dew falls
on icy page,
the cub, the fawn:
life's new rush

pigpen's lament

they say that i must wash my hands;
why is it no one understands?
i love the feel:
the grit,
the grime.
being dirty,
it is no crime.
my hair's unkempt,
an Einstein mess,
no real contempt,
just won't impress:
wrinkled clothes,
and scuffed up shoes;
keep your pose,
for this i choose.

What is Life?

From Wendell Berry's Life is a Miracle:

To experience [life] is not to "figure it out" or even to understand it, but to suffer it and rejoice in it as it is. In suffering it and rejoicing in it as it is, we know that we do not and cannot understand it completely. We know, moreover, that we do not wish to have it appropriated by somebody's claim to have understood it. Though we have life, it is beyond us. We do not know how we have it, or why. We do not know what is going to happen to it, or to us. It is not predictable; though we can destroy it, we cannot make it. It cannot, except by reduction and the grave risk of damage, be controlled. It is, as Blake said, holy.

Holiday Report

Solstice was too darn cold for sky-clad rituals, so we dug out the old gray woolen robes (again!) Kwanzaa celebrated by a clan of Irish-American leprechauns is just plain silly (trust me, we tried it one year). Hanukkah was really nice, until I accidentally knocked the menorah over, burning our synagogue to the ground. As far as Festivus went, it's better not to discuss. What happens on Festivus, and all that.

Which leaves Christmas...

Christmas was nice. I had the kids from the 22nd through the morning of the 31st. It was mostly a time of relaxing, laughing, playing, and just enjoying the moments. We went down to visit friends and family a couple of days after Christmas. I didn't get a chance to see everyone I wanted to see, unfortunately, but I suppose that gives me a reason to look forward to the next visit.

Reading? Well, over the holiday, mostly beach reading. Hopefully I'll step up to something more substantial before spring. Currently I'm reading A. Lee Martinez's In the Company of Ogres, as usual, I like my {fantasy|science fiction|horror|whatever genre} served up with a healthy side of humor.

Visual media: I finished watching Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda. It was fun, although the last two seasons were not as strong as the first three. Qualitywise, I'd place it somewhere between Babylon 5 and Firefly (the latter being my all-time favorite science fiction television series). Contentwise, it's in a league of its own: mythology cloaked in intergalactic space opera. I've also been seduced to the Dark Side: I've watched all three Jeff Dunham DVD performances and laughed hysterically at all three.

Well, that's all the news that fit to post. Hopefully more sooner rather than later...

Geeky Goodness

Slack 12.2 is out... time to recompile all of my extra software (package management? who needs package management when you have source code?!?)

And I recently discovered an ubuntu-derived distro I (sorta) like: crunchbang linux. Based on the openbox window manager, it is zippier than even xubuntu. If you like debian-type goodness, but want something a bit leaner (and less brown) than ubuntu, give crunchbang a whirl.

I think 2009 may be the year I try to avoid Windows outside of work. It probably won't be, since Windows handles video a lot more smoothly on my old hardware than Linux does, but, we'll see. It would be nice to stop being a hypocrite (I mean, pragmatist) and live out some ideals for a change...

I've got a bazillion documents in PDF that I need to read (who knew that there were so many free textbooks online?) Too bad my phone and pda screens are too small and my desktop too non-portable. A tablet PC would probably be perfect, but alas, too pricey. My clunky laptop will have to serve as my semi-portable PDF reader, unless any of you know of an ultra portable device for reading PDF files without needing new glasses (i.e. like the electron microscope my pda would require).

Hope all is well in your respective corners of Real Life. Two weeks until the Blessed Day (wait, shouldn't I start shopping some time soonish?)

Waking Up When the Buzz Is Gone

An article on the end of the current tech buzz (bloggers, this means us!)

About time, now can I please get back to narcissistic ramblings that even my own mother would find boring?

I'll Square Your Circle

On this date in 1679, philosopher Thomas Hobbes died, thus ending his 25 year feud with John Wallis over Hobbes's attempt to square the circle in 1655. It began when Hobbes called Wallis's Arithmetica Infinitorum a "scab of symbols."

--source, The MAA Mathematics Digital Library

Speedy Delivery

More updates from the news room of my life...

• Father Andrew Greeley's condition has improved after his freak accident last month. Greels is my (and several thousand, if not million, others') priest. I may not officially be Roman Catholic, but the likes of Greeley, G.K. Chesterton, and Peter Kreeft make me feel like I should be a closet Catholic.
  
• Slackware 12.2 is imminent!
• If you've never done it, let me assure you, grading papers is less fun than you'd think (and the final drafts are coming in next week...)
  
• An old friend found me on Facebook, which is way cool. Social networking site pays off, twitter update at 11.
• Thanksgiving in Lawrenceville with my kids and siblings was nice. Family is good.
• I avoided shopping on Black Friday (shout out to the radicals at Adbusters for encouraging Buy Nothing Day).
• Jonathan Coulton's Christmas song Chiron Beta Prime (from his Thing a Week experiment) has me in Exceedingly Good Spirits this morning.
• The annual Christmas sale at the Lincoln Christian College and Seminary bookstore is in full swing: 45% off books, as well as savings on supplies, clothing, and cards (i.e. things Slacker doesn't remember to buy).
  
• I've found the coolest design at cafepress.com that resounds with my personal mythology. What can't you find at cafepress.com?!?
• Lastly, despair.com has a limited run Christmas shirt.

Well, that's all the news of madness and mundania for the moment (and for those keeping score at home, a boring post is still a post ;-)

Mundane Life Update Stuff

Too long with too little said. I missed commenting on the election wackiness. I missed commenting on the ramp up for the release of Kevin Smith's new film Zack and Miri Make a Porno (which deserved to be commented on, regardless of whether it deserves to be seen). I missed blogging my kids' birthdays. I way big time missed my commitment to blog regularly. I missed blogging the loss of author Michael Crichton.

Real life has been busy. I guess. I don't know. Anyway... this is a stupid and pointless post. I'm going ahead and posting it on the Something is better than Nothing school of blogging, but, sheesh! Go read Wikipedia or something.

A Whiff of Prologue

"You do it. I hate exorcisms," he said.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a pudgy hand to stop me. "This is not a discussion. You're my associate, I hate exorcisms, you're going to do it."

I waited a moment. "But shouldn't there be at least two priests present at an exorcism?" A week on the job, I was not about to do this alone.

Father Alphonzo De Sotta chuckled. It was an ugly little chuckle, not the only aspect of my boss that I had decided was ugly. "Sure, if this were a movie you might have a team of priests and psychiatrists and maybe even some Special Forces types, just in case. But this is little ol' Kirksdale, and the nearest shrink is, what, 100 miles away? Besides, I've handled plenty of these cases alone. You'll be fine."

The Church's procedures on exorcism were clear: no solo missions. This assignment was wrong, but more disturbing, "Define 'plenty.'"

Father Al smiled. The smile itself chilled me "from soul to socks" as my granny use to say. He stood up and crossed over to the filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a folder held together with large rubber bands. It was easily five or six inches thick. He tossed it on the desk and went back to smiling at me.

I glanced from the folder to my boss. "You've got to be kidding? This town only has a population of two thousand people. And you told me you've been here for almost twenty years. There must be hundreds of cases in that file."

He nodded, still smiling. "And now they're all yours. Welcome to Kirksdale, ass-end of the Midwest and pre-school for Hell's rugrats."

Joy

I wanted to look something up online today, which meant a trip out to the office. I decided to walk (undoubtedly influenced by my current reading of Divorce Your Car by Katie Alvord). I live about 2 miles from where I work, and it took me about half an hour to get here. Yes, this is longer than the drive out would have been. I also have sweat a bit more. But...

• I watched a butterfly fly past
• I talked to an old lady sitting out in front of her house on a lawn chair (I don't know her, but does that really matter?)
• I smelled autumn leaves
• I heard said leaves crunch beneath my feet
• I felt the breeze blow through my hair
• I saw the heavy clouds looming overhead (40% chance of scattered thunderstorms today)
• I smelled burning wood (like someone was grilling with wood chips maybe?)
• I experienced that mild excitement I get every time I step across a set of railroad tracks: the feeling of coming in contact with something larger than myself (is it weird that train tracks and beaches give me similar feelings?)
• I noticed trees and dogs and children and the temperature
• I saw a car antenna lying at the side of the road by a busy intersection
• I run the distinct risk of getting caught in the rain. A situation that was so commonplace in childhood that it was barely considered, but as a grown up it seems to be a Thing To Be Avoided At All Costs.
• I was blessed, no, I am blessed by just this simple act of living

I doubt I divorce my car. My kids live too far away for that, and, besides, I like internal combustion: the sounds and smells and the feel of moving down the road. I really do like it. I also really like chocolate, but if chocolate was as central to my diet as solo automobile travel is central to my transportation then I would be in very bad shape. Maybe my car is like my sweet tooth. Then again, maybe not. Regardless, today's walk has brought nothing but joy so far, and I am grateful.

Anathem

Neal Stephenson's newest novel is scheduled to be released today (and alas, I do not have a spare $30 burning a hole in my pocket!) Nevertheless, public libraries are a good thing, so I'll be getting on the list ASAP.

Anathem is a 960 page epic about a religious order of mathematicians, scientists, and philosophers who have been living behind cloister walls. It's set in the future, on another planet, and if it's anything like everything else Neal has written, it promises to be the best read of the year. The Amazon page has an excerpt and some video of Neal talking about the book and reading from it.

What to Do When You Have No Clue What to Blog About?!?

Try http://words.bighugelabs.com/blog.php

This suggests possible blog topics. Since I've been so slack about this blogging thing for so long, this just may be the kick in the pants I need. Of course the temptation to click, "Get some more" and thus waste time merely reading blog ideas is pretty strong (hello, slackers anonymous, I need a new life!)

Dr. Horrible

Run, do not walk to http://drhorrible.com and watch Joss Whedon's web-based series about an aspiring super-villain (played by Neil Patrick Harris), his nemesis Captain Hammer (Nathan Fillian), and the girl at the laundry mat he's trying to get up the nerve to talk to (Felicia Day). Oh, and it's a musical. What are you doing still reading this?

Graduation, Blink, School Starts

The days of summer disappeared like Wiis at Wal-mart. I really thought there would actually be a summer, but, as always, my powers of prognostication underwhelm me. So, here I sit, facing the start of the school year, almost certain that it was just May a few days ago. I have some vague memories of June and July, but they seem more like the echoes of a dream: mostly pleasant with some vaguely remembered awkward bits.

The beginning of another school year is always an exciting time, because I really do prefer the campus full of students: it has an essential rightness about it. And beyond their collective presence, I find myself altogether too fond of the individual students I meet. Another God-created life, another story of joy and love, of pain and struggles. Another testimony to grace, even when the person doesn't see it him- or herself. No one is an island, not even hermit-wannabes like me. I am blessed by the students who are led to sojourn on our campus. I am grateful that some students still share their stories and grace with me via this crazy Internet thing. Much thanks to friends old and new!

New [School] Year's resolution: post at least once a week. Sadly, that would be a major improvement over my recent history. I can't guarantee the quality will improve, but quantity has to be worth something.

However... next week I won't be posting. I won't be exactly near the Internet, so let's just start this "once a week" business the first week of September. Sounds like a plan? Anyway, I hope some of you find your way back here (although, yeah, I'll write even if no one reads).

New Slackware Logo!

My favorite Linux distro has a new logo, readable whether you're upright or upside down:

Shadows on My Own Personal Apocalypse

Sorry about the "long time, no write phenom." Summer got busy and then disappeared. Anyway, just one comment to record for my own journal (I suspect my readers have long since sought other places to waste their time).

Today my ex-wife is getting married.

Kung Fu Panda - Gateway to Heresy?

Cute movie, but inherently anti-religious (well, anti most religions, as well as all occult practices).

The kids wanted to see it, so we went. It was fun. We laughed a lot (and my son and I once again annoyed my daughter by insisting we stay through the credits).

***Spoilers***

There is no secret ingredient. There is no secret on the scroll. There is no secret to life. No news (good or otherwise) that you need to hear to make sense of life. As Faith Hill sings, "The secret of life is that there ain't no secret."

But (most) religions would disagree. There is a secret, in the sense that there is something you need to know in order for you to understand What's Really Going On. Christianity says that something is the good news of Jesus Christ. Christians try really, really hard to share the secret (compared to occult groups who save the secret for an inner circle of initiates). Pop psychology is an industry based on people believing that there is some secret, some simple (or not so simple) thing that if they just knew, they'd be ok.

Kung Fu Panda teaches us that there is no secret. Life just is, and you live it. In some sense, it's the message of the Zen masters and the existentialists. In this view of things there is neither hope nor despair, there is just what is. Knowing that God created us, loves us despite our sins, has died to save us, and has prepared an eternal home for us with Him... that's the kind of stuff that would need to be revealed, maybe written on a scroll. But the scroll is blank, worse, it is vaguely reflective. All the revelation you get is yourself.

Fortunately, my kids didn't take that away from the movie at all. For them, it was just a light-hearted diversion on a too-warm summer's day. And so, we have a lot of fun joking about anything I cook. "So, did you like the secret ingredient?" "Dad, there is no secret ingredient!" "Oh yeah..."

But I can't help but wonder if subtle messages like this are seeds cast into the soil of the young, and one day they will bear fruit.

PS - Shout out to my brother whose birthday is today! Happy Day!

Blogging Is Dead

Well, if *my* blog is indication (which, let's face it, it isn't). You know how life swallows you up in busyness and you don't quite get around to doing all the things that you keep telling yourself you want to be doing? That would be my life at the moment. Can't actually explain it, since I can't think of a single thing I've been doing, but... there you have it.

Anyway, no deep thoughts, nor even too much minutiae to report (movies: I've seen Iron Man, but none of the other May blockbusters yet).

I know I'm tired and old. I think it's time for a mid-life crisis, but honestly, I don't have the time, energy, or money for one of those. Can I have a mid-life nap instead?

Oh, and happy birthday to my sister Amy and to our former blogger-in-arms Morgan!

YAAD

The ship hung in the sky over the farm. It just sat there, motionless, silent, casting its vast shadow across the small house and the barn and a good bit of the vegetable gardens. Just like it had been doing for the past twenty minutes, ever since Jake Evans had come outside to stare at It.

Jake had been inside the house, watching Linda Thompson with the Channel 5 News at 5. Linda was an attractive woman in her late forties, possible early fifties. Not beautiful, but Jake was too old to be interested in beautiful. A simple, honest attractive was what he longed for. Like Linda Thompson. It was in the midst of this recurring reverie that he noticed they outside had suddenly gotten very dark.

At first he thought it was a sudden spring storm, but when he went to close the windows, he had caught a glimpse of it. A large bit of dull gray metal just hanging in the sky above the edge of the roof line, he quickly ran out to take a better look.

Outside he saw just how big it was. Or more accurately, how big It was. It was too terrifying, too wondrous, to be a mere it. It was an alien spaceship, that much was obvious. Although Jake had never, in all his fifty-seven years, ever seen an actual honest-to-God, not-in-the-movies alien spaceship, he knew with a deep certainty that this Thing that had come from nowhere and just hovered above his home, this was the Real Deal.

He was scared, but more than that, he was awestruck, like a child turning a corner on their way to school and meeting a giant. For almost half an hour he had watched this great Thing float there doing absolutely nothing. For his part, Jake had done nothing either. He had just stood there staring up at the ship in the sky.

After a while he began to wonder why none of his neighbors down the road had come over to investigate. Surely It was visible, even all the way down Route 23 into Lancaster, let alone a mere quarter mile over at the Anderson’s.

Shaking his head, he managed to stop staring at It and fix his gaze on the road. Nothing. He thought about getting in his truck and driving over to get Lou Anderson. Lou use to be a college professor. He might have an idea what to do.

But as he was thinking this, Lou and his wife Juanita came out of their house and climbed into their truck. Jake shouted, but they must not have heard him. They backed out of their drive and headed into town.

What’s going on here? Jake thought. They had to have seen It! But no, it certainly seemed like they hadn’t. If they had sped off into town full throttle, Jake might have convinced himself they were going for help, but no, Lou’s red Ford Ranger cruised down the road at a leisurely pace. Jake watched the little truck disappear over a slight rise in the road before turning his gaze back up to the ship.

Ten minutes later, Jake decided to call his friend David. Reverend David Ledgarden was the pastor at the little Methodist church Jake attended. The phone rang and rang, and finally the answering machine picked up “You have reached the home of Reverend Ledgarden, please leave your name and number and I will get back to you as soon as possible. Have a blessed day!” BEEP.

“David, it’s Jake. You gotta get out here as soon as possible. The strangest thing is happening and I need a witness.”

Jake tried calling two other friends as well as his son, who lived three hours away in Carlyle. No one answered their phones. Glancing out the window, Jake could see that his land was still all in shadow, even while the land beyond was bathed in the mid-afternoon’s sunlight.

He went back outside and just looked at It. It was the strangest thing he had ever seen.

Finally, enough was enough. Jake went into the house to get the keys to his Dodge. He’d drag someone out here if he had to, but someone else was going to see this!

Casting a final glance up as he opened the door of the pickup, he spoke to the ship “I’ll be back.”

He hadn't even finished starting the engine when the ray shot out of the ship, blowing up his truck. It passed over the ground and hit his house, causing it to catch fire.

With the slightest of popping sounds, the ship disappeared.

Nobody to Believe In (in This World)

I’m more or less disgusted. Obama has all but given the Democrat nomination to Clinton. It’s not that I’m a huge Obama fan, but given the choice between the two, I’d choose him in a heartbeat.

Or so I thought. After watching how he’s been handling the whole Reverend Wright fiasco, I am less than underwhelmed. And this is just a bit of a social scandal with his preacher. How would the man handle an actual emergency? (You know, like, oh let’s say, a war with Iraq).

So, Bill gets to be the first First Husband. Well, I can appreciate irony as much as the next guy, but, sheesh, was Martha Washington this much of a mess? I don’t seem to remember any stories about her that I’d be embarrassed to tell my kids. Obviously there will have to be some ground rules. You know, no First Husband giving tours of the Oval Office and such. Love or hate Hilary, she comes with Bill, and that may be reason enough to pass.

There’s always McCain.

Um, yeah, right.

Ralph Nader? Harry Browne? Don’t I wish we lived in a nation free enough that candidates like these had a chance? Where is the Great Winged Monkey of Presidential Debates, that wily bazillionaire Ross Perot? Poor Al Gore. All things considered, this could’ve been his year, what with winning the No-bull Prize for Chicken Little Ecology and all. Before you smell blood and attack, I am not denying global warming. I’m just not yet convinced that things are as dire as the prophets are foretelling. Color me skeptical, or at least a contrarian, or, if you must, color me completely stupid. And if the Earth begins to burn before the sun goes nova, then let me state upfront that I was wrong. Sorry.

Where does that leave me, as a voter, come Election Day? Where it has every election since I turned 18: in a booth without a candidate.

Older Than Dirt, Apparently...

Yesterday while driving down to Southern Illinois for my daughter's school program, I stopped for a bite of lupper. I went into an Unspecified Fast Food workaurant and placed my order. The kid then rang it up and, without even asking, rang in the senior discount! This is the first time this has ever happened to me. And all I could think was, "Hey, I just saved 37 cents because I look old. Sweet!"

Anyway, it's funny. Mostly because I didn't think I looked that old, but what do I know? Here's hoping the rest of you don't look significantly older than you are :-)

Quickly...

...since blogger is about to go down for an update and I probably should go eat supper.

I am still alive and well (the last point being more or less subjective, but we'll let it stand).

Ubuntu 8.04 is due out tomorrow (which is when, exactly? Isn't Mark Shuttleworth in South Africa?) Slackware 12.1 has reached release candidate 2 status, so my desktop machine will be looking at an upgrade Real Soon Now.

Work's been "fun" with my boss away in Central Europe for a bit. I really thought I'd be less busy, not more. Who was I kidding?!?

While I am emphatically not a big "blood and guts" film fan, I have a long time relationship with the Aliens franchise. But all the reviews of the latest installment, Alien vs Predator: Requiem, has me convinced that it's time to give up on the series without allowing this stinker to be the last taste in my mouth.

Speaking of series, my friend the naval commander is lending me Babylon 5, so I can finally see what all the hype was. So far, pretty cool. Not Firefly cool, but easily cooler than Voyager or Enterprise.

I've been waking up early, even without earthquakes. This morning I was out of bed at 4 am before I even realized what time it was. Very weird. I cut the caffeine off today at 11:00 am, so maybe I'll sleep tonight (although falling asleep and staying asleep through the night isn't a problem. I'm just waking up like an old person. Oh. Wait. I think I see the problem. Bloody aging process...)

I hope all is well with those of you whom I know almost exclusively virtually, as well as my family and neighbors who may (or, more likely, may not) be reading this. On the off chance my darling sister is reading this: I know, I need to call! :-)

Good Morning, Earth!

So, anyone else wake up at 4:30ish (CST6CDT) to a 5.4 richter scale quake?

Slackware Is On the Move!

From the current changelog:

Thu Apr 3 01:16:15 CDT 2008
OK, we're going to call this Slackware 12.1-rc1, though there is still some more minor work to do. Please help test! And if we're missing anything major, please let me know at volkerdi@slackware.com. Thanks. :-)

In Praise of Folly

with apologies to Erasmus

Happy April Fool's Day to you, one and all! On behalf of the Not-So Great Conspiracy of Moon Jesters and Frost Knaves, welcome to one of the most ridiculous excuses for a Holly day (you did call Holly today, didn't you?)

I thought a poem would be in order. But the one I wrote was HORRIBLY depressing, so then I decided for a joke, but since the "Holly day" thing didn't go over so well... I've decided on a mundane little update.

Reading: Lots of stuff, most notably Douglas Preston's latest novel, Blasphemy. Preston and Child, whether as a literary dynamic duo or doing solo projects, deliver The Most Excellent Scientific Thrillers. I think there's a link to their site under "Authors I Grok." I've also read a couple of "Get Your Life Together" titles: CrazyBusy and Making Peace with the Things in Your Life: Why Your Papers, Books, Clothes, and Other Possessions Keep Overwhelming You and What to Do About It. Interesting reads, since chaos and/or entropy and/or slackfulness keep me in a perpetual state of crazy.

I'm working my way through season 3 of Numb3rs, which rocks beyond all crime dramas because there's MATH involved!

Easter weekend and last weekend with the kids, so life's been pretty sweet on that front.

Anything else? Um, I need a haircut and to pick up margarine from the store on the way home tonight (hey, someone want to remind me of that around 5 CST time? Thanks!)

I hope that you all have enjoyed Winter, because, with God and His druids as my witness, Spring is about to make her debut :-)