Lame Autobiographical Observation

Reflecting on the anthropomorphic animal cartoons that dominated children's television during my childhood, I suddenly realized that given the inevitable conflict between two characters, my preferences always followed the same patterns, despite the specific characters:

1. Bats
2. Mice
3. Monkeys
4. Canines (wolves, foxes, dogs)
5. Rabbits
6. Fish
7. Birds
8. Cats
9. Anything else but snakes
10. Snakes

OK, I'm sure I'm leaving out several (e.g., squirrels) and there are iffy sections (fish may trump rabbits, especially sharks). Oh, and of course, this makes ABSOLUTELY no impact on anything. The answer to the "so what?" is "nothing." But, it popped into my head while brushing my teeth this morning and has stuck there. I'm hoping typing it up and dropping it on the Internet will get it out of my head.

dmr: rip

Caught up in the universal expressions of mourning for Steve Jobs, the death of Dennis Ritchie has gone unnoticed by the world at large. I just found out this morning, but it seems he passed away last weekend, the result of a long struggle with illness. He was 70.

For those who might not know, Dennis Ritchie created the C programming language and was one of the co-creators of Unix. His contributions to the world of technology are deep and long-reaching. I never met dmr (as he was sometimes known as) but I feel a strangely powerful sense of loss. For the past several days, I haven't really understood how so many people who never knew Steve Jobs could be in mourning. But now, I think I get it. Not in a way I can verbalize yet, but in my gut, I get it.

So, Dennis and Steve, you are missed by millions who never knew you, but who love what you have done for their lives, who respect your vision, and are grateful for the time your genius was with us. Rest in peace.

Where the Music Came From

No one is born knowing music. We encounter it at different moments in our lives, introduced to us by different people or circumstances. Here's my history (note, I may have heard of groups before the moment listed, but I didn't start really listening beyond the hit-and-miss of the radio until these people and these moments coincided to "turn me on" to the music listed. Also, note that I don't necessarily still listen to all of these...)

Roughly, in chronological order:

• Nursery rhymes, Disney songs, Herman's Hermits: Mom
• Classic country: Dad
• Kiss, Alice Cooper: Darrin
• Beatles, Pink Floyd: Glen
• Weird Al: uncertain (likely: Jim or Jeff)
• Queen, Prince: Jim
• Blue Oyster Cult, Hawkwind: a letter in an Elric comic book
• Styx: John
• Rush, Motley Crue, Quiet Riot, Ratt: Mike B
• Jimi Hendrix, ZZ Top, Stevie Ray Vaughan: Mike P
• Larry Norman: Scott (my old boss at Joy Unspeakable)
• Stryper: Time magazine article
• Bob Dylan: uncertain?
• Steve Taylor: Kathy R
• Daniel Amos: Kathy J
• Musicals, Sarah Brightman, classical music: Julie
• Todd Snider: Radio station played "Talking Seattle Grunge Blues"
• Tori Amos: Amy (not my sister)
• Alanis Morrisette: Radio station playing pretty much everything from Jagged Little Pill

From the late 1990s on, most of my music discoveries have come from the Internet. Especially noteworthy are:

• Filk: general web surfing
• Luke Ski: unConventional was mentioned on a Firefly website
• Michelle Dockery: "Mal's Song" was mentioned on a Firefly website
• Devo Spice, Worm Quartet: Luke Ski related surfing (which eventually led to thefump.com)
• Warp 11: cdbaby.com (where I had previously purchased a Luke Ski CD)
• Steve Goodie, Robert Lund, Insane Ian, Flat 29: the fump.com
• Carla Ulbrich: cdbaby.com
• Marc Gunn: cdbaby.com
• Garfunkel and Oates: cdbaby.com
• Nerdcore: Discovered a copy of Nerdcore Rising at local video store (not really an Internet discovery, but all the nerdcore I own, I've downloaded/bought online; especially MC Lars and Zealous1)
• Baba Brinkman: Mentioned online in connection with Darwin celebrations
• Bad Religion: interview with Dr. Greg Graffin on Skepticality podcast
• Wizard rock, Adam WarRock: GeekDads HipTrax podcast
• Meekakitty: "Star Trek Girl" was mentioned on an online ballot
• Ministry of Magic, All Caps: friends of Meekakitty

Exceptions to the "Internet-based discovery since the 1990s" rule:

• "Once More, With Feeling": Jeff
• Video game, computer game, and movie soundtracks: Nate (from whom I learned to actually listen to these "background" instrumentals)
• Flight of the Conchords: Holly
• Avril Lavigne, Taylor Swift, Glee: Kara

My deep thanks to everyone who has introduced me to music, shared my enthusiasm for this music, and, of course, made the music that has been a part of me. There are far more musical influences than those listed (and some of those listed are significantly less influential than others... but at one time, even if only for a moment, each musician has quickened a part of my soul). 

Everything You Know Will Change in a Flash...

Today, Flashpoint begins (cue goose bumps).

DC's big summer event begins today, with the release of Flashpoint #1. The basic premise, apparently, is that Reverse Flash goes back in time and prevents many of the DC Universe superheroes from becoming their heroic selves. Barry Allen has to remain the Flash, or else there won't be a Reverse Flash (no Barry, no speed force; no speed force, no speedsters, including Reverse Flash). However, in this new, messed up DCU, Abin Sur didn't crash, thus Hal Jordan never became Green Lantern. Baby Kal-El ended up in an Area 51 kind of lab, rather than in Smallville (at least, I think that's what happened to him, we'll see).

In addition to the main miniseries, there is a number of 3-issue spin-off miniseries as well as a handful of one-shots. This will run through the summer and into early fall. There's no way I can afford every book that is a part of this, so I've picked a few that look interesting to me.

Anyway, issue #1, tonight, after work. This is a hugely ambitious project that will either Rock or Blow on an epic level. My money is on Rock. Spoiler-laden review will follow soon...

Note: no such reviews forthcoming. It's been too cool to spoil.

New Apes!

August 5, 2011 - The Rise of the Planet of the Apes

Check out wikipedia, imdb, and the official site.

I've always loved the Planet of the Apes movies, even though they were cheesy beyond belief. Maybe it's the nostalgia. They use to show some of the Apes movies for free at the local theater during the summer for kids to have something to do. It was kind of a magical thing back then, and a bit of that magic survives even watching them on DVD in my living room today.

Another bit was, again, for a kid, the makeup was great and some of the scenes were, well, a bit scary. Admittedly, today, the makeup looks less impressive (but, still, not terrible) and the post-apocalyptic mutant humans don't seem quite so scary (well, maybe a little).

And then there's Tim Burton's remake. It almost cost me my Apes fanboy card. But there were redeeming moments in that, as well. (Seriously, if I can at all claim to like Conquest of the Planet of the Apes, can I really diss Mr. Burton's efforts? Especially with the presence of his beautiful wife as an ape?)

So, August 5, I await you. Maybe not with as much anticipation as Green Lantern, but still with a bit of that little kid's excitement, going to the Avalon to see a "new" Apes movie for the first time some thirty-odd years ago. Ah, summer, once again you have captured my heart!

Yeah, Life's Like That

From an interview with Christopher Moore:

4) Your books have a unique, “that’s frightening, but I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all” atmosphere. Do you often think like that, about life in general?

"That’s exactly how I view life, all the time. I’m always horrified by the randomness of life, as well as continually amused by the same."

Yep.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Hitchens!

He may be the enemy of my faith, but I can't help loving this guy.

Yet Another Christian Leader Does Bad Things to Kids

"Inspired" by this: http://www.koco.com/news/27424190/detail.html

Yes, non-Christians do evil things as well, but according to the Christian model of things, they are suppose to do evil things. They are unrepentant sinners. Not all non-Christians do these heinous acts (I believe the theological term is "common grace"), but certainly no Christian should be surprised when they do. Nor would such an action change the Christian's perception of the non-Christian. In fact, from the Christian perspective, it's just one more reminder of how much the "lost" need saving.

And, in like manner, when Christians commit these atrocities, the non-Christian's view is also not changed. Modern non-Christians have seen enough of these scandals that they expect the perpetrators to be Christian. Expect it. One can say that, "well, the press just makes a bigger deal out of it when it's a Christian. It's actually likely to be just as common, if not more so, for non-Christians to be sexual abusers of children." While that argument is certainly able to be settled by statistics, it misses the point. The Christian, the "little Christ," the representative of Christ on earth, should never be guilty of such an action. If the apostle Paul is correct that sex with a prostitute joins the body of Christ to a prostitute (1 Cor 6:15), then logically, a Christian sexually molesting a child joins the body of Christ to that act. No one wants to worship a deity whose physical representation on earth rapes children. So, yes, the media is right to make a big deal out of it when it is a Christian committing such crimes.

"Christians aren't perfect, just forgiven." Trite, and possibly true, but should this be an excuse for them to do evil? Again, the apostle Paul makes the point rather clearly in Romans 6:1-2. Not surprisingly, the purpose of divine forgiveness isn't so that a person can live as a child of Satan. Although given the public scandals and track record for Christians doing evil, many non-Christians might be actually be surprised at the apostle's words. They may wonder if Christians even read their own Bible.

One more point. The apostle James wrote that teachers will be judged more strictly than non-teachers (Jam 3:1). Ordained Christian ministers are teachers. The Bible says they will be judged more harshly. I submit that this judgment isn't merely pie-in-the-sky judgment, but judgment that starts today. In the media's love for scandal, in the non-Christian's re-affirmation that Christianity makes no difference in one's moral behavior, in the eyes of young people trying to determine whether the Church is really the body of Christ or whether it is just another club for like-minded people to hang out in.

Child abuse is a tragedy and an evil, no matter who does it. All morally sane people know this. Is the body of Christ not morally sane? If being a Christian makes any kind of difference, where is that difference? Because, contrary to the words of liberals and moderates, ethical behavior is apparently not the difference. If the Hebrew prophets denounced God's chosen people for whoring with false gods, how much worse is it when the bride of Christ rapes her children?

Boy and George

Once upon a time there lived a boy and a dog. The boy’s name was “Boy” and the dog’s name was “George.” Boy and George were the best of friends. They shared everything: food, a worn gray blanket for keeping warm at night, jokes, secrets, and, of course, the open road. Whether enjoying a companionable silence or finishing each other’s sentences, the two friends were as comfortable together as any two friends could ever be. Their days were filled with swimming in the creek, fishing in the pond, wandering through the forest, chasing rabbits and birds and snakes, climbing hills and the occasional mountain.

Once in a while they would visit Town and beg some food, listen to gossip, and visit their friends, for both Boy and George were well liked by most all the folk they knew. But they wouldn’t stay long in the company of others, because their souls were only truly happy when it was just the pair of them off together in the wild.

Their misadventures during the long, lazy days of endless summer were the stuff of legends, at least legends in their own minds. Many was the night that they drifted off to sleep under the stars as Boy recounted tales of their derring-do. Each re-telling grew wilder and more improbable than the one before, and both boy and dog slipped easily into a suspension of disbelief. On those rare nights, under a blue moon, the tall tales they murmured as they slipped into dreamland became the jumping off point for their dreams (for, strangely, both Boy and George always dreamt the same dreams). After such nights, both friends woke the next morning convinced that the dream was, in fact, the actual memory of that particular adventure.

In such ways did the endless summer pass.

Pride

"Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly." -GK Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Did the demons fall because they took themselves too seriously? Is that not the real essence of pride, not merely an awareness of your accomplishments, but taking them too seriously? Not self-awareness (false modesty is a lie, thus the "fals" bit), but self-importance. Is it, perhaps, not pride to be proud of your accomplishments, but only pride when you elevate your view of yourself based on your accomplishments? After all, your ability to accomplish anything is based, in part (arguably, a large part) on circumstances beyond your control: the time and place of your birth, your family and friends, your early education, your particular genetic code. True, there is much within your control, choices and efforts you make, but isn't it the case that all such choices and efforts are in arena not of your own making? Enjoy success, let it encourage you to continue to grow and succeed, but don't let it make you think that you are, therefore, better than those around you. From dust you were formed, to dust you will return, and all is vanity.

the ghost in the house that you never see

i am the ghost that haunts this house, the house you pass everyday. sometimes you see the house, sometimes you don't, but i know you never see me. the house is scary, but it's not because i'm in it. it's because it's old and a bit different. sometimes the windows rattle, but that's just the wind, and the creaking floor is merely the house settling. i am a ghost. i can't touch you (God knows how many times i've wished i could...), why would you think i could touch the house? if only i could move things, if only i were real to anything, even this old house... to say i "haunt" misleads, i am a prisoner here: silent, powerless, and completely invisible. if anyone is haunted, it is me. haunted by my own existence, a self-haunted ghost, pathetically alone in this house, in this world full of houses that are full of smiling, happy people, people like you. my thoughts are my only voice, and they are endless echoes in my mind. i dimly remember there were once other voices, but all i hear now are the sounds of the house and the bothersome noise of my own thoughts. yet not thinking is worse, because then everything is silent, and there is just the overwhelming feeling of raw existence. through the windows, i see you on the street as you pass each day. but you never see me. at most, you see the house: rundown and deserted, no potential, just a bit of an oddity, an eyesore, at best. and then, undoubtedly, you forget, as you walk away into your day. you are gone so quickly, i sometimes think that perhaps i only imagine you. during those times, i spend the rest of the day and all of the night wondering if i am insane. perhaps you are merely a delusion and there is no one else, no one but me in all this world, and i am trapped in this house. and then, the next day, without fail, you appear again. and i wonder, maybe you are haunting me? perhaps you are the ghost and that bright world beyond these windows is actually the haunted house, and this "house" where i am, maybe it is the only place outside of your haunt, the only place i can be safe. then again, maybe i am completely wrong. maybe i am not haunting, and maybe i am not haunted. maybe i'm just damned. and this house, this world, maybe this is all just hell... maybe, but now i see you coming up the walk, and for a few moments, i will be distracted, distracted by your beauty and half-remembered feelings of... of what? hope? life? friends and family that i cannot remember but who surely must have existed? and then you will be gone again, as always, and the thoughts will rush back in and flood my self and i will remember: i am a ghost, i am haunted, i am damned...

Blizzard of '11

Lots of snow, some ice. Two days off work, one day snowed in because my parking lot wasn't dug out. Drove during the snow coming down bits and walked in the post-snowing drifts. All in all, not as much fun as I remember from blizzards as a kid.

Am I really talking about the weather in this blog? I need to retire...

The New Year, a Quick Recap To Date

Flu, flu, chest cold, flu, chest cold, migraine (that brings us up to today). In the midst of that was four and a half hours driving from southern Illinois (flu stage), missing too much work (all stages), and, oh yeah, buckets of misery (and other unmentionable stuff, again, all stages).

I had every intention of setting some resolutions, but my white blood cells didn't hold the line, and my brain went on survival mode. Maybe this weekend I'll begin the new year in earnest (my year will only be 51 weeks long, how weird is that?)

I hope you all are having a better beginning to your year than this!

This post is inspired by Heather, who reminded me this blog exists and I should use the thing. Hmmm, maybe my first resolution?

poem 6571

diet of wyrms, she said,
i truly had no idea:
'twas bits of creatures dead,
floating in diarrhea

i asked her once, and she mispoke twice,
so i asked her thrice again;
i cried in shock as she took the mice
and fed them to her best friend

sillyness incarnate,
folly wrapped in fleshly joy;
terror may escalate
when miss death herself plays coy

i asked her once, and she mispoke true,
so i asked her to explain;
with a grin she said she thought i knew,
then she flushed me down the drain

cast adrift in this sea
with no stars by which to steer,
lost, there's just only me,
marooned on this raft of fear.

My Ten Favorite Living Novelists

Not necessarily in order, although Rucker probably is at the top, since I've read all of his published novels to date, as well as most of his non-fiction:

1. Rudy Rucker

2. Neil Gaiman

3. Christopher Moore

4. Andrew Greeley

5. Neal Stephenson

6. William Gibson

7. Joe R. Lansdale

8. Michael Moorcock

9. Mike Carey

10. Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child

Runners-up: Elmore Leonard (Maximum Bob), Dave Barry (Big Trouble), Wendell Berry (Jayber Crow), Susan Howatch (Church of England novels), Terry Pratchett (Discworld novels), and Anne Rice.

My intention over the next little bit is to write a series of posts describing what I like about each of the ten authors on the list. If I actually make it through this "series" I might try it with "My Ten Favorite Living-Challenged Novelists."

So, who do you enjoy reading? Have you read any of the above? Do you like 'em, loathe 'em, don't care enough to even complain? ;-)

Edit, January 7, 2011: Yeah, no follow-up posts for this little "series." I take this "slacker" title way too seriously...

More Evidence of the True Power

Last year I tapped a building-shaped something with my passenger side mirror. In my defense, it was winter and there was ice involved. The result was that my mirror was hanging limp from the side of my car with only the wires controlling its motor connecting it to my beloved Taurus.

I took the injured car to the mechanic, who looked up the replacement cost for a mirror and gave me a number that amounts to, well, more than I could afford at that moment (or, let's be honest, any moment). Fortunately, there was another customer in the shop at the same time, and he said the same thing happened to his brother a few years back. His brother just epoxied the mirror back on, cost next to nothing. My mechanic agreed to try that and it worked (and was a much less expensive fix). All was good.

Until yesterday, when the epoxy finally stopped epoxying. Of course this had to happen while I was driving up the interstate from a successful visit to my local comic book shop (it was Wednesday, after all). So, there's my mirror flopping along at sixty-five miles per hour and me the cheap jerk who can drop money on comics but won't properly fix his car.

When I get back to town I had a choice: leave the mirror alone until I can get to the mechanic or do something. Of course, there's only one something I can do at that hour, and proud, if somewhat awkward, child of Southern Illinois that I am, I do it: duct tape.

Duct tape, as we all know, is almost magical in its ability to be sticky. Let me illustrate. Last night we had a HUGE storm (I was tempted to capitalize "storm" as well, but some restraint is in order. It's not like Katrina resurrected and hoofed it several hundred miles inland.) Anyway, lots of wind and rain. And this morning... my mirror's still in place. The three strips of duct tape held. I was so proud of those little paragons of adhesive strength that I would've shed a tear if not for the years of anti-depressants that, quite frankly, have pretty much dried up my tear ducts for life. Duct tape is, as we all know, freakin' amazing! (and yes, I will get my mirror fixed properly... someday).

Martin Gardner: RIP

I came back to work after being out sick for a couple of days to find the news that Martin Gardner had died on May 22, at the age of 95. There are plenty of tributes and remembrances online by those who knew him personally as well as by those who only knew him through his amazing writings. This is yet another tribute...

Martin Garnder inspired me, turned me on to new ideas, entertained me, and gave me hope. His death changes none of that. The heavens are still there to wonder at even after a star burns out. But it is not wrong to mourn its passing.

The first book of Mr. Gardner's I read was Relativity for the Million. It was the first book on relativity I ever read, and it opened my eyes to the weirdness of the universe. Like many, I delighted in his columns in Scientific American (even when I couldn't always solve his puzzles!) His Annotated Alice and Annotated Hunting of the Snark deepened my enjoyment of my favorite "children's" author. The Flight of Peter Fromm hit very close to home for a seminary graduate and recreational math and logic guy who sometimes sways deep into the doubt-o-meter. The Whys of a Philosophical Scrivener was a delight, as was, well, just about everything I've ever read by Mr. Gardner.

As someone with no formal training in math, Martin Gardner's writings have been one of my primary teachers (my other teachers include Raymond Smullyan and Rudy Rucker, both of whom, like Mr. Gardner, embody a deep sense of the whimsical as well as a profound understanding of mathematics). I will continue to learn from Martin Gardner throughout the rest of my life, because that is the kind of writer he was. And generations to follow will learn from him as well. His star may have burned out, but he was light years ahead of most of us, and it will take years before his light stops shining down on this world.

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?