The Stone Lanes

Benton, Eroticism, and a Writer's Issues (Live, On-page, Uncensored).

2012-01-17T00:10:00.002-05:00

Here's the problem: People Have Sex.

Well, okay, that's an over-generalization of the problem. People Having Sex is not, in and of itself, that big of a deal. Sex can be a very useful thing, not only for procreation, but for the delight of intimacy, the chances to explore another person on an emotional and physical level, or even just the satisfaction of lustful impulses. Sex is a basic component of the human condition, the problem occurs when I have to write about it.

Let me explain why:

Whenever there is hue and cry over a child model being stuffed into something low-cut and skanky, I get annoyed when people decry it as the sexualization of children. My annoyance comes out of the word choice: it's not the sexualization of children, it's really the pornographication of children. The choice of words is revealing about the way society views children.

I remember being thirteen, the age at which my characters currently are. I remember it quite vividly, with the sort of wry nostalgia I hold for most of my past (I said what? Why? I can't possibly have been that arrogant. Oh. Oh, that's just sad...) I have equally vivid memories of myself at other ages, including cracking dirty jokes with friends on the playground in grade three, in which I would have been eight or so. Now, doubtless these were not the most hilarious jokes about copulation ever voiced by humankind, but the sophistication of an eight-year old's humour is not my point (for the record, my jokes were ace). We can not sexualize children anymore than we can colourize them: children already have sexuality. Please note that I am not using here in the sense of specific orientation, but to simply note that they have an instinctual libido. Freud's Psychosexual development is a theory I've always found to be rubbish in the details, but what I do find notable is its acceptance of youth and erogenous experimentation from a very early age. There's a quote by Donna Tartt that I use in Part Two of Benton, which I'll use again here:

I think it's hard to write about children and to have an idea of innocence...
I think innocence is something that adults project upon children that's not really there.

To put my own spin on it, let's look at the term “innocence.” I actually think children are innocent, but in a different way than the people who decry the loss of childhood innocence do. There's a myth that children these days are more exposed to sex than they've ever been, but this is a ridiculous statement. It's not that there more exposed than ever before, they're just more exposed they've been recently. The dichotomous Victorians, with their predilection for sex obsession mixed with puritanical sexual repression, created a social culture that hid sex from youngsters on a level not really seen before, at least from a Eurocentric standpoint. This “children should know nothing of sex [and therefore should not be aware of it]” culture lasted for about a century and a half. The modern, “sexy” media has clearly driven it off the rails. The people who decry the loss of innocence undoubtedly had the same lustful urges of youth, but they see their own past like many of us do: with rose-tinted glasses, and an ability to forget that which is inconvenient to our currently world view. The tight-ass pundit with his moral certainty turns a blind-eye to the “show me yours” experiences he had in kindergarten as he does to the pot smoking he did in college.

Children are innocent, but innocence doesn't mean an ignorance of sexual expression. What it means is that they are innocent of the adult, free of the prejudices of the grown-ups. Children (and I'm really using this as a catch-all for everyone 15 and under, here) grow up to be us, but its an evolving process. No one gets handed a maturity package at 16 that suddenly takes childlike innocence away.

When two young kids make the first fumbling gestures that are hooking up, they do so, by and large, without the concerns that will haunt them later in life. They're not weighed-downed with the memories of bad previous relationships. They're not worried with getting seduction “right,” or parsing couple doublespeak, or anything we create as adults to make our intimacies the minefields of past mistakes and weaponized miseries they become. No, the sexual explorations of the young are the only true innocent adventures we ever get in that particular sphere. Whether they are done out of curiosity, boredom, or the sweet, green love of first affection, the fact of the matter is that they happen. The young kids who walk far ahead of their guardians so they can have a quick snog by the lockers every time they turn a hallway corner out of sight are the perfect example of that kind of innocence. Those youngsters are innocent and naive: they honestly believe that the people lagging behind are completely clueless to the hidden romance going on under their noses. Us cynical, older bastards can look back on ourselves with disdain, and wonder how we ever thought we were fooling anyone, but you know what that leads too? It leads to us becoming one of the pundits, shouting that innocence is being destroyed, all because we can't come to terms with the fact that we were ever really that young, dumb, and carnal.

They aren't dumb, though. To me, that's the innocence of childhood. It's making jokes on the playground about daddy putting his car in mommy's garage and thinking you're really clever; playing doctor during a sleepover; or being oblivious of how transparent your cries of “did I show you this thing that is conveniently out of sight of our parents for the next forty seconds?” are. Kids aren't stupid (they instinctively know what parents will disapprove of), but in their innocence they just lump that with every other irrational parental disapproval, like staying up late watching movies, or pigging out on candy. Parents are a bunch of fun-hating old duffers, what do they know about life's pleasures? And, of course, there's the old refrain of “no one understand our love, no one has ever been as much in love as us.” As an adult, I have a tendency to smack that shit down hard whenever I see it, but that's because I'm a grumpy misanthrope. Our rite of adulthood (at least when it comes to “mature” relationships) involves having that kind of cloying ebullience beaten out of us by more experienced bitter people who want to spread their bitterness around. The forbidden fruit was only a problem because God was a colossal cockbite who planted a shame tree and then didn't give adequate reasons not to eat the fruit beyond “because I said so.” Occupy Eden would totally be speaking truth to power against that kind of ipse-dixit credentialist bullshit, I can tell you that. Who died and made him G-, well, nevermind. For those of you who don't care about my novels, here's the part where you should feel free to stop reading.

So, “What does this have to do with Benton,” I hear you cry. Well, first, it's sweet of you (if not a little ingenuous) to assume that every long winded thing I write has a point, but I swear this one does. Like I said, I remember being thirteen. I remember the eddies of hormones, the lusts and desires and so on. My characters are also thirteen. While Benton is certainly not as comprehending of his own libido as I was at that age, Min is much more aware of it, and Ash certainly is, having gone so far as to actually date people, albeit out of rebellion than any intrinsic romantic desire. What exactly are my limits as a writer when it comes to building the relationships I didn't even want in the first place.

I'm going to be honest. One of my initial plans for Benton was that I was tired of reading stories about a boy and a girl who were friends who always seemed to end up falling for each other. I was going to write a story about platonic friendships!

That... didn't work out, obviously. I mean, I started with the best intentions, but the problem was that I fell in love with my own characters, and by some kind of strange affection mimesis, the pure platonism I was aiming for sort of... went... away. So, now I'm stuck with two characters who are falling in love who weren't supposed too and then, woops, there I go, inadvertently adding a third member to the group and creating that which I hate more than anything: a love triangle. That's not actually the problem, I know how I'm going to handle the generals. The devil's in the details, ja?

What are my limits here? What is okay, and no okay to broach – not just morally, but narratively? I'm not going to be writing much about self-gratification, for example, this isn't that kind of coming of age story. Burgeoning sexuality ought to be addressed more obliquely, not jammed in your face like a shitty Michael Cera film, at least in this book. The answer isn't to eliminate sexuality either, though. My issue is in finding a happy medium between the two extremes, one that is narratively and emotional satisfying without coming off as titillating or exploitive. I'm afraid this particular diatribe isn't going to end with any kind of answers – these questions aren't rhetorical. Ash, Benton, and Min have a staring road ahead of them – how to I express it properly?

There is a place for good eroticism in stories. Even two weeks on, I'm still coming off the emotional high of Katawa Shoujo - not only a beautiful, non-exploitive look at dating in highschool for the disabled, but the few sexual scenes felt right, not just titillating pornography (although, to be fair, I've only played through Emi's path). Now,a re there going to be sex scenes in Benton? No. But again, I remember being thirteen.

It's almost funny. I wrote scenes of torture and no one batted an eye. I outright murdered my protagonist beyond my ability to account, and people said "that's an interesting concept." But if I wrote that "[blank} consensually fondled [blank] to the mutually satisfaction of both parties" - I would open such a can of worms, I can tell you that.

SEX! It exists, except when it doesn't!

These Things Are Important

2011-10-24T00:23:00.001-04:00

The other day I received this message in my OWL announcement system:

Please note the following:

1. The location of [Name Removed]'s office is now McCain building 1150a, but the time of his office hour is unchanged.

2. The time of [Name Removed]'s office hours is now Thursday, 2:30-3:30 pm, but the place is unchanged.

3. [John Smith's] office hour remains stationary in space and time alike.

Worried by the implications, I sent my professor the following communique:

Dear Professor,

I'm a little concerned. If, as you say, [John Smith's] office hours are both temporally and spatially fixed, wouldn't that render them completely inaccessible? Our planet both rotates around itself and orbits the sun - indeed, we in the Western Spiral Arm of this galaxy rotate around the galactic core and continue to constantly move outwards owing to the expansionary nature of the universe. If Mr. Smith's office is spatially fixed, it should physically be floating in space about a day or so behind us. Furthermore, if it is temporally stationary then time within it is no longer passing. This leads us to the following issues.

1) Any meetings within the office will, regardless of the time scheduled, never actually take place - not just because time no longer passes within it, but because the costly nature of university tuition makes it unlikely that Dal students could afford a trip into space to reach the office. Not even the one's with scholarships.

2) Although anyone who managed the now unlikely prospect of gaining access to the office would find themselves effectively immortal - untouched by time's passing - they would more pressingly be unable to receive answers for any questions they might have wished to pose to their TA. It would also mean that, should Mr. Smith take the essays that need to be marked to his office, lots of people's hard work would be lost. Once you entered the office, all temporal activity for you would cease, one would never manage to say "hello" much less get down to cases or mark papers or even sit down. Conversely, all of time might occur at once in a spectacular example of simultaneity which, while interesting, would be probably mentally traumatizing.

3) Mentally traumatizing students might lead to lawsuits or academic censure.

4) It seems a poor use of the Classic Department's doubtless limited budget to enact such rigid spatiotemporal restrictions on such a small office.

5) It further seems rude to the janitorial staff, who run the risk of being temporally imprisoned should they go to clean it - not to mention the overtime they'd need to be paid if we take the cost of space travel into account.

6) Although I am a Classics and History student, not a Physicist, I worry that this course of action might in some way violate the laws of thermodynamics. As you may know, the Dal Student Handbook frowns upon students violating legal laws, and we must assume that frown extends to the violation of the laws of nature

Perhaps a different tack is in order? If there is such a worry about the continued existence of the office as it exists within the flow of time, might it not be easier to re-locate the office into its own pocket dimension, one's who parameters were more securely controlled by the Department of Classics, or at the very least the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences? Although Mr. Smith is not my TA, I am concerned for the welfare of all my classmates. Potentially condemning them and a grad student to a potentially trans-finite existence that might out-live the heat death of the universe just to save wear-and-tear maintenance costs on a single room seems extreme, even by the standards normally adhered to by academia.

I hope this issue can be resolved with further harm to the fabric of the universe or loss of life/temporal-expression-of-one's-place-in-reality-as-a-conscious-creature.

Yours faithfully,

James Campbell-Prager

Benton And Music

2011-10-03T18:18:00.003-04:00

The writing of Benton and its sequel would not have been possible without the hyper-reliance I have on musical leitmotifs, both for scenes and for individual characters. Spoilers follow, obviously, but here is a small selection of the tunes that I write too. Character's themes are first, followed by some comments on the music for individual scenes. The songs are either significant lyrically, musically or thematically. Ash's, for example, is musically significant more than lyrically, Benton's changes as his personality does, and so on.

Asha: Cornership's Brimful of Asha (Fatboy Slim Remix)
Mai Yamane Gotta Knock A Little Harder

Benton:

Book 1: Nelson Riddle's Your Zowie Face
Ben Folds Evaporated

Book 2: David Bowie's Quicksand (1972 Demo).
Harvey Danger's Flagpole Sitta

Efah: Maroon 5 (Kara's Flowers) Control Myself

Helena: ENOZ's When I Was Love (The guitar line more than the lyrics)
The Seatbelt's The Real Folk Blues

Note: given the connections between Farose and Icelandic, I would say that Sigur Rós' Starálfur is a song that Helena sang to her children to get them to sleep.

Líadan: A mix between Dare and Wo Qui Non Coin. And when I say "mix", I mean play them simultaneously. Do it.

Min: Matsuoka Yuki's Matsutte Matsutte! Irassha~i!

MIWP: Garry Schyman's The Ocean On His Shoulders

Queen Cordelia: Ben Fold's Selfless, Cold and Composed.

Perdita: The Delagdo's The Light Before We Land

Rob: The Seatbelt's Ask DNA

Andrew Cassiel: Gabriel Faure's Requiem in D Minor "Agnus Dei"

The songs Asha heard in her head when fighting the Kapnoi are first, Radiation Fox's Descend and then, most importantly, David Bowie's Bombers.

Ash's rainy day song is, natch, Sunao na Kimochi ~Aru Ame no Hi~ Haruhi no Omoi (Obedient Feeling ~That Rainy Day~ Haruhi's Thoughts) by Satoru Kousaki,

Benton passing through the pool and back into his world, all that sequence was inspired by Mai Yamane's BLUE (You're Gonna Carry That Weight). Actually, the importance of that song to the book as a whole can not be overstated.

The scenes in the mall came about by listening to The Divine Comedy's The Lost Art of Conversation more or less on repeat, along with most of the album Bang Goes The Knighthood.

Reposting my Facebook Rant That Was Then A OWL Rant and now a Blog Post.

2011-09-23T01:15:00.003-04:00

I would like to highlight a problem I had with Bend It Like Beckham, specifically a false assumption in holds about character and sexuality. I have phrased my problem in the form of two rambling letters.

Dear Movies,

Just because you have a gay character does not automatically mean I will care about them, their hopes and dreams, or even like them. There appears to be this harmful idea that “being gay” is a well-defined character trait. I can call a character "energetic", "zany", "sinister", all of those come with their own expressions of modality that are the hallmarks of any trope. But if the only thing I can say about a character is that they are "the gay one", that's Very Bad Writing, akin to a character being there to fulfil the role of “woman”- it's treating a noun as an adjective.

To look at it another way, let's look a group most people are familiar with: the trio of Harry, Hermione and Ron from the ubiquitous Harry Potter series. Each character realizes a particular role in the films/books. Harry is the one who is “brave”, the hero and driver of the narrative. Hermione is there to be the “smart” one, to have the expeditionary/expository knowledge to help Harry be able to drive where he needs the story to go. Ron is there because every story needs a buffoon, and to keep Neville from being a main character and thus ending the series by the end of the first book by sheer bad-ass awesomeness. But what if we changed how we define a character? Harry: Brave, Ron: Supportive(I'll be nice), Hermione: Woman.

One of those things is not like the other. That kind of phrasing is not only a sweeping generalization of everything a woman could potentially be, it's sexist and disingenuous to boot. Tokenism in the worst way, and it spreads a harmful worldview that you can be completely defined by your gender.

“But James, you snarky and slightly patronizing comment poster, you, what does this have to do Bend It Like Beckham, and why didn't Neville get his own spin-off?” I hear you cry. Well, the second question is far beyond the scope of this post, so I'll just stick with the first one. In the best Socratic tradition, I will answer this by posing another question, albeit one directed at the film as opposed to you, gentle reader, who patiently awaits enlightenment.

Dear Bend It Like Benton:

You have a character who admits he is gay. Explain why, at any point in the movie, I ought to care about him. No one ever expects me to root for "the straight one" just because the character is straight. Since he is not the main character of the piece, having him come out to our protagonist must serve some sort of purpose in the story, right? Was it to prove that Jess wasn't prejudiced? It... might, but she seems like a pretty forward thinking young woman, I don't think that was ever called into question. That can't have been the function. So it had to be that it was important we know that Tony was gay for our understanding of Tony's character. It must be important to the story that we know who Tony is.

Who is Tony?

He is friends with the main character. He has a crush on David Beckham. He likes soccer. He thinks the coach is cute.

And...

Um.

That's it, really. I looked it up on IMDB, Tony doesn't have a last name. He's just Tony, “the gay one”. Huh.

Why don't we play a game? It's called "Remove the Coming-Out Scene." First, you cut the scene where Tony says he's gay. Then, watch the movie and tell me if losing this scene has any impact on the story in any meaningful way shape or form.

If there is any change, its on how we interpret his gesture to enter into a sham marriage so that Jess can play soccer in America. But for me, his sexuality doesn't really change the nature of the gesture (which is a noble one, which we could add to his character list if I was in a more charitable mood, but since it's this fake-out deus-ex-machina that is immediately dropped, I'm not going to). Let's say we didn't know he was gay. He;s still entering into a (romantically) loveless marriage of connivence to help a friend. And had it gone through, Hollywood probably would have forced a sequel where they really fall in love and please all those Tony/Jess shippers out there, but realistically we have to take the movie as a complete package, concrete in its habitus (isomorphically emergent with its own structural conditions). At the end of the day (and end of the move), straight, gay, bi, non... hell, the guy could only be attracted to bumblebees; his sexuality in no way changes the nature of the gesture. He is willing to enter into a lie to help a friend.

(And regardless: that's nice in all, but for a sacrifice to be meaningful, I have to think that he's giving up something worth while. “Oh no, he's giving up his life of... really liking David Beckham?” Seriously, movie. Who is this guy, why should I care? What does he do for a living? Does he have a job, other friends, does he like movies, music, anything at all besides David Beckham? Will his sham marriage keep him from really liking David Beckham? Because I'm pretty sure Jess also likes David Beckham.)

If he was gay, and it was just accepted (i.e. no coming-out scene), then that would be great. I love to have gay characters who's sexuality isn't used as way to milk pathos from the narrative. As is, its used as disposable emotionality. “Huh, this bit of the film needs punching up, let's cram an awkward-yet-endearing “I'm gay” scene to pad out the run time and make us seem topical.” Who is Tony? It doesn't matter, he's just there to help the protagonist go kick a ball in a country that has an entirely different definition of the word 'football'. I need to know that Tony is something other than a manifestation of the main characters subconscious need for a perfect male friend who loves everything she does (Soccer. David Beckham. Soccer) without wanting to get in her pants.

There's a lovely test called the Bechdel Test, which a movie only passes if it meets the following criteria:

1.It has to have at least two women in it,
2.Who talk to each other,
3.About something other than a man.

I'd like to compliment the Bechdel Test with something I call The Prager Test. A movie passes the Prager test if:

1.It has a homosexual character
2.Who talks to the main character
3.About something other than a crush, or the main character's interests and problems.

Your character is gay? Fine, that's great. But it's not enough. Work with that, do something with that, define your character as, well, someone more than a one-dimensional plot point. Please. This heteronormative indifference is ever so aggravating.

Anyone needs me, My Little Pony Season 2 just started up, so I have to re-watch the premiere and finish my twelve volume series “Why Glee is the worst thing on television since My Mother The Car”

I remain, yours &c.,

James Campbell-Prager

(Corollary: Putting the gay character in peril does not mean I have any interest in seeing them live over dying. This holds true of "adorable" yet bratty children. If I simply hate them, I may be thrilled that they died. This is what's known as “Adric Syndrome” )

tl;dr: You're in university now. If you can't be bothered to read long things, drop out. Now. I'm dead serious. You will be crushed without mercy by an uncaring education structure that expects your reading skills to be at least at a grade eight level.

If On A Costal Street A Traveler...

2011-09-17T02:12:00.003-04:00

A Poem, aware of its pretentions. Apologies and defiance.

Tonight,
For reasons all my Own
I walked the darkened streets that are
a minor city's passageways.

To satisfy my cravings for a summer's wish
still unfulfilled,
I purchased late at night
two sandwiches of ice cream,
And continued out into the cool September air.

In my endless search for symbolism
I said why I had purchased two.
It was not just the sale.
The other was for absent friends.

The fool's gesture impressed no one
And none.
In any case I ate them both.

Eblis O'Shaughnessy
Could never dream or destroy.
To him I stand in opposition.
No skill or trade have I,
Merely endless dreams,
And the personal destruction that is creation

The living worlds
Lately writ by me
Have in their antecedent
A thousand others
That I failed to bring to life.

I have given up much of myself
Of late.
If only to give the flood of words
A fitting resting place,
Perhaps to give my tired mind
A little breathing space.

The phrases that seem so profound
Written in the moment on a chill autumn's night
(Whilst eating colder-still ice cream)
Once put to paper seem paltry things.
A dumb show filled with noise
Concealing empty meanings.

In lieu of absent, distant friends
I turn to doggrel verse.

Fairy Logic

2011-09-09T00:44:00.003-04:00

Fairy Logic, at least in the Craicéailte School, is unifying rather than fragmentary. To the largely Sylphic disciples of Craicéailte, there is no paradox in Zeno or rather, nothing of concern. That Achilles will never outrun the Turtle, while at the same time will naturally outpace it in seconds is not an issue that needs fixing. To many of the fay, accepting the contradictory is as natural as breathing, both statements are true. A paradox is not something to be solved but celebrated. To a Craicéailte, that you can empirically disprove a paradox of Zeno is irrelevant. In their fashion, Craicéailtes reject the idea of repeatable causality. Solvitur ambulando might have given credence to one point of view a one particular moment, but that is no indication that it will do so ever again. Holmes' maxim has no place in their world. Why rule out the impossible, when it so often occurs?

This is best expressed in the central Craicéailte concept known as Liused's Apophthegm, for which we shall take a brief detour to first contextualize before discussing its impact.

There has been no more enduring figure of second wave Craicéailte thought than Doctor Mell Liused (1693? - 1740). Liused was both a logician and temporal physicist, although it is the second discipline for which she is best know. Her work in that field was so revolutionary that next to none of her contemporaries grasped her mathematics or gating theories. Her work was to remain forgotten and ignored until it was rediscovered by Adalmar Wesserman in the late 1940s, who would both expand upon it and restore the good doctor's position in the eyes of physicists.

However, it is not her work on gating mechanics that is of interest to us. She remains a “patron saint” to Craicéailtes after her death owing to a series of documents know as the Gwrn-Mell Letters. In her youth Liused had studied under Dr. Gwrn Hywel (1651-1742) at Glorianna University in Gyre-Carling, and afterwords worked with him for a number of years. After Cordeilla III founded Ard Rí College (Fairy's first institution devoted purely to the study of worldgates) in far off Andlang, Liused did what was unthinkable in those days and travelled all the way to its Endymion chapter in Dome, where she would remain for the rest of her life. Until her early death, she would remain in constant correspondence with Dr. Hywel, and from the letters that survive we have a fascinating look at the life and times of intellectuals of the period.

In many ways, both doctors were of among the last of their era. Although he would die before the pogroms started, in Gyre-Carling Dr. Hywel was witness to rise of the neo-glamour movements that would see the deaths of thousands of academics and students in the century to come. To the neo-glamourists, the study of scientific principles was a rejection of everything a fairy was, they considered persons like Hywel to be species traitors. The extent of their destruction and the set-back to knowledge that their reign entailed is far beyond the scope of this book, so we shall touch upon it no further.

While the neo-glamour movement never had any force in Andlang, the economic and social toll of the Ranrike War would decimate the youth of the kingdom. There would be only of handful of young people able to attend universities, and it would be a long time before academic knowledge would be increased and improved by anyone educated in Andlang colleges.

For Liused and Hywel, then, theirs was the last flourishing of intellect before a dark age, and nowhere is this better reflected in Hywel's admonishments to his former student, who had been introduced to Craicéailtism at Ard Rí. For Hywel, Craicéailte thought was a form of scholastic nihilism, a rejection of everything a teacher should stand for. He sought to illustrate this by drawing attention to what he called the Pixie Dilemma. In brief, this is the demonstrative fact that, according to scientific law, a pixie cannot fly. Their delicate, lacy wings simply don't have the power or lift to make a creature of that body mass fly. But pixies do fly, regardless of their size or encumbrance.

Hywel believed that the Craicéailte approach was a destructive one to the pursuit of answers. The paradox of pixie flight, the solution to which (no doubt) lay tangled in science and magic, should be treated as a contradiction and be unravelled and solved. That the Craicéailtes wanted to celebrate the paradox was criminal, a learned fairy ought to find answers, not revel in their absence.

It was in Liused's response in 1711 where we find what we know call her eponymous Apophthegm. Their letters were written in the Vulgar-Carling dialect of south-western Sylphic, I am indebted to Mateo Cwna for the translation.

“A theory that is contradictory in itself cannot begin to explain the contradictions inherent within it. As persons of learning, we are expected to dismiss any such theory on principle. This is also true for any two theories that, should one be “correct”, the other is automatically “wrong”. And yet on the emotive, psychological level we accept both the reverse and the obverse all the time.

Do we not often hate one we love the most? Is there not often lust for one we wish to destroy? Why then can this acceptance of the contradictory not continue onto the physical plane? Why must the impossible be rejected in favour of partisan positions on that most subjective of nouns, the ever elusive Truth?

To accept that they are both true is not say that they should not be examined, debated or discussed. But it is a rejection of the concept of 'impossible'. We celebrate that which is contradictory because it shows that learning is without bounds. To 'take a side' is limiting. To accept both and build upon it is to leave the labels and boundaries of normative thought behind.”

It is important to know that Liused would later note that Craicéailte thought is one that works best in the abstract. Unlike other thinkers of the same school, who went so far as reject not just objective truth but objective reality entirely, Liused stressed that one should never abandon realist practicality. “One can, if one so chooses, build a house in mid-air having accepted both 'theories' that it will both collapse and never collapse. To do so, however, is at best specious and imprudent, at worst, outright fatal.”

An Excerpt From The Beat Betwixt the Pixie's Wings: A Fairy's History of Thought

Dr. Seumas Kermichil

Endymion University Press, 1997

Hollywood, Call Me

2011-08-26T00:25:00.005-04:00

[Opening Scene: Superhero in an action-packed costume shows up during a bank robbery. He kicks major ass, throws shit, breaks the criminals against each other, saves the day. As bank patrons look on in awe, a little boy says "Who is that man, and where did he come from" with lots of "dawe"and "awe". We zoom in on the Superhero's chiseled jaw and cut to:]

TITLE CARD: [SUPERHERO'S NAME, MAYBE A SUBTITLE]

IINTERTITLE: "Six Months Ago"

Cut to: Cubicle in an office. Our Hero works at a computer. His boss comes over, lays a super hero outfit on Our Hero's desk.

BOSS: Bob, here is a uniform. You are now a superhero. Fight crime and do good while still keeping regular hours here.

HERO: Sure thing, boss.

REST OF MOVIE: AWESOME SUPERHERO STUFF, MINIMAL ANGST, EXPLOSIONS.

Fin.

HOLLYWOOD, CALL ME. I CAN SOLVE THOR, GREEN LANTERN AND CAPTAIN AMERICA'S PROBLEMs IN ONE SITTING.

A Spotter's Guide

2011-05-08T02:44:00.001-04:00

Rule One of magna-esque webcomics: If your protagonist isn't an asshole, he must wander around semi-aimlessly expositing every little thought aloud until the plot happens to them. Bonus points if they have amnesia.

Rule 2: Tell, don't show. What do you mean comics are a visual medium? God gave us Text Boxes, no?

Rule 3: Breasts!

Rule 4: The plot ain't going to unfolded itself. Do it now- lingering tension will just make your readers antsy.

Rule 5: Did you follow Rule 3? Angsting about breast size is neither hackneyed nor cliched, but is instead a vibrant and untapped source of drama and comedy that is not at all demeaning to any female character you might have.

Rule 6: There are plot coincidences, and then there is deus-ex-fabula. Always go for option 2- nothing says well written like an author placing a sign that says Vital Characters Assemble Here

A song for the cat

2011-02-18T12:09:00.000-05:00

To the tune of Navigator

The bands, and the boxes
The laptops and cords
He chewed and he spat them,
That feline of lords
He minded not noises
That rose through the nights
And the morning hours rang with
His Yowls and his Flights

[CHORUS]
Aggravator, Aggravator,
Rise up and be gone,
The morning is here,
I have not slept too long.
The sun in this wee hour has barely begun,
And off to your food bowl I see you do run.

Brought in by the hundreds,
Mice and birds beware
Presented as gifts
And left here and there
You pray he'll bring dead ones
Because they don't squeak
As the live ones he drops off
Wake you when you sleep

[CHORUS]

A cat owners' curse
Is still yet his joy
That furry behemoth
That lovely wee boy
You'll put up with yowling
And the signs of cat brains
For the chance of a snuggle
When outside it rains

[CHORUS]

Make Glad The Heart of Childhood

2010-12-25T00:45:00.000-05:00

Well, it seems that Christmas at the Gougère-Rombaur household has once again limped across the finish line, exhausted yet still victorious. At this hectic point in child rearing, Reg and I take our successes where we can find them. We woke a little around seven in the morning, the clarion call of greed in our ears as our children heralded the arrival of more bedroom clutter. Faster than you can say whatever strange mumbled curse my husband groaned out when he woke, our children were at our bedroom door, their eyes so bright that it even mollified my loathing of early morning rising. In their hands they clutched their stuffed stockings tight, eager to begin the august and inviolable rituals of Christmas morning. Reg, whom I have selfishly molded into something resembling a morning person, clomped downstair to put on a pot of coffee. Will (at five our youngest) went with him, saying he needed to tell the pets about their stockings. Annie, seven, stayed with me, dancing around the bed in a flurry of grace and exuberance, extolling the virtues of the holy gentleman who filled our house with stuff for her. There's a Great Big Santa and an itty bitty Jesus, as a rather cynical priest of my acquaintance once said. In a sober whisper, Annie told me that she had made sure that she had gotten the most presents. I smiled wryly at this- Annie appears to have inherited my (in)ability with mathematics, because Reg and I had made very sure that the amount of presents was equal. Satisfied with her Christmas supremacy, Annie sat down with her stocking on the bed.

Reg, that stunning paragon of Yuletide virtue, came in at last with the blessed coffee, trailed by Will, who had chosen to eat a candy-cane for breakfast. It stuck out of his mouth at a jaunty angle. In his one arm he clutched his stocking, under the other he held Withnail (the cat-of-long-suffering), the arm looped around Withnail's rear, with his front half dangling, reaching desperately for the floor. With an amused look, I was informed by Reg that the dog, Sasha, had already opened her stocking, which explained the odd crunching noise coming from under our bed.

The Opening Of The Stockings is the first of several time-honored Christmas traditions, which started with watching the Muppet Christmas Carol the night before, the kids singing along to the songs and me quietly hiding my tears every few scenes. Christmas morning begins at an ungodly hour with the stockings on the bed, filled with candies and tiny toys, clementines and almonds. Annie is pure unfettered id, living only in the moment. She likes to pull everything out as fast as she can, spreading it in her corner of the bed, finding the thing she likes best and the fawning over it as much as possible. This year it was a pink sparkly cat comb that she immediately used on everyone but me- I was given a long, appraising look before she declared dramatically "I'm sorry, Father, but there is no hope for you. That hair... my comb is too late!" I took this pronouncement with as much dignity as I could. Will is very imaginative, living entirely in his own world, as grave and serious as a five year old can be. After handing the traumatized cat off to Reg, Will had pulled a Sleeply LaGoof, slowly taking out the candy cane and placing it beside him on the bed, leaving a pinkish stain on my duvet. Setting his Bolt toy over it as a guard, he carefully and slowly pulled out each item with a contemplative smile on his face. He likes to arrange them in some arcane order, occasionally showing something to Bolt for approval. Even when his sister tried to tame his unruly mop of brown hair, he kept to his task until he was satisfied.

By the time he was finished, Annie's attention had already switched tracks. She had first tried to open Sasha's stocking, but the dog could not be persuaded to climb out and relinquish her new bone, so she had turned her focus to Withnail, showing him his new catnip mouse and explaining to him in a rapid-fire stream of instructions about how he was to make sure this mouse lasted and stayed clean and so on. Withnail endured this with the same look of horrified panic and wounded pride with which he seems to go through life, the poor fellow. Soon enough, Annie's 'beans' and Will's attempt to use his wet candy cane to draw drove us out of the bedroom and downstairs, to commence the wrapping paper massacre once more. Soon the ground floor was littered with scraps of paper as Annie and Sasha struggled to outdo one another as agents of chaos. Annie feels that she has to emulate cartoon shows and reduce any wrapping paper to confetti, while all the revelry over-excites the dog, who is liable to grab wrapping paper debris and tear around the house, shredding it in the process. Eventually we end up on the couch, Reg and I side by side, Will on Reg's lap, Annie exerting her independence by curling up with some Barbies in the big armchair. As always, we sit down to watch Pee-Wee's Christmas Special, long on a dying VHS and recently and poorly transfered to DVD. We eat it with waffles, the only thing that Reg does better than I and, thus, the only time in which he is allowed to work in my hallowed kitchen unsupervised. We start later than usual- Will needs to make sure that both Bolt and his new teddy bear Ambrosias II (his predecessor having had an unfortunate encounter with Sasha six months ago) have a good view of the TV. As always, Reg and I argue over wether-or-not k.d. lang could have worn an uglier outfit, and I again declare it my life-long dream to have Frankie Avalon as my personal Christmas Card Slave. As always, watching this will make Reg throughout the day suddenly exclaim "Now all it needs is Charo!" to the general bewilderment of anyone around him. And again, as always, the end of Pee-Wee heralds the oncoming cold- getting dressed, bundling up and setting out for Christmas Day at Nana Gougère's- or Red Nana, as the children insist on calling her, in order to distinguish her from Grey Nana, Reg's mother. I will not go into too much detail here, as mother's post-Christmas Column is inevitably devoted to her yearly Christmas menagerie of relatives. Like every year, my mother commanded the sea of people with Pattonesque flair, her wooden spoon a riding crop as she barked orders, directed people around and tried to make order out of madness. Cousin Arthur's drunken carols at the piano were inappropriate for everyone (Darlene left him again), and Grandma Gougère has only gotten more cantankerous with age, until she espies her great-grandchildren, who seem to make her melt like hot butter.

The children are finally asleep, their fingers inexplicably still sticky from sweets. They were so buzzed from the sugar high that it took almost an hour of my sister reading them bedtime stories before they calmed down- thank God for Mairia Kalman. I hear the siren song of my childhood bed calling out to me, so I will draw this column to a close.

I hope you all had the most Merry of Christmases, and will have a very happy New Year.

I remain, as always,

W. Gougère

Christmas 2010

Some Random Thoughts on Christmas

2010-12-16T13:18:00.001-05:00

Odd Visitors

Do you think that Joseph was at all weirded out by the three Magi showing up carrying some rather unusual gifts for a new born? Think about it- Mary had just given birth, which means she was probably pretty "out of i"t at that point in time. A traumatic, unexpected birth in a goat barn alone in the middle of the night with only a panicking husband and a donkey to help. Add in the euphoria of proud new-mothers anywhere, and I'll bet you that she sat though the whole evening with beatific smile and slightly glazed eyes, sitting upright only because she was too tired to lie down. So there's poor Joseph: He's got a new-born kid, an exhausted wife and he's probably wondering why the shelter he is in is being slowly surrounded by rural peasant folk with their faces suffused with awe when all of a sudden three Babylonian/Persian/Yemenis show up carrying incense perfume and gold, saying it is "for the baby".

Maybe it's just me, but I'd be confused.

The Three Magi, According To Western Theological Tradition

And Frith So Loved The Earth....

Hark the Hare, Auld Angels sing. I am convinced that this so-called "Christmas" carol is in fact a subversive coded message trumpeting the second coming of Hazel rich will banish are predators, and that the flayrah will be uncountable, silfray without end.

Christ! The saviour is bored!

I mishear this lyric constantly. The word is either 'born' or 'bore', but I always hear it as "And Mary, she bored Jesus, our saviour for to be" and the like.

Terrible First Line Competition Entry 2

2010-10-13T00:24:00.000-04:00

By the time the puddles of olive oil and poodle fat had stopped burning, Terrence found himself deeply annoyed- not so much because he was dead, but because he would now never be able to tell Tina how little the last three years worth of Friday Fish n' Fungus meals had meant to him.

I swear, the quest for completed content will be brought to conclusion, dear readers.

Sweet memory: For lo the bridges burneth

2010-08-02T14:43:00.004-04:00

Attempting to play Dwarf Fortress puts me heavily in mind of my five-year old self's attempts to play Leisure Suit Larry in the Land of the Lounge Lizards: It's colourful, very pixelated, and I have absolutely no idea about what I am doing or how to do it. Should my dwarves spontaneously be run-over by taxi's or mugged by someone dressed as a villain from Cigars of the Pharaohs, my heart will be warmed by nostaligic childhood memories. Should my dwarves suddenly drop dead of STD's, then it'll be the memory of a an older child who tried to track down his childhood game memories and learned, for the first time, that LSLLL was game that you win by having safe sex, something of which my five year old self was unaware of.

However, I'm pretty sure my memory is lying to me. Our first computer (that I can remember) was the Mac Classic, which had a nine-inch monochrome CRT screen (And, Wikipedia tells me, ran at the now quaintly bizarre 512x342 resolution, and had 4MBs of memory). And I am also sure that the LSLLL mugger was not dressed in the weird purple Cigar of the Pharaohs outfit, partially because that doesn't make any sense, and partially because as I said, our CRT screen was monochrome- black and white, which means no purple robes.

I remember Felix the Cat: The Movie being something I was obsessed about for a brief period, but when I tried to watch it again, I had to turn it off in disgust. "Terrible"... doesn't even come close to describing it. Since then, I can't revisit treasured childhood classics, like the Lost in Space remake or David Lynch's Dune (I was a strange child) for fear that they won't be deserving of the the shinning altars I laid them on as a small boy. I'm sure Jim Varney will no longer be funny (although the theme song from Ernest Rides Again remains totally kick-ass). Ghostbusters I and II were actually funnier when I saw them as an adult. I'm sure Alien³ isn't as good, although I am sure the lovely Ms. Weaver is as intense as always. Pee-Wee is also better as an adult than a child.

Still, the bad outweighs the good. I used to watch Sonic Underground, which had Sonic and his siblings... fight evil villains by turning into nineties rock musicians.... who are hedgehogs. Yeah. Or the Caspar movie? It's really best not to think about that one. And the less said about Beyblade the better.

Better authentic mammon than a bogus god

2010-08-02T13:43:00.005-04:00

When is passion forgivable?

Gastrimargia, porneia, philargyria, lupē, orgē, akedia, kenodoxia, hyperephania. Working from Greek, the monk Evagrius Ponticus writes these down- to warn, to preach, to proselytize. Time and tide play with them, and these eight sins are later whetted down to the manageable seven, and as the language of scholarship becomes Latin, we get luxuria, gula, avaritia, acedia, ira, invidia and superbia. Socordia replaces acedia, but the intent remains the same, and we reach our modern Seven Deadly Sins, which most of us know- Lust and Gluttony, Greed and Sloth, Wrath and Envy, and ever ascendent, Pride.

Theologians have always been partial to our friends the sins, that is when they aren't fighting over Arianism, Nestorianism or Chalcedonian doctrine, which is just as fun as it sounds. Saint Aquinas, the dear, felt the need to divide gluttony into six different subcategories, the sort of inane minutiæ so beloved of scholars when they run out of the truly ground breaking ideas. Some enterprising fellow chose to whittle it down to three groupings- the sins of lustful appetite, irascibility and intellect. But all of this is the splitting of hairs- our sins are all those of the passionate bent. We find that this extends into both the social and legal milieu- we have crimes of passion, we accuse others of getting heated or riled up, and we mean it pejoratively. While we may describe a speaker as passionate, we also apply it as a derogatory adjective- the passions of "Latin women"- a euphamism to affectionately describe the same attitudes one might find in an angry, toy-throwing toddler.

When is passion forgivable? As a culture, existing in the Western-European tradition of the Song of Roland, the Matter of Britain, Gallic romantics and Mediterranean Lotharios, we raise these passionate people up while at the same time we condemn their passions as our sins. We go so far as to lock ourselves into a catch twenty-two. While we decry those who fall victim to their passions, that killjoy Pope Gregory I felt the need to add Sloth to our little list and thus condemn those one might think we would consider our greatest compatriots- those who have handily rid themselves of any passion whatsoever. Perhaps it's an offshoot of the Catholic guilt that St. Peter bequeathed to Europe, that masochistic glee of the constantly guilty. We let ourselves be passionate, write our stories and then we prostate ourselves in the confessional, overwhelmed by guilt. Then with God's love and our penance we're off again to unleash our passions on the world. For many of us that embodiment of all the sins, Henry Tudor, managed to deprive us of even confession, leaving only heavily mounting guilt as our passions rise and fall and we sin and sin again. The joy of our modern world is that we're free to confess our sins in any number of ways, from psychologist to blog post, but we've utterly eliminated culturally approved redemption and penance, save for the few lucky celebrities who get time in rehab clinics for the very wealthy. You've sinned, shame on you, feel guilty. And then that's it.

If modern culture is going to continue on it's way- so vocally, so at odds with our own conservative morality, than we require a new set of sins. My personal set of even would be Boorishness, Lack of Charity, Overuse of Buzzwords or Academic Jargon, Poor Hygiene, Crudeness, Violence Towards One's Fellow Man and Not Understanding That One Can't Carry A Tune And Yet Singing Anyways.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your thoughts. Write in what you feel should be the new sins of our modern world. I'll make it a contest. The one with the best sins will be allowed forgiveness with only three Hail Mary's and a single act of contrition.

...Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua, de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum par publius Karaoke....

What are we?

2010-07-24T18:21:00.002-04:00

When they asked
And I knew
It was over, again,
Like before, and before
(What a time is has been!)
And I ask
Why it is
That they're going away-
When they asked
And I know
I have drove them away.

"I am sorry"
The words that I most hate to hear
"I'm am sorry"
Well frankly, my dear, I don't care
Because she said it, he said it, she said it again
And it's great that they're sorry
But they left all the same
They go off unburdened
They leave silence behind
To entreats and paens
They give no reply

And I ask
To my self
When the question is laid
What it is about me that makes it all seem
That absolute silence is preferably seen
As the option to take
Act as though I were dead
To never again hear the thoughts from my head
And I wonder
In anguish
Though detached, it is true
Because of the way that my thoughts are construed
I am always observing my every move
Critiquing myself, here on the outside
To myself I have never successfully lied

And I ask
As I watch it all crumble apart
Why in God's good name did I bother to start?

And yet, (in this moment, I'll unburdened my heart)
If the chance came again..... I'd still play my part.

A very personal letter

2010-06-25T18:49:00.000-04:00

Dear authors of Girl Genius,

Stories have ebb and flow. Please allowed this current storyline to come to a goddamned end so we can have a breather and maybe feel comfortable in any given setting. It's been at least a year, JUST RESOLVE THE BLOODY CONFLICTS FOR A MOMENT.

Sincerely,

The Human Race

A Post Delayed

2010-06-04T22:46:00.000-04:00

There is a moment where it all makes sense to me again. For a scant couple of minutes, I am no longer in the loop. No longer part of the web. For a moment, fit only for observation- although not an impartial one. I am hardly self centered enough to think that it revolves around me, but I consider myself a considerable force in getting fifty-odd technicians aimed in roughly the right direction long enough to bring us to this point. I am required to stand at the door, inside the house, and watch the show's delievery. For those few minutes, I have no headset, no technitions around me, just a little corner as the lights dim. The audience probably can't feel it, but the tension tastes bitter in my mouth. All those moments in the mind's eye- every failure, every delay, every mistake- they're all bound up in this moment, when I could choke on the tension. But in that moment, I remember why I wanted it in the first place- it was this, this being apart from those in their seats. That energy... that potential- it is Schrödinger's studio. Every waveform of every mistake and triumph exists on this empty stage. And then- the voices go, the lights rise, the actors enter. The play is observed and the waveform collapses. Wether it it will go well or not is now beyond my power. I have brought it to this point, and it is those under me who must now see it through.

So I return to my office, to do my paperwork and to only listen- the birthing of the show reaching my ears through a small black speaker. But that moment will stay in my mind, that little singularity of why.

A Rebuttal to Mr. Ebert

2010-05-05T23:24:00.000-04:00

I have so much respect for Roger Ebert, but he recently wrote this awful hate screed called Video Games Can Never Be Art, a sentiment really bothers me. I mean, he doesn't complain that CGI scenes in movies aren't art, after all the love and attention showered on it by artists, so what makes a CGI scene different from a video game? Control.

An audience member at a film is entirely at the mercy of what is on the screen- a director has to show or tell everything via the strictly linear progression of the film it was printed on. In a game, a director has to work around the movement of the audience- should the player choose to run to here or there, or do this or that- a director has to still be able to tell a worthwhile story without obviously limiting the movement of the player.

In film, a masterful director (and writer and so on) knows how to say everything they need to within the time limit of a film or an episode. Can your story survive segmentation, and be told in a two hour film, or twelve forty-five minute episodes, or a six-part miniseries each an hour long? A master film game director and writer (and, god knows, these are often far and few between) know that the length of their game runs anywhere from 30 to 100 hours, and it runs continuously. I mean, people can save and quit and you can have narrative arcs, but the story has to run continuously from point to point. Casablanca is a two hour self contained film- you're left asking questions at the end, but the story's narrative and major plots have been checked off and we're leaving the theatre feeling romantic and tragic and all that jazz. A game has to deal with the fact that by the end of two hours, you may only be finishing the tutorial, and the reveal of the game's villain, or the betrayal of a loyal friend may still be seven hours away, and the hero’s victory may not occur for more than an entire day in real time. That’s twenty-four hours worth of interaction that has to retain its ties to a narrative. The reason so many games are BAD is that they just can't sustain a story on that kind of a level. That being said, not all games are about story; many of them are just about having fun. Crafting beautiful worlds or landscapes to let people run around in, doing absurd things because they're having a good time. A complex musical game, where you've got to meld the harmonies of music into a unified theme to create lovely symphonic sound or the loopy absurdity of something like Mario- the little fat plumber in his overalls flying through outer space on a green dinosaur to save a princess from a giant, fire-breathing turtle. It’s absurd, and it’s hilarious and it is so much fun to inhabit this world.

Film needs to put you in a story- you need to care about the story and the people in it, and you'll suspend your disbelief because you care about who and what your seeing. A game needs to put you in a world, and it has to be a world where your interactions make sense, where things mesh together- and why we call a game broken when the world doesn't act in a way we feel makes any sense- when our ability to control our game-self is clunky or badly designed or where the actions of things around us are wrong.

I think I'm mad because I've been playing a game that understand story better than almost anything I've ever played before, Mass Effect 2, an epic trilogy, full of complex themes. An escaped slave who has no sense of herself beyond property, an angry young woman who was a test subject as a child, and carries around fury and baggage like you wouldn't believe. A scientist who struggles with having had to sterilize an entire species that threatened to conquer the galaxy, and now he has to watch them stagnate culturally and slowly die. The game always offers you a choice- what kind of person are you in this world? Are you the hero, who saves people and helps the downtrodden, or are you the selfish anti-hero, out only for yourself and not caring about who gets in your way. I care about the people in this game, because the actors who voice them aren't just phoning it in. Martin Sheen (Martin Sheen!) is an enigmatic and creepy head of a humanity first organization who funds your resurrection, but you can't trust him a millimeter. Michael Dorn as a belligerent viceroy, Marina Sirtis as a matriarch gone mad, Tricia Helfer, Adam Baldwin, Michael Hogan... the list goes on. These are sci-fi greats, and A-list actors, and they help build this world for you just as effectively as if they were acting on your DVD player.

I normally love Roger Ebert, but here he just comes off as a bitter old man who can't accept this kind of new medium. I can't help but think of Peter O'Toole in Ratatouille, when he gives his speech about how it’s more fun to write harsh criticism as a critic, but a critic really puts himself on the line when he comes to the defense of the new, because the new needs friends. Ebert was writing his piece as a response to a speech by a young woman who wanted to talk about why she thought games could be art- not always art, but have the potential to be. Ebert had to go and spit vitriol all over that. Games are often crap, but I have been as touched by the people of Mass Effect 2 as I was in the characters of Casablanca, or Star Trek, or as I did reading about the death of the boor Bolgs in the nuclear winter comic When The Wind Blows- and there's another medium that has to fight for people to give it a chance, for people to say that it can rise above pulp and be art. Ebert is just being old and spiteful, but it has got to hurt to the thousands of industry people trying to elevate their work so that a grumpy old critic will call it worthy. Andy Warhol painted a picture of a soup can, and we hail it a great art. Why can't we do the same to something like a game, which had hundred of artists and programmers laboring for years, and great actors lending their voices... when I'm old, and ranting that the Twitter holograms they beam into our brains will never be art, I hope I can remember that young people are trying to make something they can call their own.

Such delay

2010-04-03T10:35:00.001-04:00

"The psychology of the orgiastic as an overflowing feeling of life and strength, where even pain still has the effect of a stimulus, gave me the key to the concept of tragic feeling, which had been misunderstood both by Aristotle and even more by modern pessimists. Tragedy is so far from being a proof of the pessimism (in Schopenhauer's sense) of the Greeks that it may, on the contrary, be considered a decisive rebuttal and counterexample. Saying Yes to life even in its strangest and most painful episodes, the will to life rejoicing in its own inexhaustible vitality even as it witnesses the destruction of its greatest heroes — that is what I called Dionysian, that is what I guessed to be the bridge to the psychology of the tragic poet. Not in order to be liberated from terror and pity, not in order to purge oneself of a dangerous affect by its vehement discharge — which is how Aristotle understood tragedy — but in order to celebrate oneself the eternal joy of becoming, beyond all terror and pity — that tragic joy included even joy in destruction."

-Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

I've got previews in two weeks. I'll start posting agin when I start having the time.

Growing Old To Get Back To

2010-02-17T20:56:00.006-05:00

Whilst in the midst of my evening washing-up, I was suddenly struck by the most poignant and ethereal memory. For merest fraction of a second I recalled with complete clarity the downstairs bathroom at my Grandmother's home in Don Mills. An odd room to remember so vividly, one might ask? Perhaps, but it is a room imbued with much memory. It wasn't always a bathroom. I believe in my very youngest days it was some sort of closet, or perhaps a pantry, I am not sure. Indeed, it may have always been a bathroom, and my memories are merely engaged in their constant habit of lying to me. When I was quite small, my grandparents decided to renovate their kitchen and dining room, a process that would, as I aged, be extended throughout the entire house until, when we sold it a few years ago, very, very little of the original sixties decor remained. I remember only seeing the white coverings over the kitchen hallway, and of visiting with my grandparents in the always chilly basement, where for the first and last time in my life had what I think were Ladies Fingers, a type of long confectionary cookie that have been an unrequited desire for the last seventeen odd years since I tried them. In addition to the kitchen redecorating (which would create a rather bizarre placement of electric ranges at an odd angle to a wall mounted oven, something I never understood), the little pantry or what-have-you was rebuilt into a small bathroom. Simple furnishings, just a sink, mirror and a toilet, with not even a counter or shelves. The mirror was oval (I think), functional if nothing to write home about, the sink a tad spindly and the toilet an unremarkable example of its species. The wallpaper was green, bright but not lurid, multi-hued but not overbearing, pseudo floral without ever merging into a precise geometric shape. A little white wicker wastepaper basket stood between the sink and the toilet, and there was a toilet brush behind. The toilet paper dispenser equally white and functional. The floor tile was the same as the hallway and the kitchen and dinning room, large six inch tiles of alternating terracotta and pale brown, with grey mortar in between. In fact, I think it was the only original furnishing still extant on the ground floor, the heavy stonework on the fireplace not withstanding.

Why is this little water closet so enshrined in my memory? Well, it largely has to do with its location, which I shall attempt to illustrate with some simple ASCII art:

,,,,, __ [->
->] ^

Those three lines are three doors. Following the arrows from left to right, you would go OUT from the the bathroom into the hallway, up and IN through the door to the kitchen, and the THROUGH to the living room via the door on the right. Make sense? Capital. That little bathroom was therefore at the almost intersection of the two most important rooms in the house. And that little rest room was quite pivotal. The always lovely smell of the soap (my grandmother never bought anything less then the nicest of soaps) would mix with the smell of roasted French chicken as you would stop to wash your hands before sitting down to dine. The agony of having to leave a fascinating conversation or witty story behind in the leaving room as you darted to the washroom because you urgently needed to pee. It was also a temperature affair. With the fireplace on, the living-room would get quite hot, and when dinner was under construction, the kitchen would be equally warm. That green sea of sweet smelling soap was then a place of refuge from the heat, a moment of cooling the senses before returning into the social fray. I would often dart out to that little loo and then stay in the relative coolness of the hallway; thinking back on it now I would venture to say that this may have been an incipient symptom of what I have decided to euphemistically call my “Screaming Child Early Warning System”. Those gathering could get quite noisy, and spending time in the cool and quiet bathroom and hallway was a way to disengage from all that noise.

I miss the house. I grieve for it, to be blunt, and miss it with a longing that fills me with such sorrow. I don't feel this way for many people. For me, what that house represented was serenity, a refuge from the chaos that was the world. It was in the economically troubled and oft-times emotionally turbulent house in Creemore, and in my less cash-strapped home in Guelph, that I spent most of my growing up, but my grandparent's home was the bulwark against turbulent change and uncertainty. With my grandparents death, and the loss of that house, I have at times felt anchoress. With no Grey Havens to find my way too, my feelings of being adrift seem only to have intensified.

When I was younger and in some ways dumber then I am now, one of my recurring fantasies was that was the home I wanted to settle down with my partner, perhaps renting from my grandmother, and start a family after attending some no-doubt prestigious Toronto university.

In various ways, all those elements are now long gone, and mostly to my detriment, although I note with a touch of deep humility that I am astonished to find myself in a relationship far more healthy, stable, loving and noteworthy then those that preceded it. I must then ask myself a question, and that is this. If such dream-elements can become true again, then may it might not be a sign that I am finally coming out of the sea of uncertainty that I have found myself lost in over the past few years? If this postulate is true, then one can only wish that I will find another serene harbour for a second home.

I can only hope it has nice bathrooms.

Captain Scarlet Episode 2

2010-02-07T20:12:00.001-05:00

Previously: Captain Black blew the mysterious Mysterons up real good. The Mysterons vow the destruction of all earthly life, starting with the assassination of World President Number Six. Six is saved, and agent Captain Scarlet is rendered apparently indestructible. Incredible Helmet hair is observed.

If anything was missing from my last review, it was any sort of analysis which makes these reviews more than just a blow-by-blow of the action. If I were to rate the Mysterons, I'd probably give it a C. It is not bad little episode, but its need to dump all the exposition on the viewer means that the pacing becomes rather glacial. A large cast is introduced, but we get no chance to know them. And annoying little questions are left unresolved- what happened to Scarlet's original body? Why did the Mysterons switch from assassination to kidnapping? What did it net them?

Anyways, this next little episode is much tighter affair. Let's go to press:

Winged Assassin. Original UK Airdate: October 6th, 1967 (ATV Midlands)

With a cymbal crash, we're back in. The opening narration has changed a bit, it is now the standard voice-over that will remain for much of the series. "The Mysterons, sworn enemies of Earth, possessing the ability to recreate an exact likeness of an object or person... but first they must destroy. [Cat howl] Leading the fight, one man fate has made indestructible. His name... Captain Scarlet."

We open with an establishing shot of a hotel. Inside the ugliest hotel room I have ever seen, a man is rappelling down in front of the window. As he is about to fire about the man in the bed, BANG! He's shot by Spectrum agent in the doorway.

In Her Majesty's Secret Room Service

That, despite a colour palette maddening close to Captain Black, happens to be Captain Grey. The sleeping man sits up, and is revealed to be wearing a goofy pseudo-asian dressing gown. The title of the episode superimposes itself over his dressing-gown logo, and that's scene. This is, in television parlance, known as the teaser. after every teaser in the opening of Captain Scarlet, we cut to a series of vignettes of each character- Captain Blue driving. Colonel White rocking his desk- while the name of each character is shown on the screen. Over this, the voice of the Mysterons states their desire for vengeance, and then states what their plan-of-the-week is. Today's gameplan is to assassinate the Director General of the United Asian Republic , which I hope will be carried out with more efficiency then their rather pathetic attempt to kill, and then Kidnap, World President Six. The Mysterons have a motif, by the way, that every-time they talk, little white circles drift around the screen.

That is such a white trash name.

Captain Black is in the opening, by the way, hanging out in a misty graveyard. You know, 'cause he's a villain. On Cloudbase, Colonel White is chatting up the troops via videophone, informing them of the Mysterons plan to kill the Director General, who aparently is the elected leader of two hundred million people. I'm pretty sure that that is a smaller population than any current Asian country. Maybe there was a war or something? Anywho, Captain Blue is watching the broadcast from the Cloudbase lounge, where Colonel White is appearing via the world's most useless wallclock.

In tonight's performance, the roll of Big Brother will be played by Lorne Green

Blue leaves to help with security while Captain Scarlet is still under medical observation. He has a flashback to the moment before the crash ("something we don't understand"), but remembers nothing else past that point. He is free of the Mysterons, now. According to the doctor, he now possesses the Mysterons ability of retro... something. He will take damage, feel the pain, even die, but the Mysteron science will bring him back, good as new. The Colonel will take the risk of Scarlet's Mysteron connections- he restores the Cap'n to active duty, and Scarlet jet-sets off to London with Blue, who apparently hasn't left yet.

He looks so cute with his hands like that

The Colonel tells Lieutenant Green that they've switched to Plan B, all Angels launch! There's a great little shout out to Fireball XL5 when Green tells the Angels that their radio call is "Zodiac". There is also a odd moment when Green says "Yes Sir!" in such a smooth, seductive sort of way that you almost think he is channeling Isaac Hays. Meanwhile, in New York, an absurdly heavy airplane is about to leave for a flight to London, but a smirking Captain Black in the terminal tells me that things aren't going to go so well.

Look at that thing. How does it get any lift?

Vislor Turlough doesn't trust Black, but Shatner seems unconcerned

To maintain security, Blue and Scarlet land 30 miles from the airport and drive the rest of the way in a Spectrum Pursuit Vehicle. One of the series gimmicks was that these SPVs are hidden in various places all around the world. Last episode it was a tractor trailer, this time ts a mobile home. Meanwhile, on that airplane, complications occur in-flight, the power goes completely out. With everything out, the plane crashes into the ocean in huge fireball as we see a Mysteron replacement plane fly overhead.

This is just tragic.

Wow. See, remember when I said this was a darker series? In Thunderbirds, that plane would sink into the water, and Thunderbird 4 would try and pump air into the sinking fuselage while TB1 and Brains would work out a way to bring it back to the surfacing, saving everyone just as the air ran out. not in Captain Scarlet, oh no no. Here, the Mysterons just kill everybody and go about their business. Like I said, Dark. its a nice scene, and the pilots desperately trying to get control of the aircraft is really rather poignant.

At the hotel from the opening, a decoy Director General gets in a motorcade, while the real one sneaks out back in an oil tanker with Captain Grey. In the control tower, Captain Blue repots that the airport has been sealed and infiltrated with disguised Spectrum agents. At the same time, the Mysteron airplane, Delta-Tango One-Niner comes in for a landing. As it does, Scarlet suddenly acts weird, getting all sweaty and headachy, but it passes. The plane docks with the terminal as the decoy and the real Director General arrive, with the Director getting on board his private jet.

In the future, Air Canada is even less popular

Air Traffic Control gets a report that Delta Tango is acting weird. Apparently they won't open the doors. A quick glance through binoculars proves the aircraft to be empty. Suddenly, while still attached to the terminal, the airplane accelerates, ripping the docking arms off in a flurry of crumbling concrete and driving head on towards the Director's departing jet. Scarlet and Blue rush to the SPV, chasing after it.

I originally was rather annoyed, as the Angels come in to shoot at the plan, and manage to either miss it or barely dent it, odd considering the size of the target. On further reflection, I think it has something to do with the Mysteron invulnerability. Captain Blue tries to shoot the tires off the plane, but the gun is jammed! Scarlet takes matters into his own hands, ejecting Captain Black and taking the suicidal risk of jamming the tires.

Crap, I already made that Rocket Man joke last time...

Scarlet rams the SPV into the landing gear, causing them to rip away! Scarlet's SPV goes crashing into a bunker by the side of the runway as the the plane skids to a grinding halt. The Director's jet almost clears the wreckage but it nicks Delta-Tango's tail fin and it too goes crashing into a giant fireball!

....

HOLY CRAP EVERYBODY'S DEAD

Great job, SPECTRUM

Seriously! An cut away to the inside of the SPV is the rather grisly image of a bloody, dead Captain Scarlet. As an ambulance takes away the body, Captain Blue and an air traffic control survey the wreckage and have this little dialogue:

Controller: "A brave man. A pity he died in vain."

Blue: "Maybe he didn't die....:

Controller: "What?"

Blue: "...In vain"

Its rather tragic that Blue can only make note of Scarlet's rumored invulnerability, rather than note any kind of victory. This was an absolute failure, no two ways about it. The ambulance rides off into a fade-out, and we go to credits. Falling Boxes! Speeding Cars! FILMED IN SUPERMARIONATION

Wow. That is a darker episode. Lets see, the DT-19 was about the same size as an Airbus 380, which seat about 520, plus fifteen odd crew and two pilots. Plus the Director General, his pilot, co-pilot and maybe four crew. Plus Captain Scarlet, and maybe on or two people killed when the airplane smashed the terminal docking arms. That's a death toll of about five hundred and fifty people, with absolutely no one rescued or saved. Taking the personal killed when the Mysterons blew up the safe-house in the first episode, the gunman at the beginning plus the rescue of President Six, the current record stands at:

Mysterons: 600

Spectrum: 2

Our heroes, ladies and gentleman.

Captain Scarlet Episode 1

2010-02-05T20:56:00.037-05:00

In an effort to shake things up around here and to force myself to write things on some kind of consistent schedule, I am attempting to write a complete review of the series Captain Scarlet. I will commence with an overview, before going on to the first episode. May God have mercy on my soul.

It was 1967, and Gerry and Sylvia Anderson's careers were on the decline, although they didn't know it yet. Coming off the success of Thunderbirds, the Andersons would never again make a product as successful. They had just completely the spectacularly unwatchable Thunderbirds film, and would go on to to create the deeply bizarre Joe 90, jumping around from one thing to the next before their marriage and partnership would crash and burn along with everything else in the making of Space: 1999. But that was all to come. For now, there was the new project: Captain Scarlet.

Captain Scarlet is kind of the distant older cousin of the Andersons' oeuvre- its a much darker tone than its predecessors and the shows that would follow it. Technology had progressed from when the Andersons' had begun Thunderbirds- the device that moved the puppet's mouths was rather large, giving rise to the oversize heads and caricatured expressions one can find on the Tracy family. But these devices had shrunk in size, so that the puppets of Captain Scarlet are much more proportional. Unfortunately, as the puppeteers would complain, being more realistic meant that an audience expected more realism from the puppet's movement- difficult with the clunky fibreglass figures. As an added downer, the smaller faces of the puppets had less charm, less character, and everyone came off as looking rather stoic. This, coupled with the aforementioned darker tone, led to there being much less affection for the series than from Thunderbirds or Fireball XL5.

Don't get me wrong, though, when I say this is a darker series. It's still a mixture of delightful models, goofy dialogue, crazed actions sequences and some of the worst pacing even seen on television outside of eighties cartoons. But I love Anderson's work, and thus this quirky little series has a special pace in my heart. If you want to enlarge the screenshots, just click on the image. Let's go to press:

Episode I: the Mysterons. Original UK Airdate September 29, 1967

With a line of violins and a cymbal crash, Gerry Anderson's fancy-pants new logo appears on the screen, struck through with a rocket. BAM, we're in.

Classic Fifties Pulp-Novel Rocket

A harp glissandos and competes with a crashing Hammond organ chord, and we fade into an dark brown Alleyway, fraught with mystery. A deep voice intones: “The finger is on the trigger. About to unleash terrible powers beyond the comprehension of man. This force we shall know as- The Mysterons”. The font for the credits, by the way, appears to be Metrostyle Extended, one of my personal favourites. The camera pulls a hard turn, a cat squeals and there, in the shadows, is the figure of a man. Harsh lights turn on, a gun is raised in the camera's Point of View, and the figure is riddled with bullets. But they have no effect. The man razes his own sidearm, and shoots the gunner down. We jump in to a close-up, and to thudding drums, across the screen these words are written:

This expression isn't going to change very often

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a title. The sonorous, booming voice returns: “This man will be our hero, for fate will make him indestructible. His name? Captain Scarlet!” The show is really pulling no punches. There will be no dark-horse secondary character rising to take the audience's affections here, no sir. Captain Scarlet will be your hero, and dammit, you're going to like it. Scarlet, by the way, is supposed to resemble a young Carry Grant, but I've never thought so.

We fade out and onto an orbital shot of a planet, which the title helpfully informs us is Mars, in the year 2068. As we cut away to a little buggy riding on the surface, our friend the title narrator returns. Apparently picking up where he left off in the credits, he tells us that “This is the trigger. Inside, three men from Earth.” Inside the buggy, he is proven correct. The ground of Mars, by the way, is uniformly grey, and there appears to be no atmosphere to speak of. In fact, if the title hadn't exactly specified that this was Mars, I would have said that this was the moon. Our three little amigos, including the delightfully attired Captain Black, are apparently driving slowly around Mars in search of some signals that were picked up back on Earth by an organization known as Spectrum, which makes me giggle for oh, oh so many reasons.

I'm not sure which I love more, the goofy logo or the see-through visor.

They haven't found anything, but Black, being the conscientious guy he is, wants to keep looking. He suggest they go looking over the next ridge, and we're treated to another shot of the little buggy slowly crawling into shot. Suddenly, the red jumpsuited fellow at the wheel exclaims “Will you take a look at that!” The strings play a jarring a chord and we are treated to our first look at an alien city! It's... um.... wow.

Pictured: Wow.

Usually, given the limitations of what he was using, Gerry Anderson was pretty good at making small objects look bigger than they were, but in this shot, the city just looks really tiny. Do you notice that “unearthly glow” surrounding the city? According to the commentary, the shot was made by putting a sheet of glass in front of the lens and rubbing it down with Vaseline. And boy, does it show. After some blurry establishing shots, we cut inside of the scene, and man.... this room couldn't look more life a set from the original Star Trek if it tried. Giant glowing ball, twisted blue pillars, it even has the seemingly obligatory green and magenta mood lighting. Pretty impressive for one eighth scale.

I think this set shows up in 'I, Mudd'. And 'Mirror, Mirror'. And 'The Cage'. And 'The City on the Edge of Forever'. And 'Spock's Brain'. And....

Suddenly, we hear the a deep booming voice, like the narrator's, but an octave lower and more echoey. The voice gets all dully excited that the humans are here, what with their “curiosity about their universe”, something also shared by the voice. The voice wants to observe them closer, so it says to train the cameras on the earth people. We cut to shot of the turret cameras, which look a little like multi-barrelled ray-guns. This causes Black to IMMEDIATELY jump to conclusions. “They're about to attack!” “Let 'em have it!”. The adorable little buggy fires off a few shots, and then...

The aliens clearly do not have very well-enforced building codes

Man, the whole city just explodes! I hope Black doesn't overreact like this all the time. Goes to the park, sees a kid picking up a stick- "They're going to attack me!". Blows up the playground, bits of backpacks and plastic shrapnel rain down everywhere...

No one in the buggy seems at all affected by their little genocide. They instead calmly talk about surveying the wreckage before going home. Suddenly, a radar dish comes up out of the ground and shoots a soothing blue ray at the ruins. Through the power of Alien Science, the city is restored to perfection. The booming voice comes back, identifying itself as the voice of the Mysterons. Calling themselves a peaceful race, the voice mocks the Earthlings for their inability to destroy them, and then totally chews them out for being aggressive. The voice says that their revenge will be slow, but will lead to the destruction of all life on Earth. So, not that peaceful then. I never quite got it- what is it with aliens specie? One human shows up and does something boneheaded, and then aliens blame every single last member of the human race, often along with anything living on the planet. In this case, for Captain Black's rash destruction of their city, the Mysterons blame everyone from Swifty Lazar to the entire species of Anthonomus Grandis to my mother's old aloe plant. I mean, I know it takes a village to raise a child well, but this is taking sociological blame way too far.

Blah blah blah, resistance is futile, etc. To sum up, The Mysterons will turn one of the three men into their agent on Earth (guess which one!). Their first act of revenge will be the assassination of the World President.

We now get the first example of Captain Scarlet's trademark style of switching from scene to scene. Rather than a fade out or a slide dissolve, CS gives us some drum beats on a timpani and cuts back and forth a few times between the last scene and the new one in rapid succession. Its really disorientating and headache inducing if you watch an episode with out any breaks.

"Dex had a hand in building it. Its kind of a secret. You can keep a secret, can't you Polly?"

Spectrum is simply FABULOUS

Welcome to Cloudbase, the headquarters of Spectrum, who I'm pretty sure are some-kind of world police. We arrive to find the station launching jets. Jets flown by women! In the sky! In the FUTURE! The orders are given by a Colonel White, to a Lieutenant Green (A black person! In the sky! In the FUTURE!). Are you detecting a pattern with names here? The lady-pilots, by the way, all have names that are [blank] Angel- Destiny Angel, Rhapsody Angel...

.... Helmet-Hair Angel...

Rhapsody Angel and Helmet-Hair Angel are ordered to their jets, and we come across a familiar Gerry Anderson motif. Ya see, these puppets, while great all, have one little itty bitty flaw- they really, REALLY don't walk very well. Its rather embarrassing. Because its the FUTURE, Anderson cheats. Whenever possible, the puppets ride something somewhere, be it a mobile couch, a chair or moving sidewalk, even when just outright walking would take up a fraction of the time. In this case, the Angels ride little deck chairs right up into their jets. Its not as cool as the epic Thunderbirds secret doors, but it gets the job done.

As pilots, you realize these ladies are wearing diapers?

The jets are away, and Colonel White radios our hero, Captain Scarlet, who finally shows up. Scarlet is totally chilaxing in his rad sports-car with a Captain Brown. The Colonel is calling to tell Brown that he is in charge of the mission, which is to protect the World President. Apparently, the Mars guys brought the message home. Brown is perturbed by The Mysterons, calling them something "we don't understand". This is a phrase that'll come up a LOT. I'll let you know. While the two chums banter exposition, the entire shot suddenly turns the same blue colour we saw on Mars. Suddenly, the car pops a tire, flies off the road, and explodes in a giant fireball!

No! Not these guys! All my favourite characters, dying!

We suddenly see Scarlet's body being dragged by about a foot. The person doing the dragging is none other than - shock!- Captain Scarlet (man, do his pants have a tight crease)! I'm going to go out on a limb here and say "Mysterons did it". We cut away to see the not dead-Scarlet reporting to Colonel White. All security has been prepared.

A Bump-bump-bummm takes us to New York, where Captain Brown (also replaced, apparently) is escorting the World President to a Spectrum safe house. They've pulled out all the stops- the streets are cleared (and unnaturally clean), the Angels and their jets are flying overhead, gunmen on the roof, helicopters in the sky and Brown's armoured car has a bunch of escorts. The face of the World President was driving me crazy, until Wikipedia helpfully pointed out that he was modelled on Patrick McGoohan, which he totally is if you squint enough. Since he is never given a name, I shall proceed to call him President Six until I get bored of doing so.

I am not a president, I am free man!

Pres. Six mentions that they are dealing with forces they they "don't understand". That's two. Our duo reaches the safe-house, where they take a moving sidewalk through a security barrier. The alarm goes off when Brown passes through it, and all these guns are trained on him. There is a close up on Brown's pocket, and a very real and human hand reaches in and throws away a brown metal device- it's a cigarette holder. Good on him, those things are bad for you. Having satisfied the guards, Six and Brown reach the safe-house room where the two of them will apparently be spending the next few weeks. The door opens and... and.... oh god, that's just....

Who thought this was comfortable? Who thought this was pleasant? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS DECADE?

Man, remind me not to have Spectrum design my home. Brown point out the room's cameras before sitting down. El Presidente Seis hopes that Brown play a good game of 3D chess, but Brown is too busy smoking.

Literally.

I think he borrowed that turtleneck from Wesley Crusher

President Six goes for his intercom, but we cut away to see the building go up in a giant fireball! Man, the Mysterons sure know how to pick up the pace. Destiny Angel, in her jet with her sexy French accent, reports back to Cloudbase with about as much emotion as Black did when he blew up the Mysterons. Good times.

Meanwhile, at Cloudbase, Scarlet, Pres Six (not dead, apparently) and Colonel White are going over what happened. They review the footage, wherein we see that Six escaped through a nifty sliding wall panel just before Brown exploded. White says that the President can learn two things from this. 1) He barely escaped with his life and 2) Brown had some kind of bomb on him. I'm pretty sure Six should already know this seeing as, you know, he was there. The President seems shocked that Brown was in on the plot (Again, weird, seeing as, you know, he saw it). The Colonel mentions this as being part of a number of odd occurrences, and reveals the fact that Captain Black went missing after his return from Mars. Scarlet is to fly Six to a new safe-house, escourted by the angels. Remember, White reminds him, they are facing forces they "do not understand". That's three.

The jets take off, using the same footage from earlier in the episode. As they fly off, Lieutenant Green (remember him? Black dude) tells White that they found the body of Brown at the car crash site. White says that something must have happened there that "they do not entirely understand". That's four. White turns his pimpin turn-table desk around to look at a wall chart, and he and Green work out that Scarlet must also be an impostor. They order Scarlet to turn around, but no response. Things just got real.

Guess which one is Lieutenant Green?

Hint: it's not this guy.

Destiny Angels' warning shot is ignored by Scarlet. Pres Six tries to radio for help, but Scarlet bitch slaps him in the face before ejecting them both from the jet. Destiny reports that once on the ground, Scarlet took the President at gunpoint into a nearby car. The chase is on!

I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or numbered!

To help with the chase, the Aryan Captain Blue arrives at a gas station, where a truck is being used to hide a Spectrum Pursuit Vehicle, a bullet shape car that Blue drives facing backwards, looking at a TV monitor of the front of the car. This apparently helps reduce injuries in the case a forward collision or something. Anyways, he goes off after Scarlet's stolen car. To keep him on a single road, Destiny Angel orders one of her wingladies (wingmanette?) to blow up an overpass! Boom! Now Scarlet can only go one way, onto a towering edifice known as the London Car-Vu. As far as I can tell, you drive to the top and look at things.

ELROOOOOOOOY!!!!!

Scarlet drives up, and Blue is in hot pursuit. What follows is about a minute and a half of the two cars going up that thing, ALL THE WHILE there is a horrible screeching noise of rubber squealing of asphalt. The whole time. Its awful. I had to mute. Finally, they reach the top, and Scarlet takes Six at gunpoint to a girder that's jutting off the building. A cut-away reveals our old friend Captain Black. Remember him? He looks zombieish now. Apparently, he's the Mysterons agent (shocking, I know). He reveals via radio to Scarlet that they (the Mysterons) have taken over a Spectrum helicopter which is coming to get them.

The foulest stench is in the air, the funk of forty thousand years!

Captain Blue reaches the top, and slllloooowly uses an automated chair to get out of his car. He slips on a jet-pack, for some reason. He tries to shoot down Scarlet, but the helicopter shoots at him! A frantic- a decently paced game of cat and mouse is played between Blue and the chopper.

All this science, I don't understand...

Bullets are flying, everything is crazy! Destiny Angel shoots down the helicopter, it hits the Car-Vu and blows it up real good! The Car-Vu starts to tip over. Blue shoots Scarlet, and grabs the Pres! Scarlet plummets to the earth, the Car-Vu blows up, AND THE DAY IS SAVED!!!!

I think he looks more like Richard Hatch

Back at Cloudbase, Colonel White is talking to his staff. Not only is Scarlet still alive, but he is apparently now indestructible. They apparently have some kind of science thing that can figure that out. Also, Scarlet is no longer under the Mysterons control. We have a final shot of Scarlet looking... same as always, while wearing his grandmother's dress. Then the credits roll.

What else could it be?

The credits really are the best part. There is a rocking score by Barry Gray, who also did the music for most of Andersons' other series. The music accompanies a bunch of drawn images of Scarlet in danger, being far more emotive and flexible than the real puppet ever could be. Seeing as he's indestructible, he's not really in any peril. In fact, the credits have more action than the average episode. Scarlet fights a snake! Falls off a building! Surrounded by sharks! Falls in Goo! Wall with Spikes! FILMED IN SUPERMARIONATION!

A force we do not entirely understand. One down, thirty odd to go.

Andrew Lloyd Webber can go to hell.

2010-01-27T15:46:00.001-05:00

I'm just saying.

""I want a Dorothy with attitude! She'll be more Avril Lavigne than Judy Garland," Lloyd Webber told the paper. "Of course, Judy Garland made the role famous but I'm looking for a 21st Century Dorothy. ... Anyone like Avril Lavigne or a bit like Amy Winehouse or something along those lines would be great."

He can go and burn in hell for all eternity for saying that, along with the directors of The Seeker.

Bad Prose Competition Entry 1

2010-01-21T22:38:00.006-05:00

"Hey, what arre yous..." As the drunken Jermey was thrown bodily out the front door, his voice slurred like the greasy interplay of blood across an oil slick beneath a fatal collision of a clown car and a tractor trailer full of petroleum jelly- so reminiscent of that time in Jermey's boyhood when they had over moistened the Slip 'N Slide and his sister, his darling Elizabeth (Lizzie to her fellow tittering, bathing-suited nymphet friends) shot right off the sliding mat and into a gory, skull-shattering collision with the hot-dog ladened kerosene barbecue, sending wieners, flaming coals and cerebrum over the yard like burning lawn-darts, painfully lacerating the guests and utterly ruining his ninth birthday party.

Mortuos Plango: In Memorandum JDS

2010-01-13T01:09:00.004-05:00

It is far too late for me to be awake, but a man is dead, and my world's foundations are now a tad too rocky for my tastes at this hour. He was a good man, a loving father, a caring husband. If he was, at times, strict or harsh of word, he was, like so many parents before him, desirable of only the best for his children- wanting them to push themselves to their greatest potential. And, no doubt, he dreamed the dream of all good parents: to be surpassed in acts deeds by one's progeny.

It has been said that "All earthly ills yield to two all-potent remedies: time and silence." The grief that occurs at the death of a parent never disappears, it simply transmutes into an acknowledgement (if not acceptance) of that eternal fact: the centre does not hold, but we who remain must try and make sense of what remains. To those persons most affect in this most trying time, my condolences, indeed, anything I might say may seems hollow, foolish or empty, spoken as they are in a time of grief and pain. Dies Illia, Dies iræ- Day of Mourning, Day of Wrath. But I mean them truly and honestly, and my heart goes out to all of you.

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine.....

Update

2010-01-11T02:20:00.001-05:00

up⋅date[v. uhp-deyt, uhp-deyt; n. uhp-deyt]

–verb (used with object)

1.	to bring (a book, figures, or the like) up to date, as by adding new information or making corrections: to update a science textbook.

2.	Computers. to incorporate new or more accurate information in (a database, program, procedure, etc.).

3.	to bring (a person, organization, etc.) up to date on a particular subject: The magazine article will update you on the international situation.

–noun

4.	an act or instance of updating: to make an update in a financial ledger.

5.	information or data used in updating.

6.	an updated version, model, or the like.

Anger

2009-10-30T15:31:00.003-04:00

http://www.cbc.ca/canada/montreal/story/2009/10/30/st-jean-baptiste-prince-charles.html

As much as I long for a unified Canada, I can nevertheless not get rid of my deep, unyielding loathing and out right hatred for Quebec soverigtists. Their agorgance, and complete lack of perspective makes my blood boil. "Apologise" for "the patriation of the Canadian Constitution in 1982 without Quebec's consent." Its not like we didn't ask you, you demanded special, preferential treatment. There is no province more disgustingly spoiled than Quebec, no group more demanding then Quebec. Quebec is prosperous, culturally strong and healthy. And yet they act like they are second class citizens. Newfoundlanders have problems. Nunavut has crippling health and alcoholism issues. The separatists just want Quebec to be coddled. And I hate them for it.

Also, the Acadians were is Nova Scotia and the rest of the Maritimes. What the hell does that have to do with Quebec sovereignty?

If on an autumn's night a traveller

2009-09-10T22:50:00.000-04:00

I took a walk tonight, and found myself on the road less traveled. At the end of it, I came before a door that I have not entered in more years than I care to remember. The facade remains unchanged- stubby tower blocks of brick and fading paint. The parking lot has merely become more cracked, the windows remain that awful translucent mosaic- and all the hallways stained with the nicotine yellow of dying florescence. And then, for a moment of a moment, the scent of the place drifted towards me and...

And what memories. Scent, that most elusive of the senses, most beloved by winged Muninn- what a scent of memory it was. The acrid, sour stab of the industrial hallway cleaner, the musty, heavy crush of mold, the wispy brief hint of the sweet, miamasmic taint that is the hallmark of spoiled food. And above all else, most oppressive of all... the smell of failure. Despite. Despair. Ah, despair, the killing word. In that small suite of rooms, amongst the dust and grime, among the stains and junk, the foetid rotting garbage, the mildew and the cobwebs and the shit... amongst this refuse pit of a life I once knew someone.

I have met the living dead. No, that is not quite accurate, for the living dead are vegetables, and this man was not that. No.

I have seen the living damned. There's nothing you can do to them that will harm them, for every hour of every day their mind plays upon them the sins of the self- and there's no escaping your own damnation. Sartre was again, as I often find, wrong. Hell is not other people. That's something you say when you are desperate to blame your curmudgeonly, bitter ways on anyone but yourself. “I know how men in exile feed on dreams” Aeschylus said. Hell is a wasteland of solitude, a blight of your own making. Here in the arid dust you lie, as Huginn and Muninn tear flesh from your bones, carrion foul that they are.

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water."

Hell is nothing less then utter submission to despair.

I fear despair. I the heir of the Prager mimetic legacy. It bequeaths to each of its blood the habits of isolation, destruction and despite. That's a bit too much hyperbole, I'm sure, but every Prager has their only little brooding retreat. For each of us, a crumbling mental keep on a rocky outcrop, overlooking the oblongata sea. We go there to brood, and, like mad sorcerers of old, we conjure up the sins the fathers, and visit them upon our self. It's our little homunculus, our second shadow. It traipses at our feet, engorges itself on the scraps we feed it- blame, mostly. We blame it for all our failings, all our faults, all our mistakes. We need those mimetic sins, that genetic birthright that follows behind. Without it, we might have the gall to accept that our gloomy not-at-all-antic disposition is really entirely our own fault. And to totally accept blame, without a single reference to a predecessor, why, that's not the Prager way.

Oh, this sounds so dreary. And it would be a lie to say that all of this thought process happened with a single scent. But as I walked home, watching the dog snuffle and snort her way through the grass and listening to neighbours screaming fits, I felt a little less concerned with upcoming troubles.

'Don't let it bring you down, it's only castles burning.....

2009-07-27T16:28:00.002-04:00

It unerves that my only post in the last month has been about posting. Oh, and to change my title picture.

Sorry.

2009-06-29T00:58:00.002-04:00

For the all one of you worried about my next MacGuffin installment, I apologies for it's lack of existence. Bogged down in dialogue issue in Huế, it sits in limbo. Plus, my lack of sleep means I am cranky with my work right now. My habit of eating antipasto and cheese at one AM has something to do with it, no doubt.

I am, in twain, Dux; for those before me were giants.

2009-06-22T17:57:00.003-04:00

I stand on the upraised arms of titans. I may make a passing reference to it from time to time, an offhand remark about something or other my grandfather or uncle might have done, a brief comment about deeds. But what Allan King's funeral has driven home to me is what I have always understood intellectually, but never before felt. No man is an island, no soul exists in a vacuum. And, as I realized today in the depths of Victoria College, my lineage, my sangre azul, titles suzerain, is just as prestigious as any Jarvis, McGill or Trudeau.

If I stand any higher the hoi polloi, it is only because I stand upon the palms of giants. Giants of their field, masters of their craft, touching the lives of thousands. Of course, just because I inherited such a legacy doesn't necessarily mean I am a good heir. That's the flaw in any inheritance system; a giant's reach may be high, but their shadows are long, and they grow even longer as the sun sets on their era. It is all too easy to fall from such a lofty perch, fall into darkness and remain permanently in that gloom of twilight. But if you can remain atop those up reached hands, dwarf or no, heir to the logos and whatever nonesense that is part of any legacy- if you can remain aloft, then you're always going to bask in the sun.

Addendum

2009-06-13T01:44:00.001-04:00

The correct answer to the poll, by the way, was that she left them at home, like she's always does, every time. Seriously, Darlene, what is with that?

Agnus Dei Qui Tollis Assus Bovis

2009-06-13T00:50:00.005-04:00

I have a secret confession to make.

It might totally ruin whatever street cred I might have as a bastion of intelligentsian sensibility and good taste. It might even lead to my mother taunting me- or even mocking me. Or flout me. Or... hoot... me... you know what, Thesaurus.com? I think you made that last one up.

Forgive me Blog audience of Four, and really angry Miltonman, for I have sinned. It's been quite some time since my last confession. Here goes:

Ahem.

I love 7-11.

There. I said it. I love 7-11. And do you know why? Because 7-11 doesn't try and pretend it's something it's not. It sells crap. Crap of the purist, rarefied form. And no one leaves 7-11 under the impression that they have purchased something healthy. They have purchased, as said, pure crap (Crapure!), and then they will eat it. Some will feel gratified. Some will feel guilty. Some will be indifferent. This is consistent with the effects of attending a local place of worship. Being in the presence of articles of faith can lead to diverse responses running the gauntlet from orgiastic frenzies to sitting bored in a pew, as affected by the preacher as one might be by a dust mote on the floor. Each 7-11 is a shrine to crapure- no, it's bigger than that. Each franchise store is a chapel to crap. It offers t o it's followers the promise of hope eternal, of something more, no matter how inaccessible it might sometimes seem (by which I mean Beef Jerky. Now there's something inaccessible. Eight bucks a package, what the hell people?). Here, in this seraphic sepulchre, one might consume such victuals as to hit a sugar high so uplifting that one might touch the face of God. And when it might seem like anything will give you a heart-attack, that the organic lovers might win, the faithful know that they can prostrate themselves before the altar of the cashiers counter and be taken up into a Divine, loving embrace (the Crapture!). And at that altar, you can find the host of our chapel, the inscrutable taquito. What is in a 7-11 taquito, you ask? I don't know! I looked it up. Nothing. I even wikied it... and I misspelled it and got sent to article on Tacitus instead. Nice man, good with kids. But taquitos, friends, in their glistening, unctuous depths is the true Elevenian Mystery.

No, 7-11 is proud of its faith, its rich heritage, its venerable and sancrosant traditions. Its ads don't try to make their food look healthy, no, the lighting highlights the patina of grease, the beige and green hellion innards of a Jalapeno and Cream Cheese Taquito. And as for that display of fruit and sandwiches in the corner? Sacrilege, you say? Heresy? Not at all, I reply. It's merely a nod towards the existence of other faiths, like a note pinned to a church hall bulletin board informing members of an upcoming interfaith dialogue. A sign that the church is full of tolerance, but not ever taken seriously.

So sits august 7-11, administering alms to the trans-fat poor, and bestowing MSG on those who have none. Sail on, sweet 7-11, sail on.

*Next Week*
Street Cred: What is it, and how can I break it?

Act 2 Scene 2 Pt 1: Said I, "My friend, I'd like to go to Morow and return..."

2009-05-24T12:17:00.004-04:00

Author's Note: This is only the opening excerpt of an update I am taking forever to write, so here it is just for the sake of having SOMETHING posted.

"Pearson, Pepp-"
"Idiot."
'But you don't even-"
"I said she's an idiot, and I don't want her on my staff."
"Lieutenant-Colonel Anaconda, Ang-"
"Angie? She's a sweetie, and a crack shot, but a total air-head. No." Commodore Colby shot Molly a disgruntled look.
"Colonel, all these personnel are highly qualified officers. You need to choose a 2/1c."
"I know that, Colby. But I'm really not comfortable picking someone of this pay grade. I'm not USMC. I'm not Navy, I'm not Army, I'm not even a US officer, and now you're asking them to serve in an untried experiment, to a non-US officer who's fifty years older then they are. Screw chain of command, they're going to be resentful, and I don't want that."
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Pass me.... hmmm. Funghiguo, it's mostly jungle?"
"You'd think so, but the Italians did a big reforestation project to replace the native foliage with Italian trees. It worked. Sort of." He pointed out the vegetation on a map. Funghiguo was a odd misshapen lump at the bottom of China, right above a large inland lake. Molly and the Commodore had commandeered the office of the personnel officer at Subic Base, and had driven the poor man to distraction by throwing all his files into piles of disarray. The unfortunate fellow had gone to sulk in the corner. Molly addressed him now:
"You don't happen to have any files on... Rangers, and Intelligence and Security officers, do you?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am?"
"Get me people who were Ranger trained, and then made the switch to Intel." the man blinked and then, utilizing some obscure filing system, went about gathering various folders, which ended up in a small pile in front of her. She flipped through them absently, gazing on the unusual faces attached by paper clips or staples. She suddenly paused on one, gave the file a more detailed look through and said:
"That one." Colby reached over and looked it over."
"You can't be serious. He's so young."
"I want him."
"He's only a second lietena-"
"Bump him."
"To Colonel? They'd tear me a new one if I asked for a Fantastic LT to be jumped five pay grades to Colonel, it's un-heard of!"
"But he's the one I want."
"Look, Moliere. The best I can do is a promotion to Captain. Once you're promoted, you could brevet him to Major, but anything past that and they'll eat you alive. They're going to bitch like crazy about the promotion as is, he's only served for three years. The other members of your staff are going to have conniptions, taking orders from a lower-ranking officer."
"Doesn't matter, Colby. They take my orders from me, and if he speaks with my voice, they're going to have to live with it."
"Why the hell do you want this kid? Do you know him or something?"
"I met him, once or twice. Long time ago. Never thought I'd find him again." She glanced at the picture, as a wave of memory crashed over her.
"Long time ago."

Firey the Angels bored.

2009-05-08T13:29:00.003-04:00

Every few months, usually after re-watching Blade Runner, I feel driven, nay, inspired to have another go at Milton. Paradise Lost, considered one of the pinnacles of English epic poetry. The fall of Lucifer, the fall of man, rich mythological soil in which to reap masterworks of literature.

And Milton butchers it entirely. Oh, he has the decency to include the occasion good line, and in amongst the turgid verbal discharge that is shat across the page, one can occasionally find true, decent poetry. But ai, ai, ai, his verbage oozes in ink in column after column of the most unreadable rubbish. He cites everything and anything he can, whether it makes any sense to source them or not. Every king and god that worms it's way into Lucifer's fall just sucks all life from the poem. He is the king of the run-on sentence. He lords it over us, dragging out the poor syntax and damning the reading breath to a rarity normally found associated with Vermeers. I would rather read through the entire collected work of Bulwer-Lytton than have to read Paradise Lost.

Ugh. Milton, I shun thee. I consign your work to the undercrofts of ivory towers, to be perused only by the rare lost academician, who might note your oeuvre as a historical curiosity; the last breath of the Round Heads dying in rout and exile.

"Soun is noght but air ybroken,
And every speche that is spoken,
Loud or privee, foul or fair,
In his substaunce is but air;
For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke,
Right so soun is air ybroke."

The Prodigal Lover

2009-04-28T23:48:00.002-04:00

On bent knee
My clothes wrent
My body wasted

On knee I return, bowed.

Far, far better

To serve, if nothing else.
Disinherited?

With that I can live,
If I can but serve.
It's enough.

My Love Affair with Diane Duane

2009-04-24T00:48:00.003-04:00

I am finding it rather hard to write these days. Torn between a level of grief I have never before exsperienced, and the unimagiable stress of this year's end, I can barely write three snetences in a sitting. I want deeply to tell my story, but right now I am hobbled.

So I have returned to my love affair of Diane Duane, an author who...

Sorry, I'm far too tangental to write coherant sentences right now. Just, I love Diane Duane.

My itunes just shifted from It Seems To Me, a very poignant song of my father's about his divorce from my mother and his attempt to retain the trinity that is parents and child, even though the family has broken apart.... anyways, it just shifted It's A HArd Knock Life, from Annie. My brain is reeling.

I'm to bed, even though the rubber laytex fumes have rendered me sick to my stomach. Bloody props.

In alphabetical order, my top three authors:

Lois McMAster Bujold
Diane Duane
Terry Pratchett

A Paean for Pook

2009-04-16T23:24:00.000-04:00

How can we
So superior in our intellect,
So high in our self-awareness
How can we really appreciate
The simple joy
Of a ball of fluff on a string?
A finger scratching on a box?
A paper bag
A Q-tip in the tub

All my words-
A vast collection
(My life's work)-
All these words fall ashen on my lips
When I try to explain the dignity
The nobility
The simple certainty of a humble fool.
No pretensions,
No arrogance.
Content to be himself;
A boy of very little brain,
But loving, caring,
Loved.
My God, how loved.
Grant him rest eternal, Lord,
And may perpetual light shine upon him
A place of warmth.
A place to nap.

If you want a vision of the future,
Imagine a big orange cat,
(His underside all in white).
Imagine a cat,
A foil ball at his side,
Content in the sun,
Forever.

Farewell.

Grr Props

2009-04-05T23:49:00.000-04:00

This blog is on a slight hiatus (maybe) until Props is over and done with and bloody Pentheus is finis. Oy vhey....

CFRC

2009-04-01T08:10:00.001-04:00

Canadian Fireball Reporting Centre

There is nothing I can say that would make that any less awe inspiring. I now know where I want to work when I grow up.

Act 2 Scene 1: The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

2009-03-30T00:14:00.002-04:00

*Tick Tick Tick Tick*

SUBIC BAY NAVAL COMPLEX, PHILIPPINES
MAY 16, 1974

The sweltering Pacific heat which filled the cramped office was entirely unaffected by the ineffectual fan buzzing on a stack of paperwork. Inexplicably, there was a large baroque clock shoved between a stack of meteorological equipment and the ubiquitous piles of paper. Commodore Everett P. Colby had tried his best to be as prim as possible. While the uniform he wore gave some allowance to the tropical heat, it was hardly ideal. He had ironed it (it was wilting), scrubbed himself clean (he was sweating) and cleared his office of flies (They had come back). He sat at his desk. Across from him, Moliere von Possenreißer had draped herself nonchalantly across a chair.
"Commodore."
"Lieutenant-Colonel."
*Tick Tick Tick Tick*
"How was Milan?"
"Fine."
*Tick Tick Tick Tick*
"We were wondering if..."
"What do you want, Commodore?"
"What makes you think I want anything?"
"You dragged me here, Colby."
"I have no authority over you, you're not under US command.'
"Don't give me that crap, Colby, what do you want?"
The clock kept ticking. Colby's smile was a little strained. Molly just kept staring out the window.
"Funghiguo."
"What?" A large file folder was slid across the desk.
"Funghiguo, it's about 800 miles south of Kunming, wedged in above Laos and Burma. Commonly rendered in English as The Mushroom Kingdom. Ethnically Bai, they were a segment of the former Kingdom of Dali that was given to the Venetians as part of a deal with the Yuans some seven hundred years back. It remained a vassal to various Italian states until Napoleon conquered Italy. A group of Italian nobles fled there, and declared themselves independent. They were occupied by Japan during the war, and returned to independence afterwards. Small, but resource rich."
"And not Commies, I notice."
"And they're not Commies."
"So what about it?"
"China. No matter how well it does in 'Nam, or Cambodia, at best it's just going to have highly co-operative allies. But Funghiguo doesn't have those countries disadvantages. It's not a Chinese ally, it doesn't have the terrain, it doesn't have the manpower to protect it's borders."
"But we do."
"Yes, we do." Colby tried to make himself straighter."Moliere, we've been in communication with our allies- NATO is willing to confirm your brevet promotion."
"Brevet?"
"On the books, you've still been a field-listed Captain since '44. We're willing to not only confirm it, but promote it. Brigadier General, along with your associated back-pay since Ortona." Molly raised an eyebrow.
"What else is it for me?" she asked. Colby grinned.
"Independent command and complete control over the combat theatre for at least a few months until the rest of the troops show up."
"Expeditionary"
"Precisely."
"What's the catch?"
"Well, for one, we can only give you a regiment."
"Regiment?"
"The 2nd Irregulars."
"Never heard of them."
"That's another catch. They're untested, brand new. Made up entirely of... your type of people."
"My type of people?" Molly's voice became icy.
"Fantastics. The non-humans, the meta-humans... the... inorganics." Colby at least had the dignity to look a little ashamed. "Look, the average CO doesn't know what to do when he gets someone with abnor- with unusual abilities. Does he single him out, and possibly ostracise him from his comrades, or does he treat like a regular grunt, and loose what could be a vital tactical advantage? This isn't an attempt to be segregationist, Colonel, this is an attempt to utilise valuable American assets. And think of a proving ground! We don't know when China will move, but if you get caught having to defend against greater numbers until we send in our full strength- you'll be lauded as heroes!"
"Greater numbers? How many troops are we talking about here?"
"Not... not many. Regiment is a bit of a misnomer, it's really a small battalion. Less than a thousand, at best."
"You're crazy. How big is this Fen... Fan...."
"Funghiguo. Forty thousand square miles, give or take."
"WHAT? You expect to defend a country the size of Austria with less than a thousand troops!"
"Don't be absurd. As I said, you'll be operating as expedition, shoring up defences and learning the lay of the land. We'll be able to get more troops in there once we finish up in some of our other theatres. In addition, the Fungese have almost fifteen thousand troops under arms. You're duty will be to liaise, and provide an American presence, in the hopes that it will deter the Reds."
"A token force, you mean."
"Please, Lieutenant-Colonel, think of what you could achieve here. You're already a living legend among the troops, think it what it would mean to all those Fantastics to see you leading in such a way. You'll go down in history!"
"I went down in history a long time ago, Commodore." Molly paused to bite a nail. "Can I think about it?"
"Of course."
**************
The orderly looked disapprovingly at Molly. She objected to being ordered about, she objected to demands, and she most certainly objected to being referred to as a child. Molly, for her part, simply wanted in.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I cannot-"
"I'll be fine."
"But ma'am, I can't just-"
"I'm gutt, really."
"You could catch something from the-"
"Never been sick a day in my life, girl, I'll be fine."
"Colonel, I protest-"
"Oh, here we are. I won't be too long. Thank you"
"Sir, I-" SLAM. The door was closed in the orderly's face.
The inside of the hospital room was clean, with a few homely touches here and there. As a long-term patient, the effect of habitation was far less intrusive than as would be seen in a short-term patient's room. It was set up for routine, a place for everything, and everything in its place. The books by the chair for the afternoon read in the sun, the clothes placed near the bed for the early-morning dressing. The medicines discreetly placed by a pitcher of water. Photographs of children, of grandchildren, the hand-drawn pictures taped lovingly against the wall. Evidence of an amateur interest in sketching occupied a corner of a small table. The sketches were well rendered and of various things: a bird, playing children, the ocean surf. Warm and peaceful, so unlike the madcap chaos of the hallway. Snoozing in the corner was an old man, his cane by his side, surrounded by the debris of a long fought battle with a recalcitrant newspaper. At the sound of the door, he snuffled himself awake, and peered at the intruder. With consciousness came recognition, and an impish grin lighted up the old man's face.
"Possenreißer, you Jerry-bred pipsqueak of a golem, you, what in the name of God are you doing on this volcanic rock pile?" At his voice, Molly grinned like a little girl and threw herself into the old man's embrace.
"General Flagg, you curmudgeonly skeletal armerikanisch, mien Gott, how dare you sit here on your lazy ass and soak up all the sun?" With her face buried in his chest, Molly allowed herself a single moment of shock at how frail her old friend had become. Then she let it pass, and it was two old soldiers reliving old times.
***********
"So that's their deal, General. Their equivalent exchange." It was later now, and Molly had told the General of her last few years.
"You lead their little experiment into a potential disaster... and in return, you get-"
"Power." She said it greedily, hungrily, fearfully. "It's what I've wanted for thirty years. I'm tired of this pseudo-rank, of being snubbed and having people time and time again calling up higher ups to confirm that yes, it's true, I can give them orders. Power, respect, rank...."
"And don't forget the back pay" the General said dryly. Molly snorted.
"Like I need it. Do I sound mad? Power mad, I mean? Maybe I am. I'm just tired of obeying other people's orders- think of it, Lawrence- independent command! The chance to work with my own ideas, instead of another wild charge into a line of bullets. I'm tired of Phyrus, tired of empty victories of ash. Maybe I can pull this off..."
"So you're going to take the commission, then?"
"Yes, oh, Gott, yes. For the epaulets, for the control, for the..."
"Glory?" the General suggested, a tad disapprovingly. Molly said nothing. "Achilles' Choice my dear- can you really have your cake and eat it too?"
"Come with me."
"What?"
"As my military advisor" she said breathlessly "I'll break you out of hear, we'll be a wall against which the Reds will simply break themselves against. How about it?" The General chuckled.
"I'm older even then you, old friend. I've had my wars. I'm content here in my patch of sun. You go find your glory, girl. Go make me proud." The General smiled. "Sing me something, short stuff."
"What do you want to hear?"
"Something nostalgic- When The Lights Go On Again." With a smile on her face, Molly sang the old man to sleep.

Act 1 Scene 7: I do not think that they will sing for me.

2009-03-29T02:00:00.000-04:00

In contrast to the central office, the living room was refreshingly modernized. The puerile sixties carpets had given way to elegant hardwood. The swirls and paint-spattered wall paper had been replaced with paneling in classical styles. The furniture was non-descript without being Ikeaish, mostly comfy leather and Mediterranean style cushions. Recessed lights gave the room a warm glow that nevertheless managed to not clash with the panorama of stars that flooded through the room's many windows. Blazes had brought quite an entourage, and despite being a gaunt skeleton of his former self, he was boisterously greeting the various Tracey family members who had rushed to greet him, from the still handsome Alan grasping him in a bear hug to the various younger children running amok. As Virgil wheeled himself over to Blazes, Molly found a spot on the wall to lean against, next to Ruxpin's looming bulk.
"Didn't you two used to sleep together?"
"What?"
"I thought you two used to be an item when he still did our milk runs." Molly walloped Ruxpin in the side. "Ooomph."
"Theo, I don't even like men."
"I saw the looks he used to give you." Ruxpin said dryly.
"He was very sweet." Molly said defensively. "He had quite a crush on me. Worse then that driver. Almost as bad as Slaghoople."
"Slaghoople?" Ruxpin asked incredulously.
"Oh you know how it is, Theo. Long cold nights in the jungle. A girl needs to find a way to keep warm."
"Girl? Even then you were in your seventies."
"Rub it in, why don't you." Molly said, sounding miffed. They watched as Blazes and Virgil continued to greet each other enthusiastically.
"You're the only one who calls me that, you know."
"Calls you what?"
"Theo. Even my mother only ever called me Mohiam."
"And your father?"
"Teddy, when he wasn't calling me Junior. Wait- I thought you used to screw Tito?"
"When will people learn to- oh, heads up." Virgil was beckoning Molly over. As she walked to him, Ruxpin whispered in her ear:
"Slaghoople?" which caused Molly to secretly jab her elbow into Ruxpin's chest (causing another muffled 'oomph').
"William" Virgil was saying "I have the pleasure to introduce you to an old friend, Brigadier General von Possenreißer of NATO, along with her aide, Colonel N'Ruxpin, formerly of the USAR."
"Aide?" Ruxpin muttered "Will I ever get out from under our shadow?"
"Oh suck it up you big baby." Molly muttered back.
"Colonel, I remember reading about your case. It was a travesty, sir, a travesty." Blazes' voice was a mere shadow of the once powerful bellow it had been. He was only
thirty-seven, but he was unimaginably gaunt. His flesh hung off his body, giving him an almost comical appearance.
"Believe me, Mr. Blazes, no one knows that more than I." Ruxpin said, shaking Blazes hand.
"Please, call me me Billy." Blazes turned his attention to Molly. As he did so, his face lit up with childlike wonder, and his eyes burned brighter. "General... I wrote a paper about you in university. I studied your campaigns, your music, your choreography. I grew up in Star City. When I was twelve, the Opera House put on a retrospective of your years as De Lune- big screen and everything. Your Elisabeth-" At this point, he was interrupted by a member of the service staff signalling dinner. Molly's face was beet red. "Excuse me, General, bu they always serve such a feast here. Mind you, anythings better than that damn astronaut food...." Blazes was swept away as a small mob of people followed the server to the dining room. Molly was left alone, save Ruxpin. It was suddenly very quiet, with the soft sound of the surf in the background. Into the stillness, Ruxpin again murmured
"Slaghoople?"
But Molly wasn't listening. She was starring at the doorway, having gone from vibrant blushing to a stark pale.
"General?" Ruxpin asked worriedly.
"He wrote... a paper. H wrote a paper, Colonel. I wrote of me as one would of any historical figure. Did you see his face? I'm already history, Theo. To him, I'm already history."

Act 1 Scene 6: The Leopard in the Dark Wood of Error

2009-03-22T12:06:00.003-04:00

***************
TWENTY ONE HOURS EARLIER

It would not be hard to dig the grave. Ruxpin had only a small shovel, but it didn't need to be very large. Bird had not been big, and the ground was hardly conducive to deep graves. The body lay on a linen sheet pulled from some compartment aboard the Airship, and Molly was examining the body, part autopsy, part funerary rite.

"I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you. It was very professional, very elegant, but I can't really tell you anything about who did it. All I know is, it was over quick."

"Painless?"

"I would think... not."

"Christ." Ruxpin leaned against a tree, and slowly slid himself down. "Christ." he said again. Slowly, respectfully, Molly dipped a cloth into water, and then began to wash the body. She removed the dirt, the blood, the other blemishes. As she washed, she recited. Sometimes a dirge, sometimes a chant, sometimes in a soft song.

"Yitgaddal v'yitqaddash sh'meh rabba."

In a sudden movement, Ruxpin rose, grabbed the shovel, and began to dig.

"B'ʻal'ma di v'raʼ khiruteh
B'ʻal'ma d'hu ʻatid l'itchaddata.

The ground was moist, and every thunk of the shovel was accompanied by a muffled squelch of mud.

"Ulʼachaya metaya
ulʼassaqa yathon l'chayyey ʻal'ma"

The work was unexpectedly hard. Ruxpin strained in the heavy mud, his fur sleek with sweat.

"Ulmivne qarta dirushlem
ulshakhlala hekhleh b'gavvah."

Faster now, fueled by some inner rage, Ruxpin dug harder, faster, deeper.

"Y'he sh'meh rabba m'varakh
l'ʻalam ulʻal'me ʻal'maya
Yitbarakh v'yishtabbach v'yitpaʼar v'yitromam
v'yitnasse v'yithaddar v'yitʻalle v'yithallal
sh'meh d'qudsha, b'rikh hu."

The dirge had become a keen, pitched and full of vitriol in the harsh tounge in which it was uttered. With deft fingers, she began to close the linen around the body.

"Di b'ʼatra haden v'di b'khol atar v'ʼatar
y'he l'hon ulkhon sh'lama rabba,
chinna v'chisda v'rachamey v'chayyey arikhey
umzoney r'vichey ufurqana
min qodam avuhon di vishmayya v'ʼarʻa
v'ʼimru:"

It was not a scream of rage. It was far more primordial- far more animal than that. It was a roar, some vestige of the family Ursidae present in the depths of Ruxpin's soul. Howling his grief, Ruxpin slammed the shovel into the mud and fell to his knees, panting. Unfazed, Molly reverentially completed her ritual.

"Amen." she said quietly.

"Amen." Ruxpin echoed hoarsely. He climbed up out of the grave, and carefully picked up the body. "So damn light" he muttered, before he lowered it into the ground. He began to fill the grave back in. Molly sat at the head of the grave, her knees up to her chest, her ankles crossed. Twilight filled the sky, and the night was upon them. "More."

"Pardon?"

"Song. Prayer. Whatever. Just sing." He continued to bury. Molly sat back in thought for a moment, her hands sinking into the wet dirt. This time, her voice was pure and clear. Her pitch was perfect, and as she sang, her voice quieted all around.

"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion,
et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem.
Exaudi orationem meam;
ad te omnis caro veniet."

Her voice died away. Bird was buried. Breathing labored, Ruxpin sat down next to her in the moonlight. He pulled out a hip flask, took a swig and passed it to Molly.

"When I was very little," Molly began, taking a drink "I went to a funeral at the Zentralfriedhof. I was even smaller in those days, a minuscule slip of a thing. I walked among the crowd, looking at their faces. Some were sad, some were angry, some secretly amused, some merely bored. Unexpectedly, I came across the mute, earning his pay at the edge of mourners. We stared at each other for the longest time. His face was more than sad- it was grotesquely tragic, some fierce mockery of any happy thought, like some sculptor had constructed the anti-joy. It scared me. Scared me so much I ran and ran and ran, past tombstones and grave sites and iron and stone. I hid myself so well. It took over four hours for Rebbe Tzvi and Tante Possenreißer to find me."

"Where were you?" Ruxpin asked, after a time.

"I was singing Ave Maria and dancing barefoot behind Schubert's grave for an audience of squirrels. In hindsight, it was probably that that gave me away. We never did find my other shoe."

"We're the last now." Ruxpin said moodily, lighting up. "Last of the Fallen Angels. How many were we?"

"When?" Molly asked.

"When they marched us off to Shyguy. How many?"

"614, counting the chopper crews and my command staff. Oh, and my driver."

"Oh god, I'd forgotten we had choppers. Bloody RPGs." Hearing this, Molly giggled.

"Lost 'em in under a month. And it's not like they were any good. Ancient Sikorsky H-19's flown by hotshot fly boys right out of flight school. Hell, those birds were probably flown at Chosin Reservoir." She grinned.

"And they never did send that car, did they?"

"HA! No, no they never did. The poor boy followed me like a little lost puppy for three months straight, with no idea of what to do. Eventually, I think.. yes, Sonic's platoon managed to dig up an Edsel from god-knows-where. An Edsel! In Pescotao! He was so happy to be able to drive me around in that scuffed up old crate. We'd go to those meetings with General Yoshi- you know the ones where he'd just lie face down on the desk and cry?- we'd go to these meetings, and that kid would polish that car up like we were going to visit Emperor Franz Joseph on parade." She took the hip-flask back from Ruxpin and took a long drink. "You know, I can still recite, word perfect, every line and note from Der Ring des Nibelungen, but I can't remember that boy's name."

"What happened to him?"

"Bullet. Through the head. Right when we pulled out of the Daisy Palace. Brains got all over my best uniform. I would've been wearing my fatigues, but there's was about three regiments of Reds between me and my damn quarters. Stained the lanyard and braid permanently." A tad tipsy, she managed to pull herself up to stand. A sudden change came over her. She went completely rigid, legs straight and together, posture straight, and executed with perfect precision a military salute. After a moment, Ruxpin rose his bulk up and saluted the grave as well. After a time, Molly said, quietly "Company dismissed". She and Ruxpin both relaxed. "The last ones, you say?"

"Well, except for Bunny."

"Oh god is that little bugger still alive?"

"Of course."

"So," Molly said, walking towards the Airship "Where to next?"

"We go south, general. We go south."

*******************

Something clever should go here, like... involving sickness. Possibly I should quote a metal song or sumfink. There's a metal song about illness, yes?

2009-03-17T20:12:00.003-04:00

Рукописи не горят

2009-03-15T13:40:00.003-04:00

Damn it all.
Some minor phrase
Some glint of eye
Some perfectly
inconsequential
gesture
And I'm gone.

Not Memory Lane, no.
Not for me is so tranquil a metaphor.

Desirée I should never have come

Instead I face memory's dark maw,
Some Calcuttan oubliette
In which, safeguarded by purple prose,
Those most poignant fragments of the past reside.
Here, like Alice, I fall.
Hands clenched, teeth grit.
That eternal paradox that so enlivens
The masochistic duality of repression and remembrance.

To flirt with rescue

Unlike Alice, there is nothing curious here.
Here all is familiar,
Achingly familiar.
Each shattered minim contains,
Like a personal portraitured hologram,
An infinite number of recursions.
The sound, the memory
The touch, the memory
The eyes, the memory.
The agony and the ecstasy
The horror and the weeping joys
The remembrance of scent,
Of sound and taste and touch
The senses did dutifully record
Each moment
Of You and I
Of Her and I
Of Him and I
And Her again

When one has no intention

Each one is a case for tears.
Each one is a case for laughter.
When we get down to cases
As I so often do
Perhaps we might have...
If we but could of...
Perchance...

So long as I remember that I am mad
I have the strength to live the lie that I am sane.

Of being saved

Would Pyrrhus
Had he been given world enough and time,
To reach his old age-
Would he have returned to Asculum
And searched for some sign
That there had been achievement?
(This I ask myself,
without much need of an answer).
It is a not a question of concern.
It is but a styling of pretense-
A falsehood said in hope of sounding deep.

And with a start, I remember that this is not the time
To wallow in my own self-loathing.
I have work to do,
Things to do,
Tasks to achieve.
And so I drag myself back into the real world,
The one less preferred,
Where you and her no longer are.

Please try to forgive me.

Sometimes I sing.
Sometimes I lose myself in the clustered words
The recurring lines
And simple themes
Of patter songs.
So I go on.
And patiently wait
For when the next trigger might return
My masochistic self
To faded past
and Better Days.

Ἂν ἔτι μίαν μάχην νικήσωμεν, ἀπολώλαμεν.

Ugh,

2009-03-14T01:35:00.001-04:00

Act 1 Scene 5: The lark still bravely.

2009-03-06T21:22:00.003-05:00

The moon's reflection glittered in pale blue water of the natural pool. Above, the stars glittered in patterns that an Northern observer would find maddeningly similar yet subtly unlike the stars as seen from above the equator. Here, once proud Orion is stripped of his dignity and turned, topsy-turvy, to land on his head. Here, Graceful Cygnus glides along a different path, while around it all the Magellanic Clouds burn with the legacy of a poor doomed mariner.

The pool was dimly lit, with a few subtly placed shafts of light spread out from the rock and into the ever shifting water. The lights and sounds of the landing fields were blocked by the mountain, so it was relatively quiet here. In the palm trees, the birds were settling down for the night, and they fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar. The only other noise was that of the swimmer's arms as they pulled him through the water, alternating between the backstroke and the front crawl. Whenever they reached an edge, the hands would grope at the pool's rough stone sides and flip the swimmer over, where he would continue on his journey.

Standing at parade rest, half-hidden in the shadows beneath an umbrella, Molly watched the swimmer wordlessly, her eyes following his every mood, her face impassive. This almost-tableau went on for quite sometime, the watcher watching serenely, the swimmer focused entirely on his campaign, until even the birds had bequeathed their noise making to the peaceful humming of the Cicadas. At last, his energy spent, the swimmer lay at rest, floating on his back in the water, his eyes closed. There was silence for a while. At last, Molly spoke.

"Hello. Virgil." To this, the swimmer laconically raised his arm, and gave a rather half-hearted salute, before he splashed it into the water.
"You didn't come to greet me. That's most unlike you." The swimmer began to draw himself towards the edge of the pool, where he lifted himself to sit on the edge, and proceeded to stare at the stars. At last he spoke.
"I do go in much for returns, anymore. It's departures that worry me most. Never miss a departure, if you can help it. They're much more reliable then returns." He spoke softly, reflectively, with out any bite or criticism in his voice. The breeze ruffled through the trees, but did not disturb the resting birds.
"It's been a long time."
"When was the last time I saw you?"
"That's a good question."
""It was in.... Pescotao? During the last air evac. You were the last one on the old TB2, screaming defiance until the end, still aiming at soldiers as the bay door closed." Virgil turned to look at Molly, as she smiled in bitter memory.
"They couldn't, or wouldn't, land any more Hercules. But you came back for me. You dropped into the golf course at Mach One, with angel flares burning in the dawn..... I remember that." She too looked up at the stars. "But that wasn't the last time you saw me."
"No?"
"No. It was New York. You tried to stop me speaking before the Assembly. In the end, you were right. They didn't listen to me anyway.
"Where did you go, after that?"
"I went south. I just walked. I had thought of going back to Austria, but I knew the government wouldn't like that, much. I had to fight them tooth and nail to leave the country later on, and only for a short time." They listened to the water for a while, Virgil at the pool's edge, Molly remaining at rest beneath the umbrella. Again, she broke the silence.
"I left Alan arguing with Theo over whether or not the Airship should be airborne, and John was the one who fed me, but I didn't see the others."
"Dead" said Virgil quietly, after a moment. There was no response from Molly. "The reactor in the original TB1 had a tendency to... emit things it shouldn't, though we didn't realise it at the time. Cancer hit both Scott and Hiram in the eighties. Gordon... Gordon got his submersible caught in an underwater cave in. We tried to get to him, but...."
"But?"
"He just sort of... stopped trying. Said he was tired, said he'd had a good run. Turned his radio off. When we finally found him later... he.... he looked very peaceful, you know. Very peaceful."
"And your father?"
"Dad didn't take Scott's passing very well. He started to talk a lot about going back into space, about seeing the stars again. Late one night, he just up and took TB3."
"Where did he go?"
"I don't know. Out there, somewhere." Virgil waved at the expanse of stars. "I like to think he made in through the asteroid belt. I like to think he's headed for something out there. I'd like..... I'd like a lot of things."
"You miss him."
"Oh God, yes. I miss them all. I was never supposed to be in charge. And we've changed. We have a staff now, and a payroll. Alan's been cranking out kids for years, its going to be a family business, rescuing others. That was always dad's plan... but it should be Scott behind that desk. It should be Gordon lapping me." He looked down from the stars, into his own dim reflection in the water. "I wanted to save people, once. Individuals. People I could see face to face. Now I sit behind a desk and speak diplomacy with princes. Now I try to save everybody. And I'm just too damn old." He sighed, and began to push himself backwards from the pool's edge.
"Do you want a hand, Virgil?"
"No. I'm quite used to this." In a moment, he reached his chair, and lifted himself in with a grunt. He wheeled himself over to Molly. Smiling, he said "I think we're the same height now. Who'd have thought?" Molly laughed. Suddenly, from far above, there was the crack of a sonic boom, which immediately woke the birds, sending them into a noisy cacophony. Virgil glanced up.
"That'll be Blazes coming down from the Command Centre. I've called a meeting, he wants to greet you in person. We'd better hurry." Molly nodded, and began to push the chair. "No, you don't have to... it's embarrassing, it's-"
"Don't worry about it" Molly said softly. "Besides, I owe you a few."
"But... I... well. Okay. I'll just... okay." They went inside, her short frame pushing him along, leaving a flock of disgruntled birds alone in the moonlight.

I was introduced to this at mightygodking.com

2009-03-05T10:56:00.001-05:00

http://christwire.org/2009/02/hand-of-god-suspends-homoerotic-scans-daily-comic-book-community/

I... I just... i don't.....

This appears to have been written by a particularly bigoted Spam not... it's entirely nonsensical. Read and enjoy it's bizzaro world of comics causing man-on-man love.

This is a test.

2009-03-02T12:31:00.001-05:00

Test ONE TWO Test ONE TWO

Oh dear.

2009-03-01T18:27:00.002-05:00

I'd go so far as to say that this was the most embarrassing thing Gerry Anderson ever did.

Soon.

2009-02-28T23:45:00.001-05:00

Well, reading week and the craziness of the First Week Back are now done with, and then next entry is half-way written. Patience, gentle reader.

Act 1 Scene 4: Forteen Cannibal Kings

2009-02-28T20:00:00.008-05:00

The elephant sat exactly where it wanted too, a minor miracle, in the curving angled office. His suit was of a military cut, with silver piping, and more gold braid than was common on modern uniforms. He had eased his bulk onto an aging bench, where it noticeably sagged on its degraded plastic legs. He was drinking tea, the tea cup held delicately in his massive... well, the could only rationally be described as hands. He looked young, in his mid-thirties at most.
Across the desk, Virgil Tracy sat with his elbows propped up on the table, holding his head up. A smiled kept playing across his lips as he chatted with his guest.
"Monsieur Tracy, I can assure you, I have spent hours with the Ministre de Intérieur, poring over customs records." The elephant's English was spoken with a heavy French accent. He paused to take a sip of his tea. "Madame Bizet hasn't entered our borders in over two years."
"But she did perform some services for you in the past, yes? I remember an INTERPOL record we received some years back mentioning her work with you." The elephant chuckled.
"That was was a private family matter, of interest to no one but the House of Loxo."
"Really? As I recall, the decapitated body of deposed President Isabelle Loxo was found in her suite in Côte d'Ivoire. Her head was apparently... stolen."
"As I said, it was a private matter."
"But your own family member?"
"The Remise-à-Neuf was a difficult time. This was merely the last mess to clean up." The elephant finished off his tea. "But as to your matter of this ring, it never entered the Kingdom. If you'll excuse me, Monsieur, I have a long flight back to Africa." The elephant heaved his bulk off the bench, and shook hands. "It was good to see you, Virgil." Virgil pressed a button on his desk. An aide entered.
"It was good to see you too, Zephir. Anna, see His Highness out, and would you see Mister Matrix in." The elephant managed to squeeze himself through the door, and a minute later was replaced by a bemused Enzo Matrix.
"Who in the name of the User was that?"
"That was his Highness Prince Zephir-Roland de Pachyderm-Loxo, from the court of Queen Flora of Equatorial Celesia, and he was here to lie to me in an open and friendly matter." Virgil pointed for Enzo to have a seat.
"Pardon?"
"Equatorial Celesia. It's the Elephant Kingdom, and tends to operate as a tax haven for old colonial exiles. Anyways, Sandiego bought a house there some years ago, and visited fairly often. We know she spent some time there after she stole the Ring. The Prince was here to tell me otherwise, as we both knew he would."
"But if you knew he would lie, and he knew that, why...?"
"It's polite diplomacy. If she was there for any length of time, it means she was doing work for them. There was a palace coup back in the early sixties that created a Republic for about thirty years before the monarchy was restored. During that time, many of the art treasures were looted or sold by the republican government for funds, and the palace itself was left a half-burnt ruin. After the Restoration, the elephants attempted to return their cultural treasures. When ever their attempts to do it legally failed to work, they turned to people like Carmen to help them out. Maybe forty to forty five percent of the total returned items have been due to her. To make a long story short, Zephir presence was a way of informing me that whatever Carmen was doing in Celesia, it had nothing to do with our search. Which means another dead end." A muffled roar interrupted Virgil. He glanced out the window and watched as a flash of red, silver and fire burned screaming towards the heavens. "God speed, Valentina." he murmured to himself, before he pored more tea. "How's Ecureuil?"
"He's fine. His legs are being checked by the MDs. He didn't tell them anything- not that it would matter much. You've been the Southern Hemisphere's worst kept secret for years.I didn't think it would be so easy to pull him out, though."
"Whiplash was never good at hiring goons that were sociopathic enough to really be decent guards."
"But this was far too easy. If I didn't know better, I'd..."Enzo trailed off.
"You'd what?"
"Well, it seems cliche to say it, but if I didn't know better, I'd say he was allowed to escape. I mean, its not as though-" Enzo was suddenly interrupted by the harsh ringing of the telephone. Virgil answered it.
"Island Actual, go ahead."
"Mister Tracy, this is Tin-Tin. We've had an unidentified bogey heading our way for the last seven minuets."
"What's its speed?"
"Pretty slow, sir. If it maintains present course and speed, it won't reach us for over an hour or two at minimum. I th-" there was a pause "Sir, they appear to be transmitting their registry code now... its... it is SIA Airship 144525-L..." Still holding the receiver to his ear, Virgil turned behind him to pull a book off the shelf, where he began to flip through the pages.
"SIA... SIA.... oh, there... Sovereign Illiopian Airshi-"
"Sir? Please advise, sir, do we let them enter our airspace or not? Mr. Tracy?" But Virgil wasn't paying any more attention to the phone. He was starring out the window, his skin pale, scanning the horizons for something he had thought to be impossible.

Guffin War, Act 1 Scene 3: Unkind as any, and the wrath of many. (Even the vegetables don't like him)

2009-02-15T03:33:00.003-05:00

Enzo tried to wriggle out of the shaft. His legs had cramped from sitting crunched up, and his foot was asleep. He finally flumped out onto the floor, landing painfully on the grate. He proceeded crept down the shiny corridors in a rough approximation of 'stealthy'. His movements were perhaps too furtive, too imbued with pantomime to be be take seriously, but fortunately, his path was unimpeded by even a janitor.

The basement cellblock was patrolled fairly regularly, but its general disuse meant that the average guard would simply avoid it on his rounds. The one prisoner was hardly in any position to escape. Enzo discovered that he could just stroll into the cells, which irked his inner sense of theatrics. At least the security was decent. A multi-variable Tyrell code, virtually unbreakable to anything but a super-computer.

It took Enzo eighteen minuets.

Jean "Cache" Ecureuil was in remarkably good spirits when Enzo found him. His leg had been mangled by the delicate ministrations of the PWI torturers. He smiled wryly when Enzo entered his cell. He even attempted a joke.

"You're kind of short for a.. a..." however the metaphor escaped him "... person here to... rescue me" he ended lamely. "I don't suppose you have a change of clothes on you?"

""Can you walk?" Enzo asked, checking out Ecureuil's leg. "And you're covered in fur, why does it matter?"

"Well, I feel naked without my coat. And yes, I can hobble, if I must"

"Hell, I can carry you out" Enzo gave a boyish grin.

"Please, spare me the indigni- oh, well guess not." Ecureuil was picked up, albeit gently, and Enzo sauntered back the way he came.

************

"Now, that's just not fair!"

Angelica did not look up from filing her nails. "What's not fair, dear?" she asked in a neutral tone.

"That cursed boy just walked out, see? How dare he! In my cells, too! How dare he foil my scheme for information!"

Angelica had long ago learned to deal with her husband's melodramatic posturing. She continued to stare at her nails. Each one just had to be.... perfect. She could and had spent hours working on a single finger. She simply replied, laconically "You have a lousy security staff, Lee."

"But it's just not fair, I tell you. Oh, I am so alone in my plans." Snidely Joanna Whiplash turned dejectedly away from the screen, where he had spent that last few hours morbidly viewing the security tapes. He flung himself backwards onto his desk, nearly knocking over his wife's platinum inlaid nail kit. Her only response was to roll her chair back an inch or so and to exchange her file for cuticle scissors.

"Lee, you know you weren't going to break him, not with the goons you employ. Ecureuil has been around for years, he wasn't going to open up over a mangled leg."

"But I was going to the Council. I was going to present them with information! The location of International Rescue! The member rolls of the Rescue Heroes! Where Dick Tracy gets his great hair!" Again, he flung himself back on the desk, his hat falling to the floor. There was a long pause, as Angelica was displeased by the curve on the nail of her left pinky, not that she showed it. Finally, she merely said "They wouldn't have listened anyways. They never do. Not to you."

"Oh, it''s so true!" He sat up unexpectedly "You've got to help, me, darling, you've just got to! You know I can't do these things on my own!" There was more silence, as Angelica moved on to her right thumb.

"Go home, Lee. I will make things all better."

"You promise, darling? You'll do that for old me?" Snidley was on his knees, starring pathetically with puppy-dog eyes, his moustache drooping. More time passed. His wife did not look at him. It would be false to say that theirs was a relationship devoid of passion. It had plenty of passion, but it was supplied entirely by Snidely. His wife, in the words of Dickens, was as hard and sharp as a flint, secretive and self contained. As solitary as an oyster.

"Yes, Lee. I would do anything for you." She spoke almost without wmotion and continued to focus only on her nail. For a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, Snidley's expression as he gazed at her was relatively inscrutable. If anything, it could be said to be one of longing, if nothing else, but as there was no one there to look at his face, it could have been anything. Finally, mumbling thanks, he rose to his feet and made ready to leave. He paused, awkwardly, next to his wife for a moment before he hesitantly learned down and kissed her on her head. It was treated with as much response as anything he ever did around her. As he reached the door, he paused to look at his wife. She was unimaginably pale. Though once warm, her skin (though flawless) was now almost akin to pure alabaster, with none of the pinkish tones that one might find in an albino. Her hair, once a rich strawberry blond, had also lightened. Some would call it flaxen, but a more correct coloured would be white ash, like one might find in a campfire in amongst the burned wood and marshmallow residue. Her eyes were grey, her lips bloodless. She only ever wore robes de style, in various neutral tones. The only colour on her was what she would paint on her nails after her long hours of maintenance. And what colours they were! Deep royal blues, ebullient reds, vivid robust greens in all manner of valence, tint and hue. But that was the only outward sign of emotion. Everything she spoke was in the same calm, measured tones, and her eyes never betrayed what went on inside her. With an inward sigh, Whiplash adjusted his hat and left. For a while, Angelica continued to work on her digital maintenance. Finally, evidently satisfied with her minutiae of adjustments, she selected from her store the colour of polish she wished to use- a Persian green only commonly found in the paintings of Monet. However, before she began to paint, she paused, and then wheeled herself over to a nearby telephone, an obsolete, though elegant rotary phone. She carefully dialed, and waited for her call to be answered. She spoke as she always did, detached as ever. "Good afternoon, Charles. I need you to get me information. Failure to do so will be perceived by me to be a problem. And like all problems, I will make it go away as quickly and efficiently as possible. Do we have an understanding?" There was a pause.

"Good."

James' Guide To Relationships ("Happy" Valentine's Day) Pt. 1

2009-02-13T10:42:00.006-05:00

People often ask me "James, you magnetic stud-muffin, you, you have such a way with the ladies, what is the secret of your success?" To which I say "How can any fish know the true wisdom of the greater coral, filled as it is with squirrels?". Then the people look at me askance, and I silently pump my fist for successfully pulling off a Wrongboy's History of the Earth reference. So, for you, gentle reader, I have this small guide that should answer every question about relationships ever.

1)What is the most important thing in a relationship?

I want you to take both your hands and grab your hair. Now pull really hard. While you do that, smash your face against the keyboard. Hurts, don't it? That is only a fraction of the pain you will feel if you fail to COMMUNICATE with your significant other(s). Talk, all the time. Don't do what I do which is speak in cryptic babbling before signing out of MSN to go play Psychonauts, no. No, you talk to your lover(s), about everything. Honesty, truth, admitting they need to wear deodorant (that's a toughie), admitting you don't share their pastie fetish- these things are important. Think about it, won't you?

2) ALWAYS WEAR DEODORANT

Guys? Gels? Transgenders etc? Please, wear deodorant. There is the pleasant smell of sweat that occurs after vigorous labour, and then there is the sour, unpleasantness that is a partner who has, alas, failed to apply what my mother termed "pong juice". Please, think of the children. Imagine having to say "I remember the night you were conceived. Your mother stunk like a trailer park kegger in July." That's just not a romantic story.

3) Watch the skull.

So, you are passionately kissing somebody, and suddenly, there's this tremendous CRACK. Yes, you have hit the other person head against the floor/bed-post/wall/statue of the Virgin Mary/person behind you. Watch out for that. Do it too many times, and they'll start talking about how true love only ever happens once, or how how important Valentine's Day is and other symptoms of serious brain damage.

I swear, the next Guffin War update is being written!

2009-02-11T17:45:00.003-05:00

You know that "your porn-star name" meme where you take your pet's name and the street you grow up on and then combine them? It occurs to me, somewhere, we have such poor candidates as:

Fido Fourth Concession

Kibbles Guelph Line

Water Main

JD Salinger

Humpy Highway Three

Just blow your nose, and dry your tears, We'll all be back in a few short years, Hinky, dinky, parley-voo.

2009-02-06T11:49:00.001-05:00

I found on Wikipedia a list of the number of still living WWI veterans.

There are four.

Goodnight Mr and MRs America, and all the ships at sea. Let's go to press.

2009-02-03T23:51:00.003-05:00

So regular erratic posting will resume as soon as A)Production week finishes B) The Theatre washrooms stop spilling sewage all over the stage B) I get this damned funeral over and done with.

So for you, gentle reader, this cat picture:

Dune Cat. Don't listen to him, though. He lies. I am the Kwisatz Haderach. The only issue I have with that series is Frank Herbert's amusing approach to the span of years. Much like Assimov's 10000 year Galactic Empire, Herbert does the same thing with impossibly big numbers.

Guffin War: Leitmotif I

2009-01-31T22:56:00.002-05:00

The seething mass of persons that crowded Wángfǔjǐng street would have surprised to notice that they were subconsciously making a space in their midst, if only they were capable of noticing such an act.

Are You Telling Me You Don't Like Chinese Food?

"I'm merely saying that, given my current state, I'm not very partial to the whole culture."

There's Going To Be A Large Amount Of People. We Need A Good Place To Make A Reservation

"But does it have to be Chinese? And why does it need to happen at all?"

I Believe It Will All Be Very Meta. I Look Forward To How It Ends

"Forgive me if I don't share your enthusiasm."

Your Problem, Mr. Bird, Is That You're Rather Short Tempered

"Was that a crack about my height?"

Do Forgive Me

Tweety shot his companion a look. "Hey, how does this place sound" he said, pointing to a sign.

Oh Dear. 'The Little Piggies'. I Am Deeply Afraid That That Joke was Inevitable

Things that stand out from the Budget and today's debate

2009-01-31T15:07:00.005-05:00

All the following comes from the government's official budget site, at http://www.budget.gc.ca/2009/plan/bptoc-eng.asp

"Providing $50 million over two years for a national foreign credential recognition framework in partnership with provinces and territories."

I have no idea what that means. I keep trying to parse it, but it doesn't come through.

Further down, a memorandum informs me that this is a program devoted to examining the credentials (Diplomas? Degrees? Resumes?) of foreign immigrants. That's good, but it could be less flowery.

"Allocating an additional $3.5 million over two years to offer an additional 600 graduate internships through the Industrial Research and Development Internship program launched in Budget 2007."

Just 600 internships? I know that's in addition to whatever the current number is, but that's a very low number. And the funds work out to about 5, 800 dollars per intern- is that in direct cash, is that in services provided or what?

"$20 billion in personal income tax relief"

That's 20 BILLION dollars that are not going to government services this year. (On a totally unrelated note, did you know there are seven remaining Trudeau appointees in the Senate? And one Joe Clark.)

"The Government will provide a one-time grant of $15 million to the YMCA and YWCA to place youth in internships in not-for-profit and community services organizations, with a focus on environmental projects."

That's odd choice to specify the YM and YW CAs. Christian associations, do they offer jobs to non-Christians? I have no idea.

Jean Dorion, BQ, Longueuil—Pierre-Boucher had this to say in today's session:

"The Bloc Québécois has put forward the unanimous priorities of the National Assembly of Quebec. They have been rejected by the Conservatives and the Liberals, who thus choose Canada over Quebec."

Well, yes, M. Dorion. That's because it's the FEDERAL government, not The Quebec-Centric government. What a stupid thing to say.

I need to say that, reading today's debate, one thing strikes me. It's all about the past. Each MP stands up and talk about how things were ten, fifty, a hundred years ago. The Liberals can barely say a hundred words without referencing the previous government, the Conservatives can only talk about promises they've already made, the NDP harp on about what people have said. There's this odd disconnect that nothing is in the "now".

Ruddy hip-hop.

2009-01-31T14:53:00.002-05:00

So, there's a loong lull in Wardrobe today. I am spending my time trying to read the Budget. it has graphs!

It's not very readable.

Guffin War: Act 1 Scene 2: Like who doesn't have an interositer.

2009-01-30T20:40:00.006-05:00

It must be said that despite his nominal criminal affiliations, Fuzzy Cicero Lumpkins hardly deserved the the abuse he was shortly about to receive. He had been born amongst a large brood of children in a teeny, nameless village that was about a two-day hike from Dogpatch, Kentucky. His father worked his entire day handcrafting spittoons, coming out of his workshop only to grunt and eat meals. His mother, a city woman who had fallen for his father after the Second World War, was a scatter-brained, ineffectual woman who could never keep track of her children, and certainly never recalled Fuzzy. The only thing about him that she had ever remembered was that "he looked nothing like Irving Thalburg". Fuzzy, unloved and certainly unwanted, fled home at what he general assumed was 17. He ended up working in the underbelly of the distillery district of Frankfort, paid to look threatening and to think as little as possible. Like many poor Fantastics of his generation, Fuzzy wound up in the service of Bluto Ricca-Accardo, who's domination of Chicago crime in the 60's allowed him to push his empire outside of Illinois and into surrounding states. Miraculously, Fuzzy managed to avoid getting embroiled in the turf wars with the New York Families, and entered the eighties alive and a basically spotless record. He remained a a low-level flunky, however. Having spent a year in house-arrest for tax issues, Bluto surprised many onlooker by bowing out early, retiring from any criminal activities. His organisation was covertly purchased by Pickles-Whiplash Industries. When Snidely "bought the Outfit", Fuzzy found himself on an actual payroll in an actual company, thought he continued to be little more than hired muscle. But now he had a pension, a health plan, and he got to travel. At this point in time, he was manning the security desk in the local PWI branch in Moneghetti, which wasn't bad for the destitute country boy from nowhere. It should be said that following the event, Fuzzy was treated for his injury, and even went on to settle down and have a happy ending. But at this juncture, his fate is to be used to block projectiles that would otherwise scuff the enamel of the PWI security desk.

It has never been explained to any one's satisfaction the why of Enzo Matrix. Even to those (admittedly few) familiar with his complete history, how he had gotten from the state of reality that was his childhood, to the Now of now, remained an utter enigma. Though neither he nor Fuzzy would have found it of interest, both of them could only guesstimate at their actual age and, like Fuzzy had once did, more-or-less assumed he was "about 17". Whatever the reason, Enzo and his uniquely green skin found himself squished into an ventilation-shaft that was located about a metre behind Fuzzy Lumpkins. The architect of the PWI building wasn't an idiot. That vent really wasn't supposed to be there. But various... nefarious elements in the building's construction demanded certain rooms be built there... and here... and there... and to accommodate, pipe and shaft security was compromised, and the protests of the very clever architect were overruled by large, burly men who could make the action of adjusting their massive ties seem threatening. Enzo was waiting for Fuzzy to go on rounds, or some such activity, but Fuzzy had discovered that the security computer was equipped with software for Mahjong. They didn't know it, but they were at a non-verbal, non-conscious stalemate. Enzo refused to go forward without Fuzzy leaving him access to the computer, and Fuzzy was unwilling to stop playing Mahjong. Unfortunately for Fuzzy, Enzo was younger, and therefore much more impatient about waiting. Fulled by a desire to complete his mission and a desperate need to go pee, Enzo resorted to kicking the grating, hard. It had been cheaply and poorly attached to its mounting, and so it was propelled much harder than Enzo had expected. It hit the back of Fuzzy's head with considerable force. In a stunning moment of utter clarity, Fuzzy perceived two thing: his mother had loved him, in her own impotent way and his current game of Mahjong was fundamentally un-winable.

"Rats." Fuzzy said aloud. And then he slowly, gracefully keeled over.

New Chapter

2009-01-30T01:33:00.003-05:00

I do plan to write a new chapter, but I must ask this question for the comments. To all three/fourish of my readers, do any of you actual read it? I mean, am I just writing it for my own amusement? I'll keep writing it (I LIKE my own amusement), I'm just curious as to whom cares.

Happy New Years

2009-01-29T08:48:00.003-05:00

Well, Happy New Years, which so far looks to be exactly like 2008. York University has been provincially ordered back to work, so 45000 students lost an entire semester's worth of money and time and education, and all.. for... nothing. Because nothing was resolved, nothing was changed. In Ottawa, the coalition falls apart and Harper returns to unchallenged government. Unemployment has risen to 12.1 percent, but a small headline today noted that the payment of bonus will proceed uninhibited. That's one of the same overspending madness that brought us here in the first place. And for all his talk of change, for all his talk of a new order, Obama still let that vile, intolerant Rick Warren officiate at his inauguration. So hurray for change. Hooray for this brave new world of sameness, identical in all ways to the year before.

And the thing is, it's all our fault. Because Canadians couldn't be bothered to understand their own electoral process. It takes no effort to find information these days, it's the God-Damned Information AGE. A few quick jabs at the keyboard will find you tonnes of information on how the government works. History gives us coalitions. But we feared it, because we only listened to our elected officials, who acted so contradictory and foolish that no wonder we felt afraid. Politicians can feel this. They can feel the undercurrents of society, and they act on it. A good person does what is right. A good politician does what he can to stay aloft. Michelle Jean had a change to act as the Constitution and precedent empowers her to do, but she crumpled under the weight of "doing what the public wanted", which was act as a figure head and do only as the Prime Minister wants. Poor Dion was forced out, because of the grudges of his own people, not for any lack of competence, and in strides the pompous Ignatieff. Ignatieff doesn't want a coalition, it's not his idea, the credit doesn't go to him. So he chooses to dissolve it, to satisfy the cowards of his own party who don't want to upset the status quo AT ANY COST. The cost, of course, is Stephen Harper reigns again unchallenged.

I don't believe Stephen Harper is evil. He is not some mindless robot, or spawn of Satan, or twisted monster that some have described him to be. To do that, we would do the exact same thing we did with the Bush presidency, where we only looked at the caricature, the parody, and we ignored the true threat of the man time and time again, because we called him a puppet and a fool. A clown. And so the dancing, prancing fool of a piper led the children out of Hamlin and down into the river, where they followed him laughing at his idiocy, and the water came over their heads and they drowned. To accept the hyperbole of Harper is to deeply, deeply underestimate the man. No, Harper is something far worse. He is simply a man who is utterly, unequivocally wrong. He is firm, unbending in his mental convictions, no matter how he bends to placate the public. Harper is simply wrong, and he is leading us into this new era of status quo.

So, Happy New Year, here at the end of January. Onwards and around.

The Adventures of the Average People

2009-01-27T19:34:00.002-05:00

Do I need to buy The Time Chasers Special Anniversary DVD?

No. No I do not.

But I want to. I sincerely, sincerely want too. I can't give yo a decent reason why. I mean, this is a terrible film, but I have loving watched it on MST3K many a time, watching Nick and his massive bum chin prance about the country side in a Castleton T-shirt, getting his girlfriend shot, himself killed, his boss killed and crashing two aircraft. But it all turn out okay, 'cause of time and terrible 80's plaid and stuff. And in the end, that's what really matters, right?

It's 'return' on Macs.

2009-01-24T01:15:00.002-05:00

Judicious use
Of the enter key
Creates the illusion
of poetry.

These are the shadows of things that have been.

2009-01-21T14:07:00.002-05:00

Author's Note: the following comes solely from my own meandering experience. There are no doubt inaccuracies. I humbly beg your forgiveness.

When I was a boy, my mother worked as an auctioneer's assistant, along with a plethora of other jobs designed to keep us in health and home. It should be said that my father also worked this form of labour, but in my mind it is linked with my mother. She, harassed and flustered by her gregarious employer, would dart about the auction house doing whatever it was that needed doing, while I, grossly short for my age, would often lose sight of her for long periods of time.

The term auction house is a bit of misnomer. My childhood was spent in the small provincial town of Creemore. The town was situated in an primordial lake bed, as demonstrated by the picturesque valley surrounding it, and the predilection of local home's basements to flood. one of many former railroad and mill towns that dot the landscape of Southern Ontario. In my youth it was a tired old town, by the time I left it in the early stages of puberty, it had its fancy Bistro and was already showing the signs of it's Lovecraftian re-animation into the shambling monster of place it is today. The presence of the brewery allowed Creemore to survive the death of the railroad the was the doom of many of its peers. Today, however, that same brewery has spelled out the doom of Creemore village life. Already filled with tchotchkes and bored teenagers, it is like a sleeping gorgon awaiting the kiss of princely subdivision to whisk the town into a world of banality and the mundane.

But I digress.

Bellow the hillock that the Junior Junior High-school was built on (Grades 4-8. Make of that what you will) were two long, warehouse like buildings of astonishing similarity. I can only assume they were built by the same developer back in the fifties, but that is only speculation. Each warehouse was sided in wide aluminium panels and ugly concrete blocks. One, the arena, was green. The other, a colour that can only be described as nicotine yellow, was the legion. It was in that building that John Simpson held court.

In those days, less than twenty years ago, it was still an acceptable practice to smoke indoors. It's comical to think back of it now, but everything in the legion was stained by it. The grey concrete, the hideous faux wood paneling, the display cases, the chairs, the fluorescent lights- it was all dyed by a yellowy-green patina of exhaled nicotine. On auction days, you could find all sorts looking at the wares. Young couples looking to purchase conversation pieces; old ladies come to reminisce or complain about their childhood; brass, arrogant nouveau rich who descended from their Olympian chateaus to act like caricatures from seventies sit-coms. Beer-bellied, moustached truckers whose presence there was never adequately explainable. I suppose even truckers occasionally desire miscellaneous turn-of-the-century gardening tools, or 1970s issues of Vanity Fair.

There were also the people who came there because they presumably went there everyday the building was opening. They were the ones responsible for the fine coat of yellow bequeathed to the building's interior. I suppose these men were nominally the veterans the legion was created for, but I can only ever think of them as the epitome of their generation of Farmers. In the words of James Lileks, these were the men who spent their Sundays in church, staring out the window and thinking about coffee. They were almost uniformly burly, and rarely over 5'10. Ruddy, red faced, with thinning hair cut very short, usually greying. They always wore a combination of worn denim, lumberjack shirts and the ubiquitous baseball cap. They spoke in that patois unique to rural Southern Ontario and the Maritimes, a drawl that will suddenly speed up, peppered with “you know” and “right” and “see”, such as “Oh, you know the Litmin's place up on the ninth concession near [insert relevant hamlet here], right? Well, I was down there on Monday, see, and seeing as there cow was sick, I thought...”

These men would sit, filling half the seats, and converse with each other with all the solemnness of Torah scholars, occasionally punctured by a deep laugh. They never bought anything, they were simply there because they had nowhere else to be. These men were serviced by the legion's bar, a filth ridden hole-in-the-wall in the back of the hall. I can still remember the taste of their sandwiches, the tuna and egg-salad that always tasted sweet. I can only assume that it was the poor quality of mayonnaise in their manufacture. When not at the legion, these men would spend their days smoking outside the post-office, or eating in the local greasy-spoon diner (God, how I miss that diner). The grubby tables, the faded white curtain gauze that hung ineffectually in the long bank of windows. The fare was what you'd expect, various undercooked, watery eggs, bacon dripping with fat, crunchy, overcooked home-fries (the best kind). But on auction days, at least a few of these men would dutifully make an appearance.

If it was a particularly hot day, the best place to sit was the floor. The cool of the concrete could be felt through the palm of the hands, bringing relief to a small child sweating in the heat. Mum would often leave me in the care of the lovely cash-box lady who sat at the back, near the snack bar. I have long since forgotten her name, but she called me munchkin, a name I still loathe. For some reason, whenever I think of her I am immediately greeted by a visage of a pull-string Urkel doll, which I cannot explain. To placate me into not nicking antiques and running amok, my mother would on occasion buy me donuts from the aforementioned Snack Bar. These were blobs of yellowy dough, covered with a horrendous, gut destroying icing sugar and sprinkles. One bite gave you your monthly sugar intake, and I almost never finished my donut, because by the second bite, I was already disgusted with the very taste of those saccharine monstrosities. Looking back on it now, I can easily see that my mum was in her element in all that chaos. Though she'd probably disagree, it is my mother's drive and will that drive much of the family forward, and amongst that madness that is an auction, orders to get one item, hand off another, organize this and that and the other, I have no doubt that she handled it with the the same inimitable skill with which she approaches everything else.

Outside the legion, mounted on a hideous concrete pillar, was a fighter jet. At a guess, I'd say it dated from the Korean War, what with it's silver body, reminiscent of an Airstream, and general air of decrepitude. It was the dream of every kid to somehow manage to climb the tower and sit in or on the jet, but I have no idea if anybody ever managed it. From on that jet, you'd have a good view of the surrounding town. At the foothill in front of you, you could see in the distance the long road that led up to the map-marker of Cashtown Corners. On that road sat the town's two gas stations, Shell and a place that I believe was called “Sunny's” or some such. These gas station were within a kilometre of one another, and they were locked in an eternal struggle to take away each other's customers. Behind you rose the edifice of the century old, three story schoolhouse, with its bell tower and ancient maple trees. You could no doubt see the steeples and bell towers of the town's four churches- Anglican, Presbyterian, United, and the sinfully ugly Baptist church, which had to have been built in the fifties. The Catholics had to go outside of town for their religious needs. And right in front of you was the arena (I'm fairly sure I haven't reversed the buildings in my mind).

I never, ever played hockey as a child, but nonetheless memories of that place persist. There was an acrid smelled that filled the air that became quite harsh once you went out onto the ice. I believe that the arena may also have had an equally atrocious snack bar in the observation area, but that may be a false memory. I can recall, with stunning clarity, the helmet that my parents purchased to protect my fragile brain pan. My mother being the economically minded person that she is, purchased it second hand from somewhere or other, and I was required to wear it whenever I went on the ice. Like most things from my boyhood, my head was too small for it, and I looked ridiculous wearing it. It was a black hockey helmet, scuffed somewhat, with a white line going around the circumference at the base. There was a dirty white strap that seemed dangerously thin, and in order to keep the damned thing on my skull it was always so tight as to slightly choked me as the helmet jumped around on my head. I remember walking out to the ice, very careful to walk only on the rubber matting because I had been taught that to step on the concrete would destroy your skates for eternity. I was, at best, a horrible skater, barely past the stage whereby you sort of hobble/walk along the ice. My father was always graceful on the ice, prepared for it by an adolescence of hockey and an adult life of dancing. I was always seized by jealousy, as he would talk to me face to face, effortlessly gliding backwards. I remember too the horror of tying my laces, wrapped twice around in a desperate attempt to get them to somehow fit my tiny feet. It always hurt, afterward, because the side well of the skate had dug into my narrow ankles. I always loved the way the ice looked, slick and wet after the Zamboni had gone over it.

But it is the legion that I remember most clearly. In later years I would deliver a speech there that would be totally panned by by the judges, to which I still remain bitter. It was in that legion that I first joined the cub scouts, of which I'll no doubt return to in some later work. But I often missed that pseudo-pastoral childhood. I still do.

Cold Concrete Floor

2009-01-19T21:41:00.002-05:00

As I grow older
And my hearing starts to go
I find that more exchanges remind me of
Cigarette smoke.
Clouds of it.
A childhood in the legion,
Surrounded by the relics of the dead,
While, through grainy mic,
The auctioneer's booming voice
Sings out it's kinetic patter song.
And I sit there,
Uncomprehending
Trying to breathe.

Dem people from Jersey is brutes.

2009-01-19T20:44:00.001-05:00

When I learned
They had killed off
Edith Bunker.
I wept.

And my last certainties
Vanished.
Like that other pink slipper.

As solitary as an oyster

2009-01-19T15:42:00.001-05:00

I have often joked to anyone within earshot that I have an auto-didactic classical education. And then I laugh. As the sentence is unusually dense and really not very funny, nobody else ever laughs. The benefits of a classical education used to mean that you could converse with other learned persons on weighty topics of great import. But since no one cares about weighty topics of great import, you're left to make jokes about Blake that no one will ever find funny. And to be fair, I can completely understand why. Acting like a pompous git is never very well liked. But what is it that has caused the decline of classical studies? The phasing out of the study of ancient Greek and Latin no doubt played some part, but the myths and stories of antiquity have been translated into the vernacular for at least two centuries now, and the handy-cap of not reading a text in it's original prose doesn't mean that it's tenants and observations are any less relevant.

Andrea: "Unhappy is the land that breeds no hero."
Galileo: "No, Andrea: Unhappy is the land that needs a hero."

The above is a passage from Brecht's Leben des Galilei. I could make the argument that in this trying time of crisis and universal brouhaha, people have no need of heros, but that simply doesn't match up with historical evidence. In crisis, people like stories of heroes. Today, though, we don't have heroes. We have our celebretatum, for whom we clamour for details of their lives and musical choices, but they are never the sort of people who perform "great deeds". Charitible work not withstanding, our celebrites are not heros of renown, but entertainers: singers, actors, dancers. Bards used to tell the stories of heroes. Now, the focus is on the bards themselves.

Return to the Wasteland Pt. 2

2009-01-17T18:35:00.004-05:00

I have returned to my place in the shadows.
I watch the band begin the beguine,
Note who has changed partners,
And who sits out a set.

But for a moment there, I once again
Was blessed enough to take another turn.
A stately waltz, it's steps close held,
Its undertones of eros more evident with every refrain.

I tried.
I really did.

But with every turn, with every pass I saw
At his place by the door,
The mocking grin of the Amaranthine Porter.
It was doomed, as I knew we would be
The moment the band-leader hefted his hand.
The music grew louder,
My steps faltered more,
The spectators voices a deafening roar.

It didn't matter.
As Mollari said,
I had forgotten how to dance.
Like good dancers,
We bore it till the end.
The music ended, and with his skeleton smile,
The Footman made his way through the floor
And to a special few
He gave them back their coats.

Again I was afraid.
And I was right to be.
Shattered by grief, and the madness of heartbreak,
I again found myself in that blighted wasteland.

But I am back now.
I recorded the dances, their partners, the songs and sets.
It is my job, I am a watcher.
Thus, I watch.

It will have to be enough.

Return to the Wasteland

2009-01-17T13:13:00.003-05:00

Time has passed.
Wind has worn down the carbon scored stones.
The animals and worms have taken the dead,
And what riches were held within the Walls
Have been stripped.
I had hoped,
I had prayed,
To not return.
Why am I here again?
This open tomb,
Sixty-two square miles of fallen rock and mortar.
For one man's choice, a city died.
For one man's choice, a generation gone.
As for my choice...

I knew the consequences.
Yet I had the gall to hope.

More fool am I.

I think Rand would have been displeased by teflon.

2009-01-17T02:36:00.004-05:00

The true purpose of post-modern literary and artistic criticism is to bring the world to a point where it is impossible to say the phrase "I like potatoes" without it being ironic, symbolic of the Irish Potato Famine, Sisyphus, Anglo-Frisian relations, the cold wa, modern technology, sexual feminist re-interpretive Randian values and the rise of teflon waffle irons; and finally to also be a reference to an amusing anecdote about Oscar Wilde, Bette Midler and/or Ron Paul.

See, literary critics are no better than Hollywood producers. They don't want you to read Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird, they want you to read Granville Hicks Presents Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. They want to remove all of the author's presence from the novel and infuse it with their own self, just like a hermit crab emptying a shell and taking up residence.

Only, you know, different.

2009-01-16T02:09:00.001-05:00

I have a new post, but I can't finish it tonight. I will to bed, and post upon the morrow.

Guffin War: Act 1 Scene 1: A country road. A tree

2009-01-07T01:59:00.007-05:00

The ground was quite damp; understandable in the muggy heat. Ruxpin simply lay passively. He hadn't slept in over a day, and despite the threat of being shot, he was tempted to simply doze off in the mud. The voice spoke again, harshly.

"Hände hoch oder ich schieße!" Ruxpin didn't speak German. He simply waited for the voice to remember where it was. Eventually, almost apologetically, the voice spoke in English. "If you please, hands where I can see them." Well, that was said, but not how it sounded. Forty years away from Austria had done nothing to remove the harsh, guttural accent, which rendered the phrase as "If hyu pleas, hends vere hy ken see dem". Ruxpin slowly complied. There was silence, accompanied only by birdsong. Ruxpin finally filled it.

"If you'll forgive my impudence, ma'am, there can only be a limited number of six foot bears wearing pants you've ever met. Now what are the odds that you'd be tracked down by one you've never met."

"Still the wit, I see." The voice replied at last. There was more birdsong. Ruxpin realized that he was, in fact, dozing off in the mud. He struggled to pull himself awake.

"You're a hard woman to find, Fräulein."

"Not hard enough, apparently. You still smoke, I smell."

"And you're still Austrian, I hear. It's kind of wet in this mud."

"Yes. I imagine it would be." A foot was removed from his back. With a weary sigh, he rolled over onto his back.

Mollie Halbmond von Possenreißer looked much- no, almost exactly as she did when Ruxpin had first met her in Huế in 1963. Later in life he had gained access to her security files, where he discovered that she looked exactly the same as when she had reached her full growth in 1915. She was short, about four feet in total. It was impossible to describe her features without using the term 'elfin', but she was hardly childlike. The face was smooth and youthful, but lines around the eyes betrayed the maturity of her character. The hair was jet black, and amateurly cut in a style that hadn't been popular since Colleen Moore has starred in Her Wild Oat. On her right hand was a grubby, dirt stained ring, but other than that she wore no adornment. Her clothing was non-descript, worn but serviceable. She still had her sidearm trained on him, a modified Browning M1911A designed to fit her small hand. She was holding it in a deceptively casual manner that Ruxpin knew from experience not to underestimate. Her lithe frame was unnaturally strong,and more than one opponent had been felled through overconfidence.

"What do you want, Major?"

"It's Col- well, it was colonel, anyways." At this, Molly raised an eyebrow.

"You get too mouthy for your own good?" Ruxpin chuckled.

"Sexual deviancy, if you can believe that." Molly smiled.

"Well, it sounds like you." She uncocked the pistol and holstered it. "Why are you here, N'Ruxpin?"

"Well" he sighed "First of all, I need your help to bury a comrade."

2009-01-04T02:03:00.000-05:00

A new post soon, I promise.

2008-12-22T14:38:00.003-05:00

Okay, I've re-written the first post in the Guffin War, and I may re-do the second. I've remved some bits, added the odd important word and also fixed the HTML link errors, so everything should be orange instead of blue. I can't get the font size right for some reason, but that doesn't really bother me.

Guffin War: Program Pt. 1

2008-12-22T14:09:00.010-05:00

There was a war. The greatest war ever seen before or since. At a confluence, a tesseract of space and time of the multi-verse, in a land suddenly populated with nostalgic, beloved characters, there was a war for power, a war for dominance.... a war for a ring. The MacGuffin ring.

The ring was forged by the master smiths Freddie and Eddie, its face was engraved by Eggo the Waffle stack. Its making consumed all three, and they vanished from the world sometime around 1880. The ring was lost when General Mills was raided by The Honeycomb Kid and his gang of Trix Brats in 1903, but was found again when the ruins were excavated by a team of forensic scientists. The team's leader, George Dixon, was slain by his second, Gus Grissom, who went into hiding and attempted to form an army comprised entirely of extras used in CSI and Law and Order.

The army was easily crushed the valiant efforts of Speed Racer and Goku, but Fifth Juror fled the carnage, taking with him the ring. From here things grow murky.

The ring was definitely in the hands of the celestial wanderer Little Star, who passed it off to persons unknown before she returned to space sometime in 1993. It shows up again in the hands of the only still living Triplet, Anna, who donates it to the Guggenheim museum in 1996 upon her death. A Cartel of world criminals comprising of Lex Luthor, Snidley Whiplash, Angelica Pickles and Queen Beryl meet up in Queen Beryl's lair inside the Puzzle Place in Petrograd. There they retain the services of espionage master Boris Badenov who, with the help of Pruneface, steal the ring from the Guggenheim. However, Boris betrays the cartel, and feels to Chicago, where he tries to receive the protection of retired Crime Lord Bluto. Bluto rejects Badenov’s entreaties and Badenov, along with Pruneface, are brutally executed by ex-Mafia hit-man Lu igi, who now serves Queen Beryl.

The stage is set for a global conflict when Dick Tracy reveals to International Rescue of what has occurred. When John Tracy confirms for his brother Virgil about what has occurred, Virgil has no other choice. He contacts Billy Blazes, now riddled by lung cancer, that he tells him that he must recall the Rescue Heroes to active duty. While Billy begins his laborious task, everything is thrown for a loop when a team up between Carmen Sandiago and Ghost writer successfully steal the ring from the cartel, and everyone on both sides scramble to figure out where in the world they are. But when Darkwing Duck finds Carmen dead, having been killed in an assassination attempt by Wishbone and Zoboo mafoo, fear strikes the hearts of all! From deep within Groundling Marsh, an insignificant region of a Louisianan bayou, a heroine who cast her back on the world will here the cries of the world and return to civilization to find the ring and save the world.

An old dame named Molly.

Guffin War: Overture Pt. 2

2008-12-21T12:34:00.017-05:00

The Ministry of State Security in Beijing is one of any number of oddly stylized partially concrete buildings that populate modern Beijing. It posses that singular ugliness so common to government ministries built after 1950 as to go almost unnoticeable, were it not for organization's sinister reputation. So the building loomed and lurked along the busy roadway, while inside people... worked. They did the kind of work that is peculiar to intelligence agencies the world over, which is to sift enormous quantities of data and reach conclusions. None of this concerned Ruxpin as he broke in through a rear window, except that he was more cautious than usual about security cameras and pressure pads. It was really only for show, anyways. The Chinese had kept tabs on him since '75, and Ruxpin knew he had been followed since he landed. But Ruxpin was nothing if not a traditionalist, and breaking into intelligence agencies had once been a hobby for him. T his relief, the building was not half as sterile as the FBI headquarters had been. At least it looked like people worked here. As he moved through the corridors, he considered what he should say. His father had always liked to be disarmingly charming, but Ruxpin had always gone for the more dramatic, bombastic charge, and it was this in mind that he side-stepped a secretary and threw open a door, where it hit the wall with a satisfying, drywall denting "thunk".

"You know," Ruxpin said conversationally "they still burn you in effigy in Taipei." Across from him, sitting at a desk, was a wizened Pekingese. His fur, white to begin with, had simply faded into an unhealthy translucent yellow, not unlike a wall that has been covered with nicotine. In some places it was patchy, especially on the heart shaped ears, and the flesh bellow was dry and flaky. Behind glasses, small, highly ulcered black eyes had sunk deeper into the head over the years, and one was covered with the milky film of blindness. The teeth were seriously yellowed, and the gums cut and black. The creature did not look up from his writing. He remained bent towards his paper, his handwriting highly ornate and calligraphic. When he finally spoke, it was in an almost comically accented English.

"Is that so?" the dog said, in a tone suggesting absent curiosity. He continued to write.

"They mock your name, and the argument rages over all your betrayals."

"How quaint local customs are."

"The Manchu Mutt is popular. But they mostly call you Cixi's Last Eunuch." This actually got a rise out of the dog. His head rose slowly, and his eye burned with anger for a moment, before he returned to his placid state.

"Xiao Qin Xian was a great woman, Colonel. She only ever had the best interests of China at heart. As do I."

"Oh I'm sure you do. After Cixi dies, you betrayed her legacy to Chiang. And then Chiang to the Communists. Then the Communists to the Japanese, you played your games for poor Puyi and then you sold everything back to Mao. China's best interests, I'm sure."

"You inflate my importance greatly, Colonel. I am merely a humble comrade of this nation."

"How is it that you're still alive, Pong Ping? You must be, what, ninety? A hundred?"

"I have been gifted with long life so that I may serve, Colonel. That is all."

"What was it that she said, Ping? 'Thus shall it preserve its integrity and self-respect - but if it dies, remember thou too art mortal.'"

"A bastardization, Colonel. You should read such things more closely." Pong Ping carefully removed his glasses, setting them to one side. His frail frame leaned back in his chair. He regarded Ruxpin from behind his steepled fingers. "What is it that you want of me, N'Ruxpin?"

"You know, Ping, I remember the first time we met. Me, strapped to a table, you sorting lengths of bamboo in a rubber apron...."

"I can have you removed in seconds, Colonel, is there a point to all this?"

"von Possenreißer. Where is she?"

"The Living Doll? Whatever makes you think I know where to find her?"

"You kept tabs on every last member of the Fallen Angels. You couldn't stand not knowing where she is." At this, Ping chuckled to himself, a dry, husky relic of a laugh that came out from some where within the narrow frame.

"You know, N'Ruxpin, I once knew someone much like you. I met him in England when the Red Guard went wild and Mao went mad. I spent three years in exile, you know. Dreadful business. Rupert was quite young, and an Illiopian in exile, again like you- well, like all of you, really. Full of passion and ability, with a desire for adventure. Unlike you, though, he didn't ruin his life with drink and petty scandal. He's a mercenary leader in Magadan, trying to carve out a new Illiop. Now, you and I both know he is going to fail, but you know what? He's not breaking into buildings to exchange meaningless pleasantries with old men. Good-day to you, Colonel." Pong Ping returned to his writing. Ruxpin leaned up against a wall, lit up, and exhaled in a long breath.

"You know why you're going to tell me, you old mongrel? It's cause deep, deep down in that blackened little heart, you're a romantic. You like epics. And you've got your grubby paws on the pulse of the world. You know it's getting quicker. And every side in a epic needs it's champion, doesn't it. To make it watchable. To make it... fun. What does my side have right now? International Rescue, Rescue Heroes and the like... bureaucrats and organisations. You can't committee a hero. You got to have one take command." Pong Ping did not look up, but he stopped writing, and his ears twitched. "But your an old man, Ping. You're not out for some bildungsroman. You want a proven hero, like the ones of our youth. You want someone proven. So you're going to give me that location. Because even in the height of spring, you feel cold. Your a dying, evil old man, with so much on his conscience that ya gave up on sleep years ago. So here's an old enemy offering redemption. And you're too well read to pass up on it." There was a long silence. Then a drawer opened, and a slip of paper was removed. Pong Ping just sat there, face down and shaking, though whether with silent laughter or silent tears it was impossible to determine. Finally, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it Ruxpin. With a silent nod, Ruxpin left, leaving Pong Ping alone.

He walked briskly down the hallway, his mind filled with calculations. How much fuel was needed, what supplies he should stock up on... he was suddenly aware of someone humming off tune and close by. He looked around. Leaning up against a pillar, humming to himself, was a baby blue dog, who looked at Ruxpin with a laconic smile.

"Good afternoon, there" the dog said in a languid Southern drawl. "The name's Hound. H. Hound. And I'll bet that you'd be Mr. Ruk Slim."

"Ruxpin" Ruxpin said irritably. "Can I help you?"

"Well, now that's a matter of opinion, MR. Slim."

"It's Ru- oh never mind."

"Ya see, I rep-er-a-sent a group of fine ladies and gents who, t' be frank, aren't all that pleased with what you're trying to do. I mean, I've been sending you mess-ages to that effect, but I don't think you've been listening. So I thought that perhaps something a little closer to home might get yer attention." Ruxpin began to reach into his vest. "Oh don't be alarmed, Colonel. I wouldn't want to insult out China-ese hosts by doing anything un-t-ward in one of their governmental buildings." The Hound's smile didn't change, but it suddenly looked harsh and vicious. "Say, Mr. Slim, didn't you come here with a friend or something? Beijing's a dangerous place. I'd hate fer something to happen to the poor fellow." Under his fur, Ruxpin went white. With a muffled yell, he tore off down he hallway, leaving a smiling dog in his wake.

**************************

It was later. Much later. It had been brutal, efficient work. Nothing in the cabin had been disturbed but the... body. Ruxpin had done what he could. He had cleaned it as best he could, but he was no mortician. He tried to sing a requiem, but only succeeded in half humming, half muttering the Dies Iræ and the Kyrie. He tried to remember the rituals of his youth, and chanted the Pyre Cant in Illopian, but he hadn't done it since his father's death, and he could not remember the words. The flight back across the ocean was uneventful. US air command tried to shoot him down, but he dropped Sam the Eagles name enough that the left him alone. Miraculously he had a machete on board from god knows where, and he trudged his way through a thick bayou biomass. Ruxpin was from a cold climate, and he found this sweltering Louisiana heat no more pleasant than he had found the sweltering heat of Vietnam, Laos or the Mushroom Kingdom or Rio. Ruxpin believed that he was simply fated to be in horrible heat. He grunted as something punched him in the stomach, through him to the ground and cocked a pistol at him. An annoyed, clipped voice snapped at him.

"Hände hoch oder ich schieße!"

Guffin War: Overture

2008-12-18T21:04:00.006-05:00

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

-Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson

When Regimental Colonel Theordoros "Teddy" Ap Mohiam N'Ruxpin (the only Illiopian to ever hold rank in the American armed forces) was charged with "conduct unbecoming in an officer", his legal fees become untenable, and he was forced to pawn off the majority of his possessions. Of special note was the airship he inherited from his father. Unwilling to sell it off permanently, he loaned instead to a museum of aeronautics. Their yearly rent went straight to his creditors, and he never saw a penny of it. It was not without some considerable effort that it was taken out of the museum and put in the air. Both the museum director and several local pilots had protested that the Airship was in no state to travel, and was completely un-airworthy. Ruxpin had simply kicked the engine a bit, sworn a lot in Illiopian and finally shoved a wrench in at an odd angle.

The flight over the Pacific Ocean had been uneventful. Ruxpin had spent the entire trip on deck, starring moodily into the clouds and making his cigarette last an improbably long time. Tweety chose to take refuge below decks. The place was sumptuously, decadently decorated, with intricately carved panelling, an ornate wardroom table, and wall hangings of improbable design. When questioned on his flying Rococo showcase, Ruxpin was as unresponsive as he'd been to questions about where they were going, how he was driving, what was keeping them in the air and where the head was. They had stopped in Taiwan for a layover. Ruxpin was out of Morleys. When he came back, his face was grim.

"When you came to see me, did you see anyone follow you? Anyone who looked out of place?"

"No... I don't believe so." Tweety replied, a little puzzled. "Why?" At first, Ruxpin did not respond, he simply busied himself with whatever it was that got the Airship from the ground to the air. Finally he responded.

"Two days ago, they fished the body of suspected killer Luigi Fratelli out of Lake Erie. Over twelve bullet holes in his back." Tweety went pale.

"Wh... what?"

"Forty hours ago, they're was a prison riot in the woman's ward of Sing-Sing prison. Only one casualty, an inmate by the name of Slaghoople."

"But-"

"Twenty-nine hours ago, they're was a a huge gang shootout between rival gangs in Bangkok. Among the dead was local merchant and Indian ex-pat P. Panther."

"How-"

"Twelve hours ago, a military asylum in Illinois caught fire and burned to the ground, killing most of the patients. And three hours ago your house was also burned."

"My house.... wait, the asylum! Bunny, is he?" At this, Ruxpin actually smiled.

"Oh, it would take more than being surrounded b burning slag to take out Bunny. You know, I once saw him him win an arm wrestling contest by ripping off another man's arm?" Ruxpin became reflective. "They're out to get us, Bird." They sat in silence for a while. "I had hoped I'd never have to say this, Corporal, but... welcome back to China."

**************

Despite his radio threats to do so, Ruxpin did not land in Tiananmen Square. He landed in the Back Sea in Shichahai, where he proceeded to irritate the ducks and argue with the Beijing municipal police. Tweety, feeling more useless than ever, spent his time sitting on top of the wheelhouse, trying to read a book of Quin dynasty poetry, without much success. His Chineese had been picked up during his years in a prison camp, and it was idiosyncratic, at best. Eventually, a courier made his way through the mod of cops and bureaucrats and handed Ruxpin a note, which he brought to Tweety.

"Here" he said gruffly. "It's in Cǎoshū. I don't read Cǎoshū." Tweety glanced at the note.

"It's an address" he said, copying it out into English. Ruxpin read it over.

"Did your wife teach you how to haggle over a parking ticket?"

"Oddly enough...."

"Good. Stay here and argue with the nice mob. I've got to go see a Pekingese about people skills."

Guffin War: B Flat Concert Pitch

2008-12-16T21:52:00.007-05:00

"It's pretty cold up here."

"It's the sky. It does that." There was silence.

"This thing got a name?"

"Airship."

"Yes." There was some more silence. "I meant did the airship have a name?"

"Airship."

".... you named your airship Airship? What kind of name is that?

"A practical one."

"Was it your first choice, then?"

"Well, it used to be named after Arin."

"And what happened?"

"It wasn't named Arin anymore."

"No, I mean what happened with Arin?"

"I stopped naming my airship after her."

"..... are we there yet?"

"Does this look like China?"

".... no."

Guffin War: Vox Vorspiel, or, The Bear and Bird.

2008-12-15T22:39:00.012-05:00

Present Day
A favela in Rio.
Sfx: The Overture to Tannhauser plays over the credits.

The knock on what could politely be described as a door at first elicited nothing but silence. Then, after a few more patient knocks, a rumble was heard from within the squalid, filth-ridden excuse for an apartment. Eventually, bolts were unlocked from within, and the door was opened a crack. The beady black eye affixed itself on the occupant below. The voice that issued from behind it muttered something in broken Portuguese. The visitor replied, apologetically in English:

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't speak..." The voice cut him off.

"I said: you're a little short for my usual clientele." On hearing this, the petite Cpl. Bird smiled.

"Oh, I'm not here for any services, Colonel. I'm here on business."

At the word "Colonel", the eye narrowed and pulled away. The chain was removed from the door, and Tweety was allowed to enter. It was also his first chance to get a look at the bear, though the light from the room's sole, bare bulb was undoubtedly not doing him any favours. Ruxpin's once proud, tall figure had become hunched and weathered. Excessive nicotine use had yellowed his fur, and the smell was one of soured gin. The fur around his mouth and paws was severely singed from cigarette burns, as was, for that matter, the apartment. A single room, it contained a squat, dormant fridge with it's door ajar, a few sagging cupboards that were mostly empty, a husk of a table with two rough stools between them, and in the corner, a stained, lumpy bed. It was not a room to inspire confidence. Ruxpin rested his massive frame on one of the stools, and issued for Tweety to do the same. Hampered by his small stature, Tweety was obligated to alight himself on the table instead. He watch in silence for a time, as Ruxpin methodically, expertly disassembled a handful of filter less cigarette butts, transferring their meagre contents to a fresh piece of rolling paper. This task completed, he rolled it up and lit it, shuddering visibly with relief as the tobacco hit his system. After a while, he appeared to notice Tweety, and shifted his attention to him.

"I'm not a colonel anymore." Ruxpin said at last, his low growl wistful and pained.

"But you used to be, sir" Tweety said demurely. Ruxpin again narrowed his eyes at the bird.

"I know you from somewhere?" Tweety nodded.

"I served with you, Colonel. I was there when the- when they flanked us in Land Four. At Wario's Landing. I was there when... when the world ended." Ruxpin stared off into cigarette smoke.

"Apt way at putting it." he said at last. There was another silence. "Bird. T. Bird, Corporal. I3324-12. 2nd Company. Putt-Putt's platoon." Tweety nodded in agreement. Another pause. "How'd you find me, Bird?"

"Panther. And I found him only 'cause Bunny was having a lucid moment. Panther may have been running guns for almost thirty years, but he wouldn't forget his old 2ic. He's the type that looks after his own. He sends a check to your account once a month, in lieu of your pension. Just enough to live on. Every so often you get desperate enough and make a withdrawal. I just traced the money flow."

"And how'd you do that, exactly?"

"My late wife, Elmyra, she was in finance. I learned some... techniques from her." Ruxpin nodded, and rubbed out his cigarette between his fingers. The smell of burnt fur hung in the air.

"Why? What'd you want me for?"

"Colonel Ruxpin... the MacGuffin ring is gone." Ruxpin's shadowed face betrayed not a single emotion. Tweety proceeded to tell him what he knew, adding in the visit from Luigi and what little he had gleaned from Bunny's inane rambling. Ruxpin's only response during the story was to bring out a bottle of foul smelling liquor and to drink from it heavily. It had no discernible effect.

"So what do you want me to do, Bird? I don't know where it is." At this Tweety grew quite grave.

"Sir... anyone with half a brain can see where this is leading. The great Wars, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Gulf War ... all these events because people only knew where the ring wasn't. And now it's gone again. Tensions are heating up. It doesn't matter why people are going to take sides about this- they just are. And then people are going to die. Colonel, we need someone who can rally people, inspire people. We need someone who can end this thing faster than anyone. Sir... we need the Old Lady."

"And you think I know where she is?"

"No. But I think you're the best person to find her. You know her better than any of us left. That's what Slaghoople said. I tried. She... doesn't use her bank account." Tweety finished weakly. Ruxpin gave him a stare. Then a long, bitter laugh emitted from his lips.

"Me? I'm the best person to find her? Look at me, boy! I'm in a fucking hovel, turning tricks for vacationing frat boys and and fearful bureaucrats who have the sort of fantasies no one must ever know about. Look at me, Bird. I'm your hero, off to find your fucking savior? I have to go out there every god damned day, with that fucking Redentor staring down at me, staring into my skull. What makes you think I have any will left? Wash-up, that's what I am. Go lay your geis on someone else." Ruxpin sank back on his bed, his face in what passed for a pillow. Tweety asked quietly:

"But your airship..."

"It's in hock." Ruxpin said in a muffled voice. "You think I'd be here if I could flee this hell hole? Cidade Maravilhosa my furry ass..."

"And if I could get it out?" Ruxpin's head snapped up angrily.

"Then I'd be a fucking wash up with a mothballed airship. What makes you think I can fin her then?"

"Colonel, you were trained by Smokey himself. You worked in Yogi's Rangers for three years before they bumped you up three pay grades to be the XO for the 2nd Irregulars. You were one of the best intel men they had. You must have contacts from here to Guam if you bothered to get out there. I thought I saw some worth is you after Sonic got his head blown all over you, and you still pulled us out of that rout. Christ, Ruxpin, we didn't loose four hundred men at the Landing just so you could curl up here and die." Ruxpin remained buried in his pillow for a while. Then he spoke.

"Airship money. Where's it from?"

"Bunny cut me a check. They gave him quite a pension, but he sure as hell ain't using it." There was another, thoughtful silence.

"Cigarettes."

"I'm sorry?"

"Get me some real, filtered, honest to god Morley Lites."

"Does this mean you'll do it?" Tweety asked hopefully. Ruxpin gave a laugh.

"It means.... I'm sick of hand-rolled."

Guffin War: Program Pt. 3

2008-12-13T22:11:00.011-05:00

The story of how Molly got involved in what would later be known as the Guffin War involves a tangent, but a tangent based upon the heroism of a forgotten few. The number of Molly's comrades from the wars still living during the opening gambits of the McGuffin war were few in number. Of the TET offensive, all her old friends were MIA or dead. From the Laos campaign, Specialist Pink Panther was working in an illegal hardware store in Bangkok and WO-3 Untalkative Bunny was in a military asylum in Illinois. The annexation of the Mushroom Kingdom, which had wiped out virtually the entire superhero community along with most of the 2nd Irregulars Regiment (The Fallen Angels), had unusually left the most comrades alive, but by far the most damaged. Master Sergent Luigi, of course, was driven half-mad by the death of his brother and after his years in the mob had ended up in service to Queen Beryl. Petty Officer 2nd Class Pearl Slaghoople was in Sing-Sing after murdering her son-in-law. Colonel Teddy Ruxpin was destitute and all but homeless in Rio de Janeiro, dishonorably discharged in '93. Only Corporal Tweety Bird remained sane and free in North America, a Wal-Mart greeter in Cleveland.

Tweety had a ritual. Every night at midnight or so he would make himself a strong drink and wait by the phone. One a week, without fail, Luigi would get horribly drunk, forget the time zone difference between the States and Russia and call Tweety, where he proceed to cry about his griefs for at least an hour and a half. But this time was different. Instead of a call, poor Tweety was forced to have Luigi come in through his front door, drunk as a skunk and covered in blood. Luigi ranted for hours about his execution of Badnove, let slip information about the Cartel, and then stole off into the night. Tweety, worried about the oncoming storm, vowed to find the one person he knew could help... but where to find her?

Blue links.

2008-12-08T18:48:00.001-05:00

The links are hard to read, by if you open what you want to read in a new tab, the colour becomes a readable orange, like it's supposed to.

Guffin War: Program Pt. 2

2008-12-08T15:35:00.007-05:00

Molly’s history is one of enigma and heroics. Her partner Loonette, dying in the fall of ’35 left her a sizable inheritance, but Molly was never one for siting back in leisure. She was with the Allies when they landed and Italy, and managed to make it to the fall of Berlin, where she assisted the 3rd Shock army in taking the Reichstag. She left Berlin shortly thereafter on an ultimately fruitless manhunt to find Martin Bormann. She is documented as leaving Argentina in June of ’47 and is recorded by the Soviet Ministry of State Security as being in Belgrade at the time of the Tito-Stalin split in ’48, along with an undercover Johnny Bravo and Count von Count. She is reported as having encouraged Tito to involve himself with the Marshall plan, but she may have also been involved in a plot to restore the Serbian monarch Peter II. By all accounts she left the country by 1952, although Tito had a statue of her placed near what would later be his tomb, Кућа цвећа. This statue was removed following his death. Molly posed through out most of the fifties as opera singer Moliere De Lune, finding employment at the Teatro Argentino and then the Vienna State Opera, where she gave one of the most renowned performances of Brunhilde in the entire 20th century. She ran a dance academy in Star City from 1960-63 with the wife of scientist Benton Quest, Diana. Following Mrs. Benton’s death in childbirth, Molly left the States for the War in Asian, getting involved in the Tet offensive, fighting against the Pathet Lao in Laos and finally assisted in the resistance to the annexation of the Mushroom Kingdom by China in ’75. Highly disillusioned by what she saw as succession of failures, she withdrew from the world to a hermitage in Groundling Marsh, leaving it only to attend the funerals of Tito, Albert Speer and Christopher Vokes in the early eighties. Until Carmen Sandiego was found dead in St. Canard in ’06, Molly had not left her marsh for over twenty years.

Re-composed.

2008-12-07T22:54:00.000-05:00

I have edited my previous post. As mien editor suggested, the links are embedded in the text (I can;t find out a way to change the link colour yet...) The ring;s name was also left out in the original draft, it has been reinstated.

2008-12-06T23:30:00.003-05:00

I'm not one for moralizing meaningless dribble about fascist hegemony in this post-modern age of capital new Prussian autocracy, but I'd like to post this picture of Walt Disney and Werner Von Braun. Draw your own conclusions to fit your preferred world view.

A man with moonlight in his hand has nothing there at all.

2008-12-04T23:11:00.001-05:00

What do you do when you realize you are Fifth Business?

In this year of grace.

2008-12-01T23:04:00.002-05:00

I brought three books of fiction with me when I came here to Humber. I brought Jonathan Strange because I was re-reading it at the time. I brought my three volumes of Peake's Ghormenghast, because it's passages of faded grandeur appealed to me greatly as an companion in misery. And I brought my well read copy of Harper Lee's To Kill A Mocking Bird. People say it's a book about growing up, but I've always felt it a much more melancholic book then that. Atticus is Quixote, not the deluded Quixote of Cervantes' beginning, a deluded madman who sees giants in flour mills. Atticus is a Quixote of Part Two, a man clinging to honour because no one else will, a man who charges out knowing that he is most likely doomed to failure, but he goes out anyways, because no one else will, because it's his duty to do so.

And he fails. Just like Quixote, Atticus fails. And he fights the best god damned fight he can, we cheer for him, are fueled by the passion of his argument, of his fight. And he fails because it was not possible to succeed.

There's... there's a line from the book. Atticus has lost, and exits the courtroom, and the entire upper balcony rises to mark his going, as a sign of respect, as a sign of gratitude. Reverend Sykes says to young Scout "Miss Jean-Louise, stand up. Your father's passing."

We don't do that anymore. We don't tilt lances with Knights of the White Moon, we don't go for lost causes. We don't stand for those who do. Maybe we never did.

Quand j’étudie les mécanismes de pouvoir, j’essaie d’étudier leur spécificité

2008-11-28T03:28:00.002-05:00

One of these days, I am going to remember that Michel Foucault and Léon Foucault are not the same person, but until that time I will remain a miserable individual.

Ior mi,' dixit sollemniter, 'egomet, Winnie ille Pu, caudam tuam reperiam.

2008-11-27T03:25:00.002-05:00

With my father re-publishing his older poetry, I have come to the realization that those reading it may read passages that refer to me. Those persons might know me, or know of me. Opinions about me are being formed by the written word at this VERY MOMENT. After the Second World War, Christopher Robin Milne grew to loathe his father and all his works, embittered by his portrayal as a young boy. I have no such feelings of vitriol, but I am left wondering: my childhood is set in print, it should last for eons, given the right conditions. If that is all that is left of my name and house in history, how am I to feel about it?

Isn't it funny
How a bear likes honey?
Quid est causae cur?

The Eternal Waiting Room

2008-11-25T00:47:00.002-05:00

Since it has been nearly a week since I last posted, I thought I owed it to my readership of two to update with something.

It's very late at night, and for the second night in a row, I have spent more hours than I wish to sitting in a chair, waiting for call to be over. Technically, it was cue-to-cue today, but they spent so much time on the actors that they might as well of called it rehersal. Fah. It was BORING, and they did not need us.

Okay, posterity placated.

2008-11-19T00:39:00.001-05:00

I'm too tired to update. Argh!

Sometimes It's hard.

2008-11-16T23:41:00.002-05:00

It's hard to update frequently when you're computer breaks down for most of a week and then you have a twelve hour crew call. You get too tired to write. I shall try to finish a post of been writing soon, but the words only come out of my head when i am lying in bed at night, trying to fall asleep.

Yeuh, Yeuh, Yeuh.

2008-11-11T18:42:00.003-05:00

On any average day, I find our anthem to be a rather dull and tiresome piece of patriotism. Even on Dominion Day, which has since been converted into the generic, banal Canada Day it bores me, and I find dismissing the whole day as irrelevant. Only on Armistice Day does that change. On that day, I find pride in its song, I tear up at its tune. At today's ceremony at Humber, a brief ten minute affair held in one of the cafeterias, I was struck by how few people were wearing poppies. A remnant of remnant had them on, and there was only a few people who were even apologetic for not wearing one. When I inquired as to why the auditorium wasn't in use (It can seat many persons), I was informed that it was because the music department had a class in there.

I was disgusted, horrified to hear such a pathetic reason. Who cares about the music department? They can't practice elsewhere for one single day? Hell, why were they even having a class? All class should have been cancelled. This used to be important.

No more, I guess. What have we become?

To show us where she stood there rests alone Tiber; and that too hastens to be gone.

2008-11-10T14:55:00.002-05:00

It is far past time for me to accept the coming of the European Union. I have of late been reading Gwynne Dyer's book "With Every Mistake", and it has convinced me that, however much I desire to ignore it's existence, I have to come to terms with the EU. The Europe of my past, that hopelessly over-romanticized collection of warring states will not come again. There is too much desire for unity, too much need to forget the conflicts of old. And lets face it, modern European states have failed to emerge as decent places. France, for example, had to misfortune to be the home of Charles DuGalle, who left his people an inability to realize that their global empire failed with an almost insufferable arrogance. Great Britain, which could have recognized the potential of it's Commonwealth and created a world-wide federation the likes of which the world had never seen... chose instead to turn it's back on it's creation. It bred a bloated, ignorant middle class instead, and still clings to it's xenophic colonial racism. What a waste. I accepted long ago that Rome would never rise again. It's heirs were squabbling fools and the ponderous bulk of Byzantium did nothing more than grow small year by year for a mellenium. The EU is not Rome's succesor, it has no desire or comprehension of the necessary imperium, nor does it require it. Whether it suceeds or fails depends it's people. If they can accept that they are part of something larger, if they can learn to not to say " I am a German" or "I am Italian" but "Civis Europa Sum"; then sixteen centuries of bitter fighting will have been rocked to sleep. If they can achieve the unity that has so long been denied to them, then the lessons of the past will have been learned.

Shall we ever find that lovely land of Might-Have-Been

2008-11-09T17:15:00.003-05:00

I loathe this city, and it's festering streets of noise. Toronto is slowly destroying my will to live. It's the location of my residence, a concrete monstrosity fit only for demolition. It's halls are filled with the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the forward and the vain, making their usual uproar. they drink to excess and stumble through the corridors shouting and ranting their drunken pleasures. The disease is not the residence, no, this is but a symptom of the disease that is Toronto. The impartial, uncaring nature of this city is reflected in the detached nature of the residence. Cold, heartless concrete, bored and useless staff, a total failure to provide anything for it's inhabitants. A hateful place.

Video Game Morality

2008-11-08T20:11:00.002-05:00

There's an odd dichotomy when it comes to "ethical" decisions in a video game. Tot those in the know, we've all been extremely violent towards pixels that resemble our fellow humans. We've fought zombie hordes, we've assassinated merchants and guard captains and hit people in our vehicles, either accidentally or on purpose. And having done these things, we've felt about as guilty as if we had just stapled some papers together, or closed the blinds. And yet I have loudly denounced hunting games as evil, and would only ever play the clay pigeon levels of Duck Hunt. TV Tropes, a website which should be everyone's first reference for anything of value, has named the cliche of a villain proving his true evil nature by inuring an animal a "Kick The Dog" moment. There's something about injuring an animal in a game that is reprehensible, while recreating the battle of Themopyle if fun and exciting. I'd write more, but I've gotten addicted to TV Tropes again.

Trashing Motzart is classy

2008-11-08T17:55:00.001-05:00

We tend, for whatever reason, to neglect other Requiems in favour of Mozart's overly bombastic last triumph. Keep in mind that Mozart completed barely a third of this piece before his passing, so the credits that go to him for it are empty.

For your musical delectation, I provide the Agnus Dei from Gabriel Fauré's Requiem, Opus 48.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RSMcgQfM9E

Going among the mad.

2008-11-08T16:26:00.000-05:00

It has been said that I should start a blog, merely because people are tired of having to listen to me in person. If I ramble incoherently to the endless abyss of cyberspace, then I can have the satisfaction of having said something without the virtue of affecting anyone by it. Now, normally I would be loathe to do something that all the kids are doing nowadays, but when your own father starts a blog, you realize that you may, in point of fact, be even further behind the times then you had previously assumed. Since Blogger helpfully points out I created this account last year, this idea had no doubt occurred to me previously.

Nietzsche warned of the perils of gazing into the abyss, but what if we shout into it? What if we fill it with words? Humans do abhor empty space. What if we try to fill the internet up? With something other than pornography, I mean. If that a worthy goal, in this secular age?