Jon Schmidt's less famous but no less awesome oft-collaborator Steven Sharp Nelson duels himself in a cello battle. What more need I say?
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Journal of a Mad Yak Slayer Part 3
I was in a state of disarray. I knew that I looked like heck and I didn't care. The rain hammered on the diner windows with a relentless clatter, only serving to exacerbate my already grey mood.
"Cheer up little camper!" said Jeff with a smile, clapping me on the shoulder. I glared balefully at him. We had come to have a cup of coffee and commiserate, partly because it was excellent weather for that sort of thing, and partially because Jeff's dad had died just the past week and my wife had left me. The only problem with our plan was that Jeff didn't quite understand the 'co' in commiserate.
I sat up. "Jeff, how can I cheer up? Madeline and I were together for over eighteen years." Even as I mentioned her, my hands started shaking.
He sighed, "I don't know what to tell you, buddy. What I do know is that it seemed like the two of you were on the rocks ever since you took that trip to Disneyland."
I frowned. Disneyland? What was he talking about...?
Suddenly a memory surfaced in my brain. A memory of pain, of torture, of terrible secrets, of the rise of a New World Order hidden underneath the all too clever facade of a family-friendly corporation. Disneyland. I had barely escaped from there with my life, let alone my soul...
"They're coming for me," I whispered in horror. I had to get out of there.
"Hold that thought," said Jeff distractedly, breaking my concentration.
I blinked. What had I been talking about? I felt like I had just remembered something vitally important only to forget it again. I shrugged off the feeling and instead focused on Jeff who was examining his watch with tremendous intent.
"What are you doing?" I said, wondering not for the first time why I hung out with him.
Jeff's eyes snapped up to lock with mine. "You need to come with me," he said, rising from his seat.
"What? What are you going on about?" I said with a frown as I also rose.
"No time to explain. There's a lot at stake," he said, glancing out the window nervously, as though something could burst through at any moment. I was shocked to notice that a gun had materialized in his hand. Before I could inquire as to where it had come from, he motioned for me to follow and then absconded out the front door. Against my better judgement, I followed.
The rain was even worse outside. I was thoroughly soaked in less time than it took to write this sentence. I ran after Jeff as he disappeared into a back alley. When I turned the corner, he was fiddling with his watch again. At last he seemed satisfied and he looked up at me.
"Stand over here," he said, gesturing for me to step closer.
"What's going on? I'm not taking one step closer until you tell me." I said, refusing to move. He stared at me, then shrugged.
"Suit yourself," he said, tapping his watch.
In a bright flash of light, I felt the sudden and unmistakable feeling of being tossed across the yawning gulfs of time and space. I didn't have time to protest before the journey came to a halt and I found myself sliding across the smooth tiled floor of an immense, immaculately white room.
After the wall had brought me to a sudden halt, I rose, rubbing my shoulder. Jeff was standing not ten feet away, still examining his watch. I was going to ask him just what had happened when another figure caught my attention. My jaw dropped. It couldn't be.
"David Bowie?" I mouthed. It was him.
"Once perhaps," acknowledged the Bowie, "Here most know me as Ziggy Stardust. Welcome to the Parliament of Bowies, traveller."
I didn't know what to say. Words had failed me for what seemed the first time in my life. Jeff walked closer. "Allow me to explain," he said, offering me a helping hand, "I have not been entirely truthful with you. I am, and have always been, an agent of a higher power, a power dedicated to serving and protecting the multiverse."
I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. "You see," he went on, "throughout the multiverse, there is only one constant, and that constant is the entity known as David Bowie. All of the Bowies took it upon themselves to use their godlike power for the greater good, and formed a grand council."
He gestured to surroundings. As I took it all in, I realized there was no other way to describe it but grand. There were numerous artworks and grand stairwells rising into infinity, and endless doors scattered across every inch of the room. Everywhere there were Bowies, hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of them. Ziggy Stardust Bowie had seemingly lost interest and wandered over to observe a trio of other Bowies who seemed deeply absorbed in some kind of game. Jeff and I followed.
"How was that?" queried one particularly pale Bowie, dressed in a sharp suit as he finished a series of pantomimes.
"That wasn't a very good Bowie impression, Thin White Duke," murmured another Bowie, a bit older than the rest.
"Hmm, I suppose you are right," mused the pale Bowie, "However, I thought I really captured the nuances of myself."
"I think that perhaps you were trying too hard," barked another vividly redheaded Bowie in a guttural accent.
"Agreed, Scottish David Bowie" admonished the Thin White Duke, "Yet in trying too hard to be myself...did I really find myself?"
All of the Bowies murmured their agreement. It was then that the older Bowie saw me. He walked over and extended his hand. "Hello," he said, "I am Neo-Classical Bowie, the Bowie of your own universe. We have much to talk about, you and I."
Before I could say anything, he continued, "Allow me to explain why Agent Jeff brought you here. We have a peculiar problem, a problem to which you alone have the answer." He gestured at the thin air, where a glowing screen instantly manifested. Upon the screen was a whirling, twirling cascade of silver bolts, blue and green lights, and vermillion bursts. It was blinding.
"There is the threat which we face," said Neo-Classical Bowie.
"What is that threat?" I said after a minute of contemplative silence from all the Bowies.
"Space Canada," the Bowie whispered.
"Space Canada?" I repeated, unsure of what I had heard.
"Yes," said the Bowie absently, "Everyone has heard of the United States and the Soviet Union's space programs. What no one has ever heard of is Canada's much more eclectic and ultimately much more successful attempts to colonize the chilling void between the stars. And now they have returned."
"Aye," growled Scottish Bowie, "They come in their coal-fired Space Dreadnoughts, with their legions of genetically engineered lumberjacks and elite Sasquatch brigades. They are lead by a man, a man whose very blood runs like maple syrup and whose beard is like steel wool. Aye, we know him as Space Minister Mackenzie. Before him, Earth has nary a chance."
"And that," said Neo-Classical Bowie, laying a hand upon my shoulder, "is why we need you. For Space Minister Mackenzie's full name is," he paused for dramatic effect, "Jeff Mackenzie."
I was staggered. I looked around at all of the Bowies who were solemnly watching as if the fate of all things rested upon this single instant.
"So," said Neo-Classical Bowie, drawing my attention back to him, "I have only one question. Will you save the universe?"
To be Continued in Part II of...
SPACE CANADA ATTACKS, EH?!?
Also, to help things make sense, here is Part 1 and Part 2.
"Cheer up little camper!" said Jeff with a smile, clapping me on the shoulder. I glared balefully at him. We had come to have a cup of coffee and commiserate, partly because it was excellent weather for that sort of thing, and partially because Jeff's dad had died just the past week and my wife had left me. The only problem with our plan was that Jeff didn't quite understand the 'co' in commiserate.
I sat up. "Jeff, how can I cheer up? Madeline and I were together for over eighteen years." Even as I mentioned her, my hands started shaking.
He sighed, "I don't know what to tell you, buddy. What I do know is that it seemed like the two of you were on the rocks ever since you took that trip to Disneyland."
I frowned. Disneyland? What was he talking about...?
Suddenly a memory surfaced in my brain. A memory of pain, of torture, of terrible secrets, of the rise of a New World Order hidden underneath the all too clever facade of a family-friendly corporation. Disneyland. I had barely escaped from there with my life, let alone my soul...
"They're coming for me," I whispered in horror. I had to get out of there.
"Hold that thought," said Jeff distractedly, breaking my concentration.
I blinked. What had I been talking about? I felt like I had just remembered something vitally important only to forget it again. I shrugged off the feeling and instead focused on Jeff who was examining his watch with tremendous intent.
"What are you doing?" I said, wondering not for the first time why I hung out with him.
Jeff's eyes snapped up to lock with mine. "You need to come with me," he said, rising from his seat.
"What? What are you going on about?" I said with a frown as I also rose.
"No time to explain. There's a lot at stake," he said, glancing out the window nervously, as though something could burst through at any moment. I was shocked to notice that a gun had materialized in his hand. Before I could inquire as to where it had come from, he motioned for me to follow and then absconded out the front door. Against my better judgement, I followed.
The rain was even worse outside. I was thoroughly soaked in less time than it took to write this sentence. I ran after Jeff as he disappeared into a back alley. When I turned the corner, he was fiddling with his watch again. At last he seemed satisfied and he looked up at me.
"Stand over here," he said, gesturing for me to step closer.
"What's going on? I'm not taking one step closer until you tell me." I said, refusing to move. He stared at me, then shrugged.
"Suit yourself," he said, tapping his watch.
In a bright flash of light, I felt the sudden and unmistakable feeling of being tossed across the yawning gulfs of time and space. I didn't have time to protest before the journey came to a halt and I found myself sliding across the smooth tiled floor of an immense, immaculately white room.
After the wall had brought me to a sudden halt, I rose, rubbing my shoulder. Jeff was standing not ten feet away, still examining his watch. I was going to ask him just what had happened when another figure caught my attention. My jaw dropped. It couldn't be.
"David Bowie?" I mouthed. It was him.
"Once perhaps," acknowledged the Bowie, "Here most know me as Ziggy Stardust. Welcome to the Parliament of Bowies, traveller."
I didn't know what to say. Words had failed me for what seemed the first time in my life. Jeff walked closer. "Allow me to explain," he said, offering me a helping hand, "I have not been entirely truthful with you. I am, and have always been, an agent of a higher power, a power dedicated to serving and protecting the multiverse."
I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. "You see," he went on, "throughout the multiverse, there is only one constant, and that constant is the entity known as David Bowie. All of the Bowies took it upon themselves to use their godlike power for the greater good, and formed a grand council."
He gestured to surroundings. As I took it all in, I realized there was no other way to describe it but grand. There were numerous artworks and grand stairwells rising into infinity, and endless doors scattered across every inch of the room. Everywhere there were Bowies, hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of them. Ziggy Stardust Bowie had seemingly lost interest and wandered over to observe a trio of other Bowies who seemed deeply absorbed in some kind of game. Jeff and I followed.
"How was that?" queried one particularly pale Bowie, dressed in a sharp suit as he finished a series of pantomimes.
"That wasn't a very good Bowie impression, Thin White Duke," murmured another Bowie, a bit older than the rest.
"Hmm, I suppose you are right," mused the pale Bowie, "However, I thought I really captured the nuances of myself."
"I think that perhaps you were trying too hard," barked another vividly redheaded Bowie in a guttural accent.
"Agreed, Scottish David Bowie" admonished the Thin White Duke, "Yet in trying too hard to be myself...did I really find myself?"
All of the Bowies murmured their agreement. It was then that the older Bowie saw me. He walked over and extended his hand. "Hello," he said, "I am Neo-Classical Bowie, the Bowie of your own universe. We have much to talk about, you and I."
Before I could say anything, he continued, "Allow me to explain why Agent Jeff brought you here. We have a peculiar problem, a problem to which you alone have the answer." He gestured at the thin air, where a glowing screen instantly manifested. Upon the screen was a whirling, twirling cascade of silver bolts, blue and green lights, and vermillion bursts. It was blinding.
"There is the threat which we face," said Neo-Classical Bowie.
"What is that threat?" I said after a minute of contemplative silence from all the Bowies.
"Space Canada," the Bowie whispered.
"Space Canada?" I repeated, unsure of what I had heard.
"Yes," said the Bowie absently, "Everyone has heard of the United States and the Soviet Union's space programs. What no one has ever heard of is Canada's much more eclectic and ultimately much more successful attempts to colonize the chilling void between the stars. And now they have returned."
"Aye," growled Scottish Bowie, "They come in their coal-fired Space Dreadnoughts, with their legions of genetically engineered lumberjacks and elite Sasquatch brigades. They are lead by a man, a man whose very blood runs like maple syrup and whose beard is like steel wool. Aye, we know him as Space Minister Mackenzie. Before him, Earth has nary a chance."
"And that," said Neo-Classical Bowie, laying a hand upon my shoulder, "is why we need you. For Space Minister Mackenzie's full name is," he paused for dramatic effect, "Jeff Mackenzie."
I was staggered. I looked around at all of the Bowies who were solemnly watching as if the fate of all things rested upon this single instant.
"So," said Neo-Classical Bowie, drawing my attention back to him, "I have only one question. Will you save the universe?"
To be Continued in Part II of...
SPACE CANADA ATTACKS, EH?!?
Also, to help things make sense, here is Part 1 and Part 2.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Best Ghost Story
Over the past twenty years, Christmas has aggressively expanded past its original boundaries. Once it was a single day. Then it became twelve. And then twenty-five. Now it encompasses all of December, most of November, and part of July too. That's well over a sixth of the year.
As a result, celebrating Christmas is now a feat of endurance, both mentally and physically. Thank goodness for Halloween, that breather holiday that serves as a nice spot to rest and relax before plunging into the abyss of autotuned renditions of beloved Christmas songs and endless reruns of Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.
So in celebration of Halloween, here is a ghost story written by John Kendrick Bangs.
Here even the words froze on the water ghost's lips and the clock struck one. There was a momentary tremor throughout the ice-bound form, and the moon, coming out from behind a cloud, shone down on the rigid figure of a beautiful woman sculptured in clear, transparent ice.
There stood the ghost of Harrowby Hall, conquered by the cold, a prisoner for all time.
The heir of Harrowby had won at last, and today in a large storage house in London stands the frigid form of one who will never again flood the house of Oglethorpe with woe and seawater.
As for the heir of Harrowby, his success in coping with a ghost has made him famous, a fame that still lingers about him, although his victory took place some twenty years ago; and so far from being unpopular with the fair sex, as he was when we first knew him, he has not only been married twice, but is to lead a third bride to the altar before the year is out.
As a result, celebrating Christmas is now a feat of endurance, both mentally and physically. Thank goodness for Halloween, that breather holiday that serves as a nice spot to rest and relax before plunging into the abyss of autotuned renditions of beloved Christmas songs and endless reruns of Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.
So in celebration of Halloween, here is a ghost story written by John Kendrick Bangs.
The Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall
The trouble with Harrowby Hall was that it was haunted, what was worse, the ghost did not content itself with merely appearing at the bedside of the afflicted person who saw it, but persisted in remaining there for one mortal hour before it would disappear.
It never appeared except on Christmas eve, and then as the clock was striking twelve, in which respect alone was it lacking in that originality which in these days is a sine qua non of success in spectral life. The owners of Harrowby Hall had done their utmost to rid themselves of the damp and dewy lady who rose up out of the best bedroom floor at midnight, but without avail. They had tried stopping the clock, so that the ghost would not know when it was midnight; but she made her appearance just the same, with that fearful miasmatic personality of hers, and there she would stand until everything about her was thoroughly saturated.
Then the owners of Harrowby Hall calked up every crack in the floor with the very best quality of hemp, and over this were placed layers of tar and canvas; the walls were made waterproof, and the doors and windows likewise, the proprietors having conceived the notion that the unexorcised lady would find it difficult to leak into the room after these precautions had been taken; but even this did not suffice. The following Christmas eve she appeared as promptly as before, and frightened the occupant of the room quite out of his senses by sitting down alongside of him and gazing with her cavernous blue eyes into his; and he noticed, too, that in her long, aqueously bony fingers bits of dripping seaweed were entwined, the ends hanging down, and these ends she drew across his forehead until he became like one insane. And then he swooned away, and was found unconscious in his bed the next morning by his host, simply saturated with seawater and fright, from the combined effects of which he never recovered, dying four years later of pneumonia and nervous prostration at the age of seventy-eight.
The next year the master of Harrowby Hall decided not to have the best spare bedroom opened at all, thinking that perhaps the ghost's thirst for making herself disagreeable would be satisfied by haunting the furniture, but the plan was as unavailing as the many that had preceded it.
It never appeared except on Christmas eve, and then as the clock was striking twelve, in which respect alone was it lacking in that originality which in these days is a sine qua non of success in spectral life. The owners of Harrowby Hall had done their utmost to rid themselves of the damp and dewy lady who rose up out of the best bedroom floor at midnight, but without avail. They had tried stopping the clock, so that the ghost would not know when it was midnight; but she made her appearance just the same, with that fearful miasmatic personality of hers, and there she would stand until everything about her was thoroughly saturated.
Then the owners of Harrowby Hall calked up every crack in the floor with the very best quality of hemp, and over this were placed layers of tar and canvas; the walls were made waterproof, and the doors and windows likewise, the proprietors having conceived the notion that the unexorcised lady would find it difficult to leak into the room after these precautions had been taken; but even this did not suffice. The following Christmas eve she appeared as promptly as before, and frightened the occupant of the room quite out of his senses by sitting down alongside of him and gazing with her cavernous blue eyes into his; and he noticed, too, that in her long, aqueously bony fingers bits of dripping seaweed were entwined, the ends hanging down, and these ends she drew across his forehead until he became like one insane. And then he swooned away, and was found unconscious in his bed the next morning by his host, simply saturated with seawater and fright, from the combined effects of which he never recovered, dying four years later of pneumonia and nervous prostration at the age of seventy-eight.
The next year the master of Harrowby Hall decided not to have the best spare bedroom opened at all, thinking that perhaps the ghost's thirst for making herself disagreeable would be satisfied by haunting the furniture, but the plan was as unavailing as the many that had preceded it.
The ghost appeared as usual in the room -- that is, it was supposed she did, for the hangings were dripping wet the next morning, and in the parlor below the haunted room a great damp spot appeared on the ceiling. Finding no one there, she immediately set out to learn the reason why, and she chose none other to haunt than the owner of the Harrowby himself. She found him in his own cozy room drinking whiskey -- whiskey undiluted -- and felicitating himself upon having foiled her ghostship, when all of a sudden the curl went out of his hair, his whiskey bottle filled and overflowed, and he was himself in a condition similar to that of a man who has fallen into a water-butt. When he recovered from the shock, which was a painful one, he saw before him the lady of the cavernous eyes and seaweed fingers. The sight was so unexpected and so terrifying that he fainted, but immediately came to, because of the vast amount of water in his hair, which, trickling down over his face, restored his consciousness.
Now it so happened that the master of Harrowby was a brave man, and while he was not particularly fond of interviewing ghosts, especially such quenching ghosts as the one before him, he was not to be daunted by an apparition. He had paid the lady the compliment of fainting from the effects of his first surprise, and now that he had come to he intended to find out a few things he felt he had a right to know. He would have liked to put on a dry suit of clothes first, but the apparition declined to leave him for an instant until her hour was up, and he was forced to deny himself that pleasure. Every time he would move she would follow him, with the result that everything she came in contact with got a ducking. In an effort to warm himself up he approached the fire, an unfortunate move as it turned out, because it brought the ghost directly over the fire, which immediately was extinguished. The whiskey became utterly valueless as a comforter to his chilled system, because it was by this time diluted to a proportion of ninety percent of water. The only thing he could do to ward off the evil effects of his encounter he did, and that was to swallow ten two-grain quinine pills, which he managed to put into his mouth before the ghost had time to interfere. Having done this, he turned with some asperity to the ghost, and said:
Now it so happened that the master of Harrowby was a brave man, and while he was not particularly fond of interviewing ghosts, especially such quenching ghosts as the one before him, he was not to be daunted by an apparition. He had paid the lady the compliment of fainting from the effects of his first surprise, and now that he had come to he intended to find out a few things he felt he had a right to know. He would have liked to put on a dry suit of clothes first, but the apparition declined to leave him for an instant until her hour was up, and he was forced to deny himself that pleasure. Every time he would move she would follow him, with the result that everything she came in contact with got a ducking. In an effort to warm himself up he approached the fire, an unfortunate move as it turned out, because it brought the ghost directly over the fire, which immediately was extinguished. The whiskey became utterly valueless as a comforter to his chilled system, because it was by this time diluted to a proportion of ninety percent of water. The only thing he could do to ward off the evil effects of his encounter he did, and that was to swallow ten two-grain quinine pills, which he managed to put into his mouth before the ghost had time to interfere. Having done this, he turned with some asperity to the ghost, and said:
"Far be it from me to be impolite to a woman, madam, but I'm hanged if it wouldn't please me better if you'd stop these infernal visits of yours to this house. Go sit out on the lake, if you like that sort of thing; soak the water-butt, if you wish; but do not, I implore you, come into a gentleman's house and saturate him and his possessions in this way. It is damned disagreeable."
"Henry Hartwick Oglethorpe," said the ghost, in a gurgling voice, "you don't know what you are talking about."
"Madam," returned the unhappy householder, "I wish that remark were strictly truthful. I was talking about you. It would be shillings and pence -- nay, pounds, in my pocket, madam, if I did not know you."
"That is a bit of specious nonsense," returned the ghost, throwing a quart of indignation into the face of the master of Harrowby. "It may rank high as repartee, but as a comment upon my statement that you do not know what you are talking about, it savors of irrelevant impertinence.
You do not know that I am compelled to haunt this place year after year by inexorable fate. It is no pleasure to me to enter this house, and ruin and mildew everything I touch. I never aspired to be a shower-bath, but it is my doom. Do you know who I am?"
"No, I don't," returned the master of Harrowby. "I should say you were the Lady of the Lake, or Little Sallie Waters."
"You are a witty man for your years," said the ghost.
"Well, my humor is drier than yours ever will be," returned the master.
"No doubt. I'm never dry. I am the Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall, and dryness is a quality entirely beyond my wildest hope. I have been the incumbent of this highly unpleasant office for two hundred years tonight."
"Henry Hartwick Oglethorpe," said the ghost, in a gurgling voice, "you don't know what you are talking about."
"Madam," returned the unhappy householder, "I wish that remark were strictly truthful. I was talking about you. It would be shillings and pence -- nay, pounds, in my pocket, madam, if I did not know you."
"That is a bit of specious nonsense," returned the ghost, throwing a quart of indignation into the face of the master of Harrowby. "It may rank high as repartee, but as a comment upon my statement that you do not know what you are talking about, it savors of irrelevant impertinence.
You do not know that I am compelled to haunt this place year after year by inexorable fate. It is no pleasure to me to enter this house, and ruin and mildew everything I touch. I never aspired to be a shower-bath, but it is my doom. Do you know who I am?"
"No, I don't," returned the master of Harrowby. "I should say you were the Lady of the Lake, or Little Sallie Waters."
"You are a witty man for your years," said the ghost.
"Well, my humor is drier than yours ever will be," returned the master.
"No doubt. I'm never dry. I am the Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall, and dryness is a quality entirely beyond my wildest hope. I have been the incumbent of this highly unpleasant office for two hundred years tonight."
"How the deuce did you ever come to get elected?" asked the master.
"Through a suicide," replied the specter. "I am the ghost of that fair maiden whose picture hangs over the mantelpiece in the drawing room. I should have been your great-great-great-great-great-aunt if I had lived, Henry Hartwick Oglethorpe, for I was the own sister of your great-great-great-great-grandfather."
"But what induced you to get this house into such a predicament?"
"I was not to blame, sir," returned the lady. "It was my father's fault. He it was who built Harrowby Hall, and the haunted chamber was to have been mine. My father had it furnished in pink and yellow, knowing well that blue and gray formed the only combination of color I could tolerate. He did it merely to spite me, and, with what I deem a proper spirit, I declined to live in the room; whereupon my father said I could live there or on the lawn, he didn't care which. That night I ran from the house and jumped over the cliff into the sea."
"That was rash," said the master of Harrowby.
"So I've heard," returned the ghost. "If I had known what the consequences were to be I should not have jumped; but I really never realized what I was doing until after I was drowned. I had been drowned a week when a sea nymph came to me and informed me that I was to be one of her followers forever afterwards, adding that it should be my doom to haunt Harrowby Hall for one hour every Christmas eve throughout the rest of eternity. I was to haunt that room on such Christmas eves as I found it inhabited; and if it should turn out not to be inhabited, I was and am to spend the allotted hour with the head of the house."
"I'll sell the place."
"That you cannot do, for it is also required of me that I shall appear as the deeds are to be delivered to any purchaser, and divulge to him the awful secret of the house."
"Through a suicide," replied the specter. "I am the ghost of that fair maiden whose picture hangs over the mantelpiece in the drawing room. I should have been your great-great-great-great-great-aunt if I had lived, Henry Hartwick Oglethorpe, for I was the own sister of your great-great-great-great-grandfather."
"But what induced you to get this house into such a predicament?"
"I was not to blame, sir," returned the lady. "It was my father's fault. He it was who built Harrowby Hall, and the haunted chamber was to have been mine. My father had it furnished in pink and yellow, knowing well that blue and gray formed the only combination of color I could tolerate. He did it merely to spite me, and, with what I deem a proper spirit, I declined to live in the room; whereupon my father said I could live there or on the lawn, he didn't care which. That night I ran from the house and jumped over the cliff into the sea."
"That was rash," said the master of Harrowby.
"So I've heard," returned the ghost. "If I had known what the consequences were to be I should not have jumped; but I really never realized what I was doing until after I was drowned. I had been drowned a week when a sea nymph came to me and informed me that I was to be one of her followers forever afterwards, adding that it should be my doom to haunt Harrowby Hall for one hour every Christmas eve throughout the rest of eternity. I was to haunt that room on such Christmas eves as I found it inhabited; and if it should turn out not to be inhabited, I was and am to spend the allotted hour with the head of the house."
"I'll sell the place."
"That you cannot do, for it is also required of me that I shall appear as the deeds are to be delivered to any purchaser, and divulge to him the awful secret of the house."
"Do you mean to tell me that on every Christmas eve that I don't happen to have somebody in that guest chamber, you are going to haunt me wherever I may be, ruining my whiskey, taking all the curl out of my hair, extinguishing my fire, and soaking me through to the skin?" demanded the master.
"You have stated the case, Oglethorpe. And what is more," said the water ghost, "it doesn't make the slightest difference where you are, if I find that room empty, wherever you may be I shall douse you with my spectral pres--"
Here the clock struck one, and immediately the apparition faded away. It was perhaps more of a trickle than a fade, but as a disappearance it was complete.
"By St. George and his Dragon!" ejaculated the master of Harrowby, wringing his hands. "It is guineas to hot-cross buns that next Christmas there's an occupant of the spare room, or I spend the night in a bathtub."
But the master of Harrowby would have lost his wager had there been any one there to take him up, for when Christmas eve came again he was in his grave, never having recovered from the cold contracted that awful night. Harrowby Hall was closed, and the heir to the estate was in London, where to him in his chambers came the same experience that his father had gone through, saving only that, being younger and stronger, he survived the shock. Everything in his rooms was ruined -- his clocks were rusted in the works; a fine collection of watercolor drawings was entirely obliterated by the onslaught of the water ghost; and what was worse, the apartments below his were drenched with the water soaking through the floors, a damage for which he was compelled to pay, and which resulted in his being requested by his landlady to vacate the premises immediately.
The story of the visitation inflicted upon his family had gone abroad, and no one could be got to invite him out to any function save afternoon teas and receptions. Fathers of daughters declined to permit him to remain in their houses later than eight o clock at night, not knowing but that some emergency might arise in the supernatural world which would require the unexpected appearance of the water ghost in this on nights other than Christmas eve, and before the mystic hour when weary churchyards, ignoring the rules which are supposed to govern polite society, begin to yawn. Nor would the maids themselves have aught to do with him, fearing the destruction by the sudden incursion of aqueous femininity of the costumes which they held most dear.
"You have stated the case, Oglethorpe. And what is more," said the water ghost, "it doesn't make the slightest difference where you are, if I find that room empty, wherever you may be I shall douse you with my spectral pres--"
Here the clock struck one, and immediately the apparition faded away. It was perhaps more of a trickle than a fade, but as a disappearance it was complete.
"By St. George and his Dragon!" ejaculated the master of Harrowby, wringing his hands. "It is guineas to hot-cross buns that next Christmas there's an occupant of the spare room, or I spend the night in a bathtub."
But the master of Harrowby would have lost his wager had there been any one there to take him up, for when Christmas eve came again he was in his grave, never having recovered from the cold contracted that awful night. Harrowby Hall was closed, and the heir to the estate was in London, where to him in his chambers came the same experience that his father had gone through, saving only that, being younger and stronger, he survived the shock. Everything in his rooms was ruined -- his clocks were rusted in the works; a fine collection of watercolor drawings was entirely obliterated by the onslaught of the water ghost; and what was worse, the apartments below his were drenched with the water soaking through the floors, a damage for which he was compelled to pay, and which resulted in his being requested by his landlady to vacate the premises immediately.
The story of the visitation inflicted upon his family had gone abroad, and no one could be got to invite him out to any function save afternoon teas and receptions. Fathers of daughters declined to permit him to remain in their houses later than eight o clock at night, not knowing but that some emergency might arise in the supernatural world which would require the unexpected appearance of the water ghost in this on nights other than Christmas eve, and before the mystic hour when weary churchyards, ignoring the rules which are supposed to govern polite society, begin to yawn. Nor would the maids themselves have aught to do with him, fearing the destruction by the sudden incursion of aqueous femininity of the costumes which they held most dear.
So the heir of Harrowby Hall resolved, as his ancestors for several generations before him had resolved, that something must be done. His first thought was to make one of his servants occupy the haunted room at the crucial moment; but in this he tailed, because the servants themselves knew the history of that room and rebelled. None of his friends would consent to sacrifice their personal comfort to his, nor was there to be found in all England a man so poor as to be willing to occupy the doomed chamber on Christmas eve for pay.
Then the thought came to the heir to have the fireplace in the room enlarged, so that he might evaporate the ghost at its first appearance, and he was felicitating himself upon the ingenuity of his plan, when he remembered what his father had told him -- how that no fire could withstand the lady's extremely contagious dampness. And then he bethought him of steam-pipes. These, he remembered, could lie hundreds of feet deep in water, and still retain sufficient heat to drive the water away in vapor; and as a result of this thought the haunted room was heated by steam to a withering degree, and the heir for six months attended daily the Turkish baths, so that when Christmas eve came he could himself withstand the awful temperature of the room.
The scheme was only partially successful. The water ghost appeared at the specified time, and found the heir of Harrowby prepared; but hot as the room was, it shortened her visit by no more than five minutes in the hour, during which time the nervous system of the young master was wellnigh shattered, and the room itself was cracked and warped to an extent which required the outlay of a large sum of money to remedy. And worse than this, as the last drop of the water ghost was slowly sizzling itself out on the floor, she whispered to her would-be conqueror that his scheme would avail him nothing, because there was still water in great plenty where she came from, and that next year would find her rehabilitated and as exasperatingly saturating as ever.
Then the thought came to the heir to have the fireplace in the room enlarged, so that he might evaporate the ghost at its first appearance, and he was felicitating himself upon the ingenuity of his plan, when he remembered what his father had told him -- how that no fire could withstand the lady's extremely contagious dampness. And then he bethought him of steam-pipes. These, he remembered, could lie hundreds of feet deep in water, and still retain sufficient heat to drive the water away in vapor; and as a result of this thought the haunted room was heated by steam to a withering degree, and the heir for six months attended daily the Turkish baths, so that when Christmas eve came he could himself withstand the awful temperature of the room.
The scheme was only partially successful. The water ghost appeared at the specified time, and found the heir of Harrowby prepared; but hot as the room was, it shortened her visit by no more than five minutes in the hour, during which time the nervous system of the young master was wellnigh shattered, and the room itself was cracked and warped to an extent which required the outlay of a large sum of money to remedy. And worse than this, as the last drop of the water ghost was slowly sizzling itself out on the floor, she whispered to her would-be conqueror that his scheme would avail him nothing, because there was still water in great plenty where she came from, and that next year would find her rehabilitated and as exasperatingly saturating as ever.
It was then that the natural action of the mind, in going from one extreme to the other, suggested to the ingenious heir of Harrowby the means by which the water ghost was ultimately conquered, and happiness once more came within the grasp of the house of Oglethorpe.
The heir provided himself with a warm suit of fur underclothing. Donning this with the furry side in, he placed over it a rubber garment, tightfitting, which he wore just as a woman wears a jersey. On top of this he placed another set of underclothing, this suit made of wool, and over this was a second rubber garment like the first. Upon his head he placed a light and comfortable diving helmet, and so clad, on the following Christmas eve he awaited the coming of his tormentor.
It was a bitterly cold night that brought to a close this twenty-fourth day of December. The air outside was still, but the temperature was below zero. Within all was quiet, the servants of Harrowby Hall awaiting with beating hearts the outcome of their master's campaign against his supernatural visitor.
The master himself was lying on the bed in the haunted room, clad as has already been indicated, and then -- the clock clanged out the hour of twelve.
There was a sudden banging of doors, a blast of cold air swept through the halls, the door leading into the haunted chamber flew open, a splash was heard, and the water ghost was seen standing at the side of the heir of Harrowby, from whose outer dress there streamed rivulets of water, but whose own person deep down under the various garments he wore was as dry and as warm as he could have wished.
"Ha!" said the young master of Harrowby. "I'm glad to see you."
"You are the most original man I've met, if that is true," returned the ghost. "May I ask where did you get that hat?"
The heir provided himself with a warm suit of fur underclothing. Donning this with the furry side in, he placed over it a rubber garment, tightfitting, which he wore just as a woman wears a jersey. On top of this he placed another set of underclothing, this suit made of wool, and over this was a second rubber garment like the first. Upon his head he placed a light and comfortable diving helmet, and so clad, on the following Christmas eve he awaited the coming of his tormentor.
It was a bitterly cold night that brought to a close this twenty-fourth day of December. The air outside was still, but the temperature was below zero. Within all was quiet, the servants of Harrowby Hall awaiting with beating hearts the outcome of their master's campaign against his supernatural visitor.
The master himself was lying on the bed in the haunted room, clad as has already been indicated, and then -- the clock clanged out the hour of twelve.
There was a sudden banging of doors, a blast of cold air swept through the halls, the door leading into the haunted chamber flew open, a splash was heard, and the water ghost was seen standing at the side of the heir of Harrowby, from whose outer dress there streamed rivulets of water, but whose own person deep down under the various garments he wore was as dry and as warm as he could have wished.
"Ha!" said the young master of Harrowby. "I'm glad to see you."
"You are the most original man I've met, if that is true," returned the ghost. "May I ask where did you get that hat?"
"Certainly, madam," returned the master, courteously. "It is a little portable observatory I had made for just such emergencies as this. But, tell me, is it true that you are doomed to follow me about for one mortal hour -- to stand where I stand, to sit where I sit?"
"That is my delectable fate," returned the lady.
"We'll go out on the lake," said the master, starting up.
"You can't get rid of me that way," returned the ghost. "The water won't swallow me up; in fact, it will just add to my present bulk."
"Nevertheless," said the master, firmly, "we will go out on the lake."
"But, my dear sir," returned the ghost, with a pale reluctance, "it is fearfully cold out there.
You will be frozen hard before you've been out ten minutes."
"Oh no, I'll not," replied the master. "I am very warmly dressed. Come!" This last in a tone of command that made the ghost ripple.
And they started.
They had not gone far before the water ghost showed signs of distress.
"You walk too slowly," she said. "I am nearly frozen. My knees are so stiff now I can hardly move. I beseech you to accelerate your step."
"I should like to oblige a lady," returned the master, courteously, "but my clothes are rather heavy, and a hundred yards an hour is about my speed. Indeed, I think we would better sit down here on this snowdrift and talk matters over."
"Do not! Do not do so, I beg!" cried the ghost. "Let me move on. I feel myself growing rigid as it is. If we stop here, I shall be frozen stiff."
"That is my delectable fate," returned the lady.
"We'll go out on the lake," said the master, starting up.
"You can't get rid of me that way," returned the ghost. "The water won't swallow me up; in fact, it will just add to my present bulk."
"Nevertheless," said the master, firmly, "we will go out on the lake."
"But, my dear sir," returned the ghost, with a pale reluctance, "it is fearfully cold out there.
You will be frozen hard before you've been out ten minutes."
"Oh no, I'll not," replied the master. "I am very warmly dressed. Come!" This last in a tone of command that made the ghost ripple.
And they started.
They had not gone far before the water ghost showed signs of distress.
"You walk too slowly," she said. "I am nearly frozen. My knees are so stiff now I can hardly move. I beseech you to accelerate your step."
"I should like to oblige a lady," returned the master, courteously, "but my clothes are rather heavy, and a hundred yards an hour is about my speed. Indeed, I think we would better sit down here on this snowdrift and talk matters over."
"Do not! Do not do so, I beg!" cried the ghost. "Let me move on. I feel myself growing rigid as it is. If we stop here, I shall be frozen stiff."
"That madam," said the master slowly, and seating himself on an ice-cake -- "that is why I have brought you here. We have been on this spot just ten minutes; we have fifty more. Take your time about it, madam, but freeze, that is all I ask of you."
"I cannot move my right leg now," cried the ghost, in despair, "and my overskirt is a solid sheet of ice. Oh, good, kind Mr. Oglethorpe, light a fire, and let me go free from these icy fetters."
"Never, madam. It cannot be. I have you at last."
"Alas!" cried the ghost, a tear trickling down her frozen cheek. "Help me, I beg. I congeal!"
"Congeal, madam, congeal!" returned Oglethorpe, coldly. "You have drenched me and mine for two hundred and three years, madam. Tonight you have had your last drench."
"Ah, but I shall thaw out again, and then you'll see. Instead of the comfortably tepid, genial ghost I have been in my past, sir, I shall be iced water," cried the lady, threateningly.
"No, you won't, either," returned Oglethorpe; "for when you are frozen quite stiff, I shall send you to a cold-storage warehouse, and there shall you remain an icy work of art forever more."
"But warehouses burn."
"So they do, but this warehouse cannot burn. It is made of asbestos and surrounding it are fireproof walls, and within those walls the temperature is now and shall forever be 416 degrees below the zero point; low enough to make an icicle of any flame in this world -- or the next," the master added, with an ill-suppressed chuckle.
"For the last time let me beseech you. I would go on my knees to you, Oglethorpe, were they not already frozen. I beg of you do not doo --"
"I cannot move my right leg now," cried the ghost, in despair, "and my overskirt is a solid sheet of ice. Oh, good, kind Mr. Oglethorpe, light a fire, and let me go free from these icy fetters."
"Never, madam. It cannot be. I have you at last."
"Alas!" cried the ghost, a tear trickling down her frozen cheek. "Help me, I beg. I congeal!"
"Congeal, madam, congeal!" returned Oglethorpe, coldly. "You have drenched me and mine for two hundred and three years, madam. Tonight you have had your last drench."
"Ah, but I shall thaw out again, and then you'll see. Instead of the comfortably tepid, genial ghost I have been in my past, sir, I shall be iced water," cried the lady, threateningly.
"No, you won't, either," returned Oglethorpe; "for when you are frozen quite stiff, I shall send you to a cold-storage warehouse, and there shall you remain an icy work of art forever more."
"But warehouses burn."
"So they do, but this warehouse cannot burn. It is made of asbestos and surrounding it are fireproof walls, and within those walls the temperature is now and shall forever be 416 degrees below the zero point; low enough to make an icicle of any flame in this world -- or the next," the master added, with an ill-suppressed chuckle.
"For the last time let me beseech you. I would go on my knees to you, Oglethorpe, were they not already frozen. I beg of you do not doo --"
There stood the ghost of Harrowby Hall, conquered by the cold, a prisoner for all time.
The heir of Harrowby had won at last, and today in a large storage house in London stands the frigid form of one who will never again flood the house of Oglethorpe with woe and seawater.
As for the heir of Harrowby, his success in coping with a ghost has made him famous, a fame that still lingers about him, although his victory took place some twenty years ago; and so far from being unpopular with the fair sex, as he was when we first knew him, he has not only been married twice, but is to lead a third bride to the altar before the year is out.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Ten Things That Are Awesome
Calvin and Hobbes
Tim Tams
Cliffs of Dover
The Pacific Ocean
Newcastle
Michael Caine, Morgan Freeman, and Liam Neeson in a Bar
The Call of the Wild
Chuck
Iron Man Punching Hugh Grant
The Blues Brothers
Thursday, September 15, 2011
What if the World Wars were films?
World War I
It is notable for starring all of the biggest names of the time, including France, Great Britain, and Germany. And while the performances of several participants, notably the Austro-Hungarian Empire, would lead to the end of their careers, several breakout stars were born as well. The most notable of these was the United States, the then all but unknown son of Great Britain. Of course opinions vary as how pivotal the United State's role was to the plot, but no one can deny United State's powerful performance at the conclusion of the film.
World War II
By the time the credits rolled on the first film, the world was demanding something even bigger, better, and more bombastic. Consequently a great deal of preparation went into the sequel. All of the big players would return. Russia had by this time fully reinvented itself, and Germany was controversially cast as an unrepentant and immoral villain. Notably, Italy was cast as Germany's sidekick, a role which it had refused in the first installment.
As the film progressed, initially it appeared that the United States would not in fact have a role at all, a fact which dismayed many. Thanks to the quick actions of fellow First World War breakout star Japan, the United States did return, and gave the performance of a lifetime. By the end, the United States and Russia, now better known as the Soviet Union, had clearly eclipsed their predecessors as a new generation of superstar.
World War III
Often considered the greatest sequel never made, World War III captured the imaginations of millions. It promised unprecedented use of nuclear technology that had been pioneered in the previous installment, and the casting of the Soviet Union opposite the United States quieted many critics who argued no one could ever match the menace of Germany's performance in World War II. For a time, it seemed like the stars had aligned and a truly explosive sequel was coming to fruition.
This was not the case however. Neither of the two major stars were willing to commit, and the movie fell into development hell. While films like "Space Race" and "Missile Crisis in Cuba" gave us brief glimpses into what could have been, those were just the tip of the iceberg. In the end, the movie was suddenly scrapped when the Soviet Union backed out for good.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Journal of a Mad Yak Slayer Part 2
Jeff was speaking. He spoke languidly, using grandiose hand gestures which far overreached the significance of the words tumbling from his mouth. I stared at him, pretending to be interested.
"She is very Gordian," Jeff said, sipping from a steaming coffee cup, "and I don't mean that she is enigmatic and difficult to understand. What I mean to say is that she needs to be sliced in half."
I had had enough. "Jeff," I said, "I appreciate your opinions, but if it is all the same to you, I wish you would go away."
He stood, nodding in understanding, "No problem buddy, I've got work to do myself. Catch you on the flipside." He attempted to wave farewell, but only succeeded in splashing coffee onto my desk. He exited my office quickly thereafter, not realizing how close he strayed to death each time he entered my work space.
What am I talking about, you ask? It probably would be prudent of me to explain. Long ago, in the mountains of Tibet, I was cursed with immense psychic abilities, abilities good for only two things; the destruction of yaks, and as I later discovered, people named Jeff. Many Jeffs had died by my hand those past years. Only this one remained.
I don't know why I let him live. Perhaps it was the inherent absurdity of everything he said. I value absurdity greatly, and Jeff was nothing if not absurd. I decided that this was indeed the case, and I resumed my paperwork.
The clock struck six. I frowned. On one hand, this was good, because my shift ended at six. On the other hand, this was terribly odd, for I had no clock. As the sixth bell tolled, I turned slowly, dreading what I would find.
I should not have been surprised to discover a large grandfather clock behind me, but I was. I was even more surprised when the glass door in the front swung open and a man emerged from within. He was very well dressed. He glanced about my office for a moment before laying eyes upon me. He straightened his tie and seated himself in the chair that Jeff had vacated so many hours before.
"Who are you?" I said.
"I am," he replied, "The Auditor, and that," he added, nodding towards the grandfather clock, "is my Space, Time, and Reality Engine, or as I prefer to call it, STARE."
"Oh," I replied. It was all I could say.
He began examining a clipboard which I was sure he had not been holding before. The silence grew and grew until it was terribly uncomfortable and I was finally forced to break it. "So, what exactly is it that you audit?"
"Life," he said simply, not looking up, "and I must say, yours has been found wanting. I am going to have to ask you to stand and remove your shoes and prepare to step into the Annihilation Matrix." He tucked his clipboard away and looked at me expectantly.
What had begun as a strange visitation had spiraled into an unfortunate turn of events. I didn't want to die. There was so much left undone. I hadn't even gone to Disneyland yet. I debated my options.
"What is your name?" I said desperately. He frowned, clearly confused.
"Ted," he said after a few tense moments.
I threw caution to the wind. "Are you by chance a yak?"
He seemed startled. "Funny you should ask..." he said.
A minute later the room was quiet, save for the pounding of my heart. I quietly said a small prayer, thanking the powers that be for my unlikely deliverance. It was at that moment my eye caught the door of the STARE, innocently hanging open.
A minute later the door clicked shut, and the clock struck seven. I was going to Disneyland.
"She is very Gordian," Jeff said, sipping from a steaming coffee cup, "and I don't mean that she is enigmatic and difficult to understand. What I mean to say is that she needs to be sliced in half."
I had had enough. "Jeff," I said, "I appreciate your opinions, but if it is all the same to you, I wish you would go away."
He stood, nodding in understanding, "No problem buddy, I've got work to do myself. Catch you on the flipside." He attempted to wave farewell, but only succeeded in splashing coffee onto my desk. He exited my office quickly thereafter, not realizing how close he strayed to death each time he entered my work space.
What am I talking about, you ask? It probably would be prudent of me to explain. Long ago, in the mountains of Tibet, I was cursed with immense psychic abilities, abilities good for only two things; the destruction of yaks, and as I later discovered, people named Jeff. Many Jeffs had died by my hand those past years. Only this one remained.
I don't know why I let him live. Perhaps it was the inherent absurdity of everything he said. I value absurdity greatly, and Jeff was nothing if not absurd. I decided that this was indeed the case, and I resumed my paperwork.
The clock struck six. I frowned. On one hand, this was good, because my shift ended at six. On the other hand, this was terribly odd, for I had no clock. As the sixth bell tolled, I turned slowly, dreading what I would find.
I should not have been surprised to discover a large grandfather clock behind me, but I was. I was even more surprised when the glass door in the front swung open and a man emerged from within. He was very well dressed. He glanced about my office for a moment before laying eyes upon me. He straightened his tie and seated himself in the chair that Jeff had vacated so many hours before.
"Who are you?" I said.
"I am," he replied, "The Auditor, and that," he added, nodding towards the grandfather clock, "is my Space, Time, and Reality Engine, or as I prefer to call it, STARE."
"Oh," I replied. It was all I could say.
He began examining a clipboard which I was sure he had not been holding before. The silence grew and grew until it was terribly uncomfortable and I was finally forced to break it. "So, what exactly is it that you audit?"
"Life," he said simply, not looking up, "and I must say, yours has been found wanting. I am going to have to ask you to stand and remove your shoes and prepare to step into the Annihilation Matrix." He tucked his clipboard away and looked at me expectantly.
What had begun as a strange visitation had spiraled into an unfortunate turn of events. I didn't want to die. There was so much left undone. I hadn't even gone to Disneyland yet. I debated my options.
"What is your name?" I said desperately. He frowned, clearly confused.
"Ted," he said after a few tense moments.
I threw caution to the wind. "Are you by chance a yak?"
He seemed startled. "Funny you should ask..." he said.
A minute later the room was quiet, save for the pounding of my heart. I quietly said a small prayer, thanking the powers that be for my unlikely deliverance. It was at that moment my eye caught the door of the STARE, innocently hanging open.
A minute later the door clicked shut, and the clock struck seven. I was going to Disneyland.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
My Crazy Conspiracy Theory
Like most people in this world, the way I live my life is structured around a unique set of beliefs. For instance, I strongly believe all parents should choose their children's names not according to societal norms, but rather by what sounds the most epic. Case in point, if I ever have a daughter, I am going to name her Daisy Daffodil Jupiter.
I also believe that everyone should advocate at least one baseless conspiracy theory of their own creation during their life time. This wasn't a task I took lightly either. I ran my conspiracy by some of the greatest conspiratorial minds known to myself (and possibly yourself-you probably know to whom I refer), just to make sure it was crazy enough. So what is my conspiracy theory?
Frank Sinatra killed JFK.
If you don't know who Frank Sinatra is, I don't see any reason for us to continue being friends. If you don't know who JFK is, well I suppose that's okay, but also really sad. All the same, I'll give a brief backstory so as to provide context for the point I am driving towards.
Frank Sinatra was the member of an Italian immigrant family. He grew up in the Great Depression and began singing professionally while still a teenager. His career as a entertainer exploded, continuing for most of his life with a few ups and downs here and there. He would chiefly be associated with the Rat Pack, a gang of friends who were in numerous movies together.
Before he became the Republican juggernaut of his later years, he was a staunch Democrat. He and the rest of the Rat Pack spent a lot of time and money campaigning for the up-and-coming Presidential candidate John F. Kennedy. Sinatra and Kennedy become genuinely good friends. Sinatra recorded Kennedy's campaign theme and personally organized his inaugural gala in 1961.
As with all things, this epic friendship came to an end. In 1962 Kennedy took a vacation to Palm Springs. Originally, he had planned on staying at Sinatra's home over the Easter weekend. However he changed his mind at the last minute and decided to stay with Bing Crosby instead.
Bing Crosby was a longtime rival of Sinatra's in the entertainment field. Where Sinatra was Democrat, Crosby was Republican. Where Sinatra had sort of a gangster reputation built about him, Crosby was an around nice guy. Sinatra was reportedly stunned by Kennedy's decision. It was also at this point that he began his switch from Democrat to Republican himself.
But why did Kennedy snub Sinatra? The answer is pretty simple. Sinatra had long been suspected of harboring connections to the Mafia. He had even hosted major mob figures like Salvatore Giangana at his Palm Springs home. Kennedy ultimately made the decision that palling around with a man strongly suspected of having criminal connections was bad for his image.
Here are the two most important facts we have learned from all of this; 1) Sinatra did not appreciate Kennedy's snub and 2) Sinatra allegedly had mob connections. Just how strong these connections are is debatable (no evidence was ever found) but it is known that Sinatra was good friends with powerful figures in the Mafia. It has also been reported that Sinatra's associates had more than a few of Sinatra's detractors roughed up.
More so than any other culprit, the Mafia is often identified in the Kennedy assassinations. The reasons they had to dislike the President were too numerous to count. What if all it took was a nudge from Sinatra to finally cross the line? Could one of the greatest mysteries of the century all originate from Sinatra's bruised ego? Did the President, in trying to prevent Sinatra's mob connections from damaging his career, inadvertently assure that they would in the worst way possible?
Probably not. But it is my conspiracy theory, so for better or worse, I have to stick to my guns. Just don't go spreading it around, because on the off chance I am right, I really don't want to end up dead.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Legendary Music Project
Here's the video Brittany, Caitlyn, and I put together for our music appreciation class. It features the acting talents of Dan and Ammon. Enjoy.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Orson Welle's Tribute to Jimmy Stewart
Jimmy Stewart is my favorite actor. He was known primarily for two things. The first was his distinctive voice, which is widely considered one of the most difficult voices to impersonate well. The second was the fact that he was a stand-up individual both in his films and in real life. I just recently found a video from 1978 in which Orson Welles pays tribute to Stewart. If you ever watched reruns of these celebrity roasts, you will know that Welles had an absolutely brilliant grasp of comedy and used it to great effect in roasting his peers. But here he delivers an excellent tribute to a friend and an excellent actor. It may seem dated, particularly since all of the 'new' actors Welles references are themselves quite old by now; Yet ultimately it still stands as a great testament to Jimmy Stewarts career.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Four Country Songs You Didn't Know Had Sequels
4. El Paso
Maybe I'm cheating a little by counting a movie as a sequel, but on the other hand it was a good movie. Being a pretty basic John Wayne film, I enjoyed it for what it was. If you like the song and/or John Wayne, you should check it out if you ever have the chance.
El Paso is a 1959 hit written and performed by Marty Robbins. It is told from the perspective of a man who falls deeply in love with a girl named Feleena who works in a Mexican cantina. When another man begins to pursue her, the narrator's deep jealousy leads him to challenge the interloper. The resulting gunfight ends in the other man's death, and the narrator is forced to flee to escape the law. But his love for Feleena is too great and he eventually returns to see her once more. Tragically he is shot to death just as he sees his love one last time. It is a sad story.
Robbins would go on to write two sequels, both of which were popular at the time they were released. The first, Feleena (From El Paso), is not technically a sequel. Instead it tells the same story but from Feleena's perspective. It reveals that after the cowboy was shot to death in the first son, Feleena took his gun and turned it on herself in her grief.
The second sequel is El Paso City, which takes place in contemporary times. The narrator is looking down from a plane upon El Paso, which leads him to remember the legend of the cowboy and Feleena. As he ponders this, he mentions how he often feels a deep connection to the cowboy and alludes to a past life.
The Devil Went Down to Georgia is an excellent song. In it, the Devil receives his comeuppance when he challenges the wrong person to a fiddle duel, and is sent packing back to Hell. So when I found out that The Charlie Daniels Band recorded a sequel, I was pretty stoked. Did it live up to my expectations? If you have ever heard The Devil Comes Back to Georgia, you can probably figure out the answer. When I first heard Johnny Cash, I was like "Yeah!!!" but then I heard Marty Stuart's voice and my expectations were shot.
It's not a bad song, for sure, but all in all it's just a retread of the first, both in plot and in tune, with a few little differences here and there.
2. Big Bad John
Jimmy Dean's Big Bad John is a classic. It is a tale of a mysterious miner surrounded by rumor and legend which ends in tragedy when the titular character sacrifices himself to save his fellow miners from a collapsing mine.
So how many sequels does Big Bad John have? A grand total of three. Two were written by Dean; The Cajun Queen and Little Bitty Big John. The Cajun Queen is a pretty crazy song. John's Cajun lady friend (she's mentioned in the first song) shows up. She is unconcerned by the fact he died and goes ahead and brings him back to life. They get married, grow old, and end up with 110 grandchildren, no joke. Little Bitty Big John is about John and the Cajun lady's son. It seems to disregard The Cajun Queen and John still seems to be dead.
The last sequel was performed by Dottie West. Called My Big John, it has a different take on John's Cajun girl friend than The Cajun Queen. Sadly I cannot find a good link anywhere.
This song was one of Johnny Horton's best. The story is about George Pratt, his best friend Sam McCord, and George's brother Billy and their quest during the Yukon gold rush to strike it rich. Well, they do strike it rich, and George asks Sam to go back to the lower 48 and find him a ring so he can propose to his girlfriend.
This is where the song ends. The thought that there was a sequel never crossed my mind. Then one day I happened to see a John Wayne movie called North to Alaska. My mind was blown. As it turns out, Horton wrote the song as a tie-in to the movie. It plays during the opening credits and then the movie picks up where the song ends. Sam (John Wayne) goes to Seattle to bring George's girl back to Alaska. What he finds however is that she got hitched while George was away. Sam isn't sure what to do, so he brings back a prostitute called Angel as a substitute. Crazy hijinks ensue.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Waldo and Carmen Sandiego : A Match Made in Heaven?
When I was little, there was nothing I loved more than watching Where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego? It was a great show in which two young children were tasked with catching Carmen Sandiego, the world's greatest criminal mastermind and head of the world's largest crime cartel. There was literally nothing she could not steal. The Sphinx's nose? Carmen Sandiego. Mona Lisa's smile? Carmen Sandiego. SNL's relevence? Carmen took it back in the 80's. Even Batman isn't immune.
And if there is one thing she is better at than thievery, that is being impossible to find. The entire Carmen Sandiego franchise is built upon the concept of legions of detectives running around the world attempting to locate her while her heists continue to become more outrageous and bombastic. Heck, I spent many hours playing that blasted video game, and never had anything to show for it. At times, I would find myself thinking that maybe Carmen Sandiego was a lie, that she never existed at all and was nothing more than a cheap gimmick to gip me out ten dollars.
Truly, there is no one more elusive than Carmen Sandiego.
Right?
Wrong.
Waldo may be a schmuck, but obfuscating stupidity is one of the oldest hats in the book, and Waldo's been wearing that particular hat for quite some time now. Waldo's been playing a game of cat and mouse with all of us for years, and much like Carmen Sandiego, has an entire line of books and games built around him. Believe it or not, there was even a Waldo cartoon back in the nineties. Fittingly, I can't find it anywhere*. And not only have people been trying to figure out the where of Waldo for years now, but also the who and why. Many theories have been proposed. Maybe he is a man on the run. Or maybe a secret agent. Even Werner Herzog has his own ideas.
Whatever the case may be, I grew up with both Waldo and Carmen Sandiego. I suppose the idea eventually had to occur to me; what would happen if the two of them met? It was sort of like getting hit by a lightning bolt. I thought about it, and then decided that such an idea was too obvious for one man to have. Just like the steam engine, someone else, somewhere else, had to have shared my thought. Naturally I went to the internet.
The internet did not disappoint. I found this.
and this...
and this...
And a lot more besides. An endless parade of cartoons all making the most obvious punchlines. Sometimes I love the internet. This was one of those times indeed.
As I scrolled through google images, it became clear to me that for whatever reason, most of these artists wanted Carmen and Waldo paired together romantically. That thought had never occurred to me before. Let's be honest; Carmen Sandiego is a fox. Waldo is, as said before, a schmuck. The plausibility of that hookup was negligible at best, nonexistent at worst.
But then I gave it some thought. When it comes to unique skills, there is no one who will understand Carmen Sandiego like Waldo, and vice versa. Also, it provides couples a unique way to celebrate Halloween together. And as a geek myself (case in point: this blog), shouldn't I be pulling for Waldo in this situation?
Faced with facts like these, I had to admit it made sense. I only had one lingering question. What happens if they have a kid?
Everybody should have seen that coming.
*Ha ha, but seriously, I can't find it.
All images belong to respectful deviantart users, google images.
Whatever the case may be, I grew up with both Waldo and Carmen Sandiego. I suppose the idea eventually had to occur to me; what would happen if the two of them met? It was sort of like getting hit by a lightning bolt. I thought about it, and then decided that such an idea was too obvious for one man to have. Just like the steam engine, someone else, somewhere else, had to have shared my thought. Naturally I went to the internet.
The internet did not disappoint. I found this.
and this...
As I scrolled through google images, it became clear to me that for whatever reason, most of these artists wanted Carmen and Waldo paired together romantically. That thought had never occurred to me before. Let's be honest; Carmen Sandiego is a fox. Waldo is, as said before, a schmuck. The plausibility of that hookup was negligible at best, nonexistent at worst.
But then I gave it some thought. When it comes to unique skills, there is no one who will understand Carmen Sandiego like Waldo, and vice versa. Also, it provides couples a unique way to celebrate Halloween together. And as a geek myself (case in point: this blog), shouldn't I be pulling for Waldo in this situation?
Faced with facts like these, I had to admit it made sense. I only had one lingering question. What happens if they have a kid?
Everybody should have seen that coming.
*Ha ha, but seriously, I can't find it.
All images belong to respectful deviantart users, google images.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Football vs Soccer Part 1
As a whole, it seems like everyone but the United States has nothing to offer but disdain for American football when comparing it to association football (better known as soccer in the US). A video spot done by the insufferable comedic genius John Cleese outlines some of the more salient points. Here's some good examples of such complaints.
1) American football is commercially oriented. Each short play allows for that much more time devoted to adverts.
2) American football allows for very little creativity, with little to no thinking being done by the individual players.
3) To call american football 'football' is a misnomer, because the feet are rarely in contact with the ball, and the ball is not a ball at all. 'Handegg' would be a more accurate title. And the fact that Americans refer to association football as soccer is just idiotic.
4) American football players are pansies. If you want to see real men, watch a game of rugby.
For people who haven't seen much of John Cleese's more politically charged material, this may seem pretty venomous. It is hard to determine whether his gripes are born out of legitimate annoyance or a needlessly confusing attempt at humor*, or some combination thereof.
However, since Cleese is a well known master of satire, I think that it is reasonable to give him the benefit of the doubt. The problem is that his sentiments are echoed by thousands of others who are quite serious in what they say. So for all of those people, here is the other side of the story.
1) American football is indeed commercially oriented. This is because our networks operate in a capitalistic system. It costs money to gain broadcasting rights; ergo, to remain competitive, they must advertise up the wazoo. But in the UK, citizens pay for television with government taxation, which means they don't have nearly as many commercials.
2) I don't know how much american football John Cleese has ever played. Probably none, but he is getting up there in years, so statistically there is a reasonable chance he has at least once. It is a very tactically oriented game in which the coach and the various coordinators duel with their opponents by trying to exploit the other team's weaknesses and to capitalize on their own team's strengths using carefully designed plays. It's really hard to compare this system to that of association football since it is effectively an apples and oranges debate. The level (player vs coach) in which 'creativity'** occurs in each sport is determined primarily by where such creativity serves to benefit the most.
3) Where to begin? In case you didn't know, a lot of field sports in the UK are called 'football'. Rugby is short for rugby football, american football is actually called gridiron football (because the field resembles a gridiron), and of course there is association football. When rugby football was imported from the UK to the US, we modified the rules to our liking and named the result gridiron football, because that was the naming convention. We also kept the rugby style ball, which, you guessed it, happens to resemble an egg. We also decided to start calling a lot of these sports by their abbreviated names to make things simpler. This is why you rarely hear rugby referred to as rugby football anymore and you will hear american football called gridiron from time to time.
This is also why we call association football soccer, because soccer is short for association. If that seems a little dumb, blame the Brits, because they coined the term soccer long before anyone in the US ever used the word. Really.
4) American football players are pansies. If you want to see real men, watch a game of rugby.
For people who haven't seen much of John Cleese's more politically charged material, this may seem pretty venomous. It is hard to determine whether his gripes are born out of legitimate annoyance or a needlessly confusing attempt at humor*, or some combination thereof.
However, since Cleese is a well known master of satire, I think that it is reasonable to give him the benefit of the doubt. The problem is that his sentiments are echoed by thousands of others who are quite serious in what they say. So for all of those people, here is the other side of the story.
1) American football is indeed commercially oriented. This is because our networks operate in a capitalistic system. It costs money to gain broadcasting rights; ergo, to remain competitive, they must advertise up the wazoo. But in the UK, citizens pay for television with government taxation, which means they don't have nearly as many commercials.
2) I don't know how much american football John Cleese has ever played. Probably none, but he is getting up there in years, so statistically there is a reasonable chance he has at least once. It is a very tactically oriented game in which the coach and the various coordinators duel with their opponents by trying to exploit the other team's weaknesses and to capitalize on their own team's strengths using carefully designed plays. It's really hard to compare this system to that of association football since it is effectively an apples and oranges debate. The level (player vs coach) in which 'creativity'** occurs in each sport is determined primarily by where such creativity serves to benefit the most.
3) Where to begin? In case you didn't know, a lot of field sports in the UK are called 'football'. Rugby is short for rugby football, american football is actually called gridiron football (because the field resembles a gridiron), and of course there is association football. When rugby football was imported from the UK to the US, we modified the rules to our liking and named the result gridiron football, because that was the naming convention. We also kept the rugby style ball, which, you guessed it, happens to resemble an egg. We also decided to start calling a lot of these sports by their abbreviated names to make things simpler. This is why you rarely hear rugby referred to as rugby football anymore and you will hear american football called gridiron from time to time.
This is also why we call association football soccer, because soccer is short for association. If that seems a little dumb, blame the Brits, because they coined the term soccer long before anyone in the US ever used the word. Really.
4) I should probably skip this one, because it's not really related to the question of football vs soccer, but I'll go ahead and talk about it anyways. As a person who has played quite a bit of american football and a little rugby, I can honestly say that american football is much, much more violent. Rugby is a contact sport, american football is a collision sport. The reason pads are required in american football is because the death toll in the early 1900's was too high.
So that's the end of part 1. Now that those complaints have been covered, I'll probably spend more time talking about which game is more enjoyable to watch and play.
*Since I am a yank, it could very well be I just don't get Cleese's British humor.
**Also, players in american football probably don't get enough credit when it comes to individual contribution.
So that's the end of part 1. Now that those complaints have been covered, I'll probably spend more time talking about which game is more enjoyable to watch and play.
*Since I am a yank, it could very well be I just don't get Cleese's British humor.
**Also, players in american football probably don't get enough credit when it comes to individual contribution.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
The Matter of Lancelot
Sir Lancelot was one of the mythic knights of Camelot. No other man was as great a warrior as Lancelot; he romanced the queen, slew other knights by the score (literally), and generally made everyone else in the Arthurian mythos look pretty dull in comparison. He is arguably one of the most popular and well-recognized characters in British tradition.
Too bad that he's French.
Lancelot does have roots in the oral traditions, true, but the modern version originated in France. The whole King Arthur concept was born in the fifth and sixth centuries as sort of a Briton equivalent to Jason and the Argonauts, but it wasn't until the early 1100's that the modern vision of King Arthur began to appear, with Merlin, Gawain, Excalibur, and so on and so forth. By the end of the twelfth century, French authors had made even more changes. King Arthur went from a ferocious warrior to a man who is bland at best and weak at worst. He was shunted aside to make way for entirely new characters, foreign to the original Arthurian tale, and by new characters, I mean Lancelot.
The addition of Lancelot didn't help many established characters. Sir Gawain was no longer the greatest knight of the Round Table and Sir Kay was reduced to a bumbling moron (Do you remember Arthur's older brother Kay in The Sword in the Stone? That is supposed to be the same Kay who was worth a hundred men and could only be slain by God. Blame Lancelot). This in and of itself isn't so bad; after all all myths have been reinterpreted on a generational basis. However, the fact that a foreign culture was able to drastically alter what is Britain's greatest myth without the British saying anything is nothing short of mind boggling.
There is some justification to this; following the Anglo-Saxon invasion, a good number of people fled across the channel, leading to inevitable cultural exchange. All the same, the British have been saddled with Lancelot, a latecomer of French origin, as a primary hero of their cultural epic. The only clear answer to this issue is for them to take Lancelot back and make him theirs in the only way they know how.
Oh wait.
Monty Python saves the day again. John Cleese's Lancelot will always be the definitive version for me. Cleese should be knighted, he clearly has what it takes*.
Perhaps not.
*But seriously though. If a kilt-clad separatist like Sean Connery can be a knight, anybody can.
Too bad that he's French.
Lancelot does have roots in the oral traditions, true, but the modern version originated in France. The whole King Arthur concept was born in the fifth and sixth centuries as sort of a Briton equivalent to Jason and the Argonauts, but it wasn't until the early 1100's that the modern vision of King Arthur began to appear, with Merlin, Gawain, Excalibur, and so on and so forth. By the end of the twelfth century, French authors had made even more changes. King Arthur went from a ferocious warrior to a man who is bland at best and weak at worst. He was shunted aside to make way for entirely new characters, foreign to the original Arthurian tale, and by new characters, I mean Lancelot.
The addition of Lancelot didn't help many established characters. Sir Gawain was no longer the greatest knight of the Round Table and Sir Kay was reduced to a bumbling moron (Do you remember Arthur's older brother Kay in The Sword in the Stone? That is supposed to be the same Kay who was worth a hundred men and could only be slain by God. Blame Lancelot). This in and of itself isn't so bad; after all all myths have been reinterpreted on a generational basis. However, the fact that a foreign culture was able to drastically alter what is Britain's greatest myth without the British saying anything is nothing short of mind boggling.
There is some justification to this; following the Anglo-Saxon invasion, a good number of people fled across the channel, leading to inevitable cultural exchange. All the same, the British have been saddled with Lancelot, a latecomer of French origin, as a primary hero of their cultural epic. The only clear answer to this issue is for them to take Lancelot back and make him theirs in the only way they know how.
Oh wait.
Monty Python saves the day again. John Cleese's Lancelot will always be the definitive version for me. Cleese should be knighted, he clearly has what it takes*.
Perhaps not.
*But seriously though. If a kilt-clad separatist like Sean Connery can be a knight, anybody can.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)