Whose Flag Is This?

Anybody know?

I saw it the other day, and thought it was quite interesting.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Run it up the flagpole and see who salutes it."\\

Magic Eight-Balls Got Legs

They were sitting on our doorstep, much the way the Magic Eight-Ball arrived on our doorstep some weeks ago, with three black suction cups and a note explaining that they were "Eight-Ball legs". Well, okay, then they must be....

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Thank you."\\

[Update: Finally did find out who was doing all that stuff. He came by while we were in and gave us a "cuestick" (not sure what it really is, but it's pretty) to go with the ball. And its legs.]

I Forgive You For Hating Teen Moms

I have only just discovered the FB page "I Hate Teen Moms" and the unfortunately large group of pages which imitate it. Looking them over has helped me to finally understand why Jesus said "Judge not, lest ye be judged". Clearly, Jesus understood that most people who are extremely judgmental are trying to push away the possibility that they would not measure up to the standards they set themselves, and think that attacking other people they will somehow shield themselves from judgment. Lighten up, people. It won't work. In fact, the best way to feel better about your own failings is the opposite: to be forgiving and understanding of other people.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "I think Jesus said that, too."\\

Happy Birthday, Walden

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Hold him in the Light."\\

Christmas Truce Poem

Not long after I finished The Christmas Mutiny, I met a woman writing poems "to order" at the Saturday Market. I commissioned a poem on the subject of the Christmas Truce, but then didn't see her for several months. I learned later she had been out of town most of the time.
Yesterday, she was at the market again, spotted me and delivered the poem. I like it a lot:


The Christmas Truce, by Cassie Ruud

We will not fight today.
We will not let you order us
into these pukish
mud-blood-soaked trenches
on this day.
You took us from our families,
from the arms of our wives and children
and thrown us against each other
for reasons
we do not understand.
So we will not fight today.
We will stand a tree,
sing our songs,
play soccer out in No-Man's-Land
almost far enough away
to hide from the trench stench
We will pretend our darlings
are close to us, show
each other pocketed lockets
full of pictures,
smoke our pipes in silence and stare numbly into the fire.


//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Peace on Earth."\\

The Magic Eight-Ball Says, "Here I Am!"

Kathe and I were just out, and when we returned there was a package on the porch.
A note read only, "As the Magic Eight-Ball rolls."
Inside was, sure enough, an eight ball. It appears to be just the usual pool table type of eight-ball, but I am going to watch it for any signs of magical properties.
In the meantime, we have an eight ball. How cool is that?

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Totally cool."\\

Philmfotos

I saw this on Facebook today:

http://philmfotos.tumblr.com/

Nifty.

Before there was such a thing as Google Street Views, I imagined it, and added bonus features like icons floating in the air: you could move your POV in front of the icon and "look through" it to see things like notes on the location, historical images of the same place, paintings of the same view and, yes, stills from movies which were filmed on the spot.

And then there are sites like

http://dearphotograph.com/

and one I really like

http://sergey-larenkov.livejournal.com/

The Taming of the Shrew

It was pretty cool.

The weather was mild, also.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Kiss me, Kat(h)e."\\

I Am An Oddfellow, But I'm Okay With That

I have just come home from an Oddfellows meeting, and have been reflecting on the Oddfellows' call for honorable conduct and service to humanity.

Thinking about how profound are simple truths such as, "This, too, shall pass" and "governments depend on the consent of the governed".

Thinking about how my parents really did raise me to be a good neighbor and to help move the world forward (or at least not impede it).

Thinking about my relatives and their values, and how I do feel privileged to be a member of a family like mine.

Yes, really.


//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Psst -- all men are brothers. Pass it on."\\

Fifty-Two Pickup

A week from Friday, I will turn 52, and as of now I am resolved that the theme of the next year of my life will be Fifty-Two Pickup.

The cards are all over the floor, but I will pick them up, one by one. I will shuffle the deck thoroughly. I will deal everyone a new hand.

Many thanks to my hypnotherapist, Robert Plamondon, who helped me reach this resolution*.

Resolution: 1) A formal declaration of understanding and/or intent. 2) The achievement of clearer vision.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "That is how the game is played."\\

A very Good Piece of Music

Someone sent me this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=GBaHPND2QJg&feature=youtu.be

Really a gorgeous piece of music. That's why, among other things, I used it in The Christmas Mutiny.




//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Alle Menschen Werde Buredern".\\

Hope Needs an Eyrie

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cVOOXQo22o

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "What makes one step a giant leap is all the steps before."\\

Inside the Benton County Courthouse

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9soLYwwl87s

I first saw the Benton County Courthouse in 1966, when I was six years old.

Coming over the Harrison Avenue Bridge into town, seeing the Courthouse illuminated by floodlights, I was powerfully impressed with it.

I still am, really.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "It's impressive."\\

Wanna Buy a Sputnik?

We call it "Sputnik" because it has a fault that causes it to beep-beep-beep whenever any of the doors are open.

For the most part, though, it's in pretty good shape.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "And you could use the money."\\

"Are You Superman?"

"Are You Superman?"
By: Russ Burlingame on June 14, 2012

In : Comics
- Comments

A little something to brighten your day. This story comes to us courtesy of Jeff Watkins, the properietor of City Comics and Toys in Syracusae, New York.

His store–which sits in the Shoppingtown Mall food court, the onetime site of a battle between Tom Peyer and Rags Morales’ android Hourman and his foes–is one that we’ve written about before. A small retailer, Watkins loves comics and is often the only store in town to participate in things like midnight openings for “event” comics and organizing local conventions and signings.

He also, according to at least one young fan, bears a striking resemblance to the Last Son of Krypton:

Yesterday I walked from my store to my car through the mall. There was a special needs kid that was walking next to me. I was wearing a dark blue V-neck t-shirt and my thick Clark Kent classes. Hair was dark from the product in it and was firmly in place, except for the little spit curl on my forehead.

He kept pace and I said hello.

He had to ask me something.

He leaned in close and whispered “Are you Superman?”

I chuckled a little bit. “Thanks kid. No.”

His face remained dead serious.

“I won’t tell anyone.” He said.

“You’re very nice. Thank you. I’m not though. Superman isn’t re…”

And this kid had this look on his face.

“I. Won’t. Tell. Anyone. I promise. I swear.”

I’m an emotional guy so I was getting a little choked up.

“We are not supposed to talk about secret identities, kid. It can get dangerous.”

And he starts enthusiastically nodding in agreement. “I know. I know.”

When I was almost to the doors, I turned back and took my glasses off and I put my finger up to my lips and I went “Shhhhhhhhh.”

And as best as his limbs would let him, he gave me a thumbs up.

I’ve been welling up thinking about it for about 24 hours now. Thought I was crazy until I told Shanna last night and she had the same reaction.

100% totally true story and despite his disadvantages in life, perceived and real, I thank that kid for being a superhero yesterday.

The story went viral shortly after Watkins posted it as a status message on Facebook, with other comics fans reposting it to Reddit (where it made the front page), Cheezburger and other social link-sharing sites.

Jeff’s story is not only a great reminder that the characters in comics mean something–even to those who may not be old enough to read most of what the Big Two is putting out yet–but of the enduring appeal of a character like Superman, who is constantly facing those nagging “Is he relevant anymore?” questions.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "He's where you find him."\\

The Frankenstein Book, Chapter 2

Locke walked through the cramped aisles of shelves groaning with bound newspapers, towards the clerk’s desk at the rear. “I need a comprehensive article or series about the history of vitalogy, and a biography of Dr. Frankenstein,” he told the tall hoover at the desk. Perched on a stool itself five feet high, the hoover’s boxy head almost brushed the ceiling.

The hoover looked down at Locke from behind his desk (some eight feet from the floor – why so high?), silently climbed down and made his heavy-footed way down one of the aisles, which held not only the five-year print run of the Sun but those of the Evening Register, the Long Island Farmer, indeed every noteworthy newspaper in the city’s history, as far back as the Royal New-York Gazette. Mr. Day had bought the collection at auction when the Commercial Advertiser folded. There was every newspaper, past and present, that Locke could recall having seen, aside from the Negro paper Freedom’s Journal.

The hoover unerringly found the volume he wanted and carried it to a lectern of a more reasonable height where Locke could stand and read it. The hoover opened the book to the correct page without even having to flip through it, and even laid a finger at the top of the right-hand page, headed VICTOR CAROLUS FRANKENSTEIN in old-fashioned newspaper type.

“I can read,” Locke snapped. He might have apologized, even to a hoover, but the creature had already turned away, without the slightest sign of resentment, or even reaction, except to the implied dismissal. He climbed his stool and bent to his desk, his quill pen scratching away.

Locke looked at the wastebasket at the foot of the stool, surrounded by wadded sheets of paper and used quills that had missed it. As a boy, he had learned to write with a quill pen, but in recent years he had only seen hoovers using them. Next to the wastebasket was a cylindrical shape held together with a worn leather strap. Locke realized with a start that it was a bedroll, presumably the clerk’s. Did the creature sleep down here? But then, why not? He was only a hoover. Still, the idea of the hoover living down here, possibly not having seen the light of day since he was brought down here . . . .

Locke shook himself and looked at the article the hoover had found for him.

Six decades before -- in the same year that a terrible fire had destroyed a quarter of the city of New York, Adam Smith had published his essay on The Wealth of Nations, and the United States had declared their independence -- a medical student at Ingolstadt, Bavaria, had discovered the elixir vitae: a transparent golden fluid which could animate dead tissue.

When Frankenstein’s elixir perfused dead tissue, hearts would beat, lungs would respire. A brain invigorated by the elixir would awaken and send signals to nerves. The nerves would command muscles to action. The muscles would respond.

Even a discovery as amazing as that might not have transformed the world as much as it had, or as quickly, if Frankenstein hadn’t also advanced the art of surgery amazingly. Most reanimated bodies would have been little use as they were upon death: torn muscles and broken bones would be unable to function, damaged nerves would not be able to control a limb, disease-ravaged organs would not sustain a reanimated body. Frankenstein learned to graft a healthy limb in place of a ruined one, to splice the severed ends of nerves so they would function, and to give a healthy brain command over a body.

Frankenstein’s genius still might have languished for years. His handful of reanimated animals might have been mere curiosities, and his first disastrous attempt to copy the human form might have led a lonely existence. The final key component was Frankenstein’s invention of conservante, the transparent liquid which allowed him to preserve tissue against decay for months, even years. That allowed Frankenstein and his friend Henry Clerval to quickly begin producing their first ouvriers, a word which entered English as “hoover”.

Much of this was long familiar to Locke, but a good deal was new. As he read, he felt a growing curiosity that he hadn’t had before, and wished he’d taken the time to study vitalogy prior to this assignment.

Locke thought about just how much Frankenstein and vitalogy had changed the world. From the moment Nereus had knocked on his door to now, there had hardly been a moment when he was out of sight of a two-legged hoover or a four-legged kimmer, to say nothing of the street flowers cushioning his feet and the ravens and rocs flying over his head. Even the luminous fungi in the ceiling and walls that provided the very light he was reading by was a product of the Vitalogical Revolution.

It occurred to Locke that he actually did have an “in” to the vitalogist community. Freddy Waldman, two doors down from his own room at the Decatur, was an assistant to Dr. Lavenza, who had a little workshop or surgery or whatever it was called that turned out some kind of fancy servant hoovers for the upscale market. If he could get Waldman to introduce him to Lavenza, he could interview the man, and gain access to other vitalogists. Locke would drop by Lavenza’s place of business and ask if he could interview him – it was unlikely, but there was no harm in asking, and it would give him an excuse to “happen” to run into Waldman as he was leaving for lunch. Locke could then suggest they get something together.

That reminded Locke that he was feeling hungry himself. He must have been reading in the morgue all morning, running on nothing but a spoonful of Blue Mass. He had better be about getting some nuncheon before trying to interview anyone.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "There are some things Man was not meant to know...."\\

Not Babysitting

Over and over I heard it: "Babysitting today?" Over and over, I gave the same reply, always with a perfectly straight face: "No, he's my kid." At least nobody ever asked Kathe where she got the gay nanny: http://echidneofthesnakes.blogspot.com/2012_05_27_archive.html#1384367121943060380 //The Magic Eight-Ball says: "Admit it, you'd have loved it if that had happened."\\

Kathe and I went to a neighborhood committee meeting. There was talk of forming a watch. If so, I will want to join just to make sure nobody is "carrying" like George Z. //The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Heaven forbid."\\

Do You Read Me?

Read from The Christmas Mutiny at the Interzone tonight. Not a big crowd but I managed to read a chapter out loud without choking, so I count it as a success. Now on to the next reading. Eight-Ball, where will I do a reading next? //The Magic Eight-Ball says, "TBA."\\

Kathe heard a coyote yipping and howling last night. Sounded like it was about five blocks away, she said. Okay, Corvallis is only about 50,000 people, and I saw one just a couple of miles outside of town, but still a wonderfully spooky (and trickstery) thing. Sorry I missed it. //The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Be careful of wishing for a visit from a trickster."\\