Insomnia

It’s 2:00 in the morning and my darling daughter just chirped “Oh, that’s right, Vicky!” in her sleep, lud enough to wake the dead, or at least the dad.  So here I am with some random thoughts that I just had to share.

Can you fill a rotunda with skinny people?

Why don’t they keep pills in a pillory?

The words “stocks and bonds,” used at a party, can be complete conversation-stoppers, in two totally different ways.

How come puzzles don’t come in real puzzle boxes?

Flying columns don’t.

All time best quote ever:  “There’s an infinte number of monkeys outside.  They want to talk to you about this script for Hamlet they’ve worked out.”

How come only swords and knives have hilts?  Other things just have handles.

I read an edition of the Lord of the Rings once, in which Tolkien referred to the “hilts” of a sword.  In later editions, they changed it to “hilt” of a sword.  I wonder why.

It may well be impolite to inquire aloud what Scotsmen wear under their kilts whilst eating shortbread.

What is the velocity of a sparrow?

Hear about that guy who knew “karate and five or six other Japanese words?”  He ended up with a black-and-blue belt.

A fly can’t bird, but a bird can fly.  Ask me a riddle and I reply, Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston pie.

Good night.

Monster mash

The clarion call of “Bad Movie Night!” rang out across the land and the faithful gathered from far and near, yon and hither, there and here, to once again congregate in a comfortable basement, iced teas ready to hand, popcorn within easy reach, to bask in the flickering glow of “What the hell are we going to watch tonight?”

We actually had our first reject, a bad movie so bad that we turned it off out of nausea after the first five minutes. You’d think with a title like Bloodsucking Freaks, it’d be right up our alley. Not so much. It was a 1975 piece of putresence originally entitled The Incredible Torture Show. Nuff said.

So then we sallied forth in search of moral redemption and family values in Monster from a Prehistoric Planet, a 1967 Japanese monster movie in the grand Godzilla tradition. Bad special effects, bad acting, bad dubbing and plot, what plot?

This is a wonderful film. The monsters, called Gappa, are dinosaur-type critters with rigid wings that unfurl with a mechanical “kershrunk” noise, and fly by means of what look for all the world like jet exhausts shooting from the soles of their feet. They fly in, land in the sea off Japan, wade ashore and begin trashing Toyko, stomping on model buildings, squishing “Hot Wheels” cars, and blithely ignoring the artillery shells fired at them by toy remote-controlled tanks (I’m not kidding; you can actually see the whip attennas attached to the tanks, as well as the plastic seam joins). The Gappa destroy an oil refinery made of soup cans and hat boxes. They rampage through the same surburb of Tokyo six times in a row, destroying exactly the same buildings (but from different camera angles). They trash transmission lines and telephone wires with equal aplomb and finesse.

Through all this, one of them is carrying an octopus in its mouth. It gets really mad when the jet fighters start firing at it and it has to drop the octopus to retaliate with its “heat ray.”

Then there’s the really cool subplot between the leading man reporter and the lady-love sidekick photographer. She gets tremulous and fainty at the prospect of walking into a deep cave and he goads her by pointing out that the alternative is to go home, marry a nice young man, cook meals, have babies and wash diapers.

At the film’s end, when the Gappa have rocketed off into the sunset (literally), our brave independent young woman turns to Her Man and announces that she’s all ready to quit her job, marry a nice young man (him), cook meals, have babies and wash diapers.

It’s just so lovely and dated.

Vicky thinks these movies are bad for me. I don’t see why. Where’s the harm in Japanese rubber monsters with jet propulsion?

Getting in touch with your inner furry

So here’s the question of the day: You’ve always wanted to be a lycanthrope of some sort. Admit it. Just as all of us have at some point or other in our deeply-repressed pasts (or not so deeply, depending) wanted desperately to be a ninja, you’ve yearned to have fur, extraordinary strength and agility and the ability to see in the dark. Let’s leave aside the ravening beast tendencies for a moment, although they can be fun too. See An American Werewolf in London for details.

But which type would you pick?

There are a number of different were-critters from which to choose. While I have a number of books on this subject (big surprise there, hey?), my preferred reference is the AD&D Second Edition Monstrous Manual, which lists nine of the more widespread varieties:

Werebat – Pros: nocturnal, very sociable, can fly, echolocation. Cons: bad reputation, explosive poop.

Werebear – Pros: strong, big teeth, sit anywhere you want, lives in pastoral forest-type places, can catch salmon without a licence. Cons: high cholesterol, eats grubs, gets real sleepy in winter.

Wereboar – Pros: big teeth, sit anywhere the werebear’s not sitting and you get to have a lot of personal space. Cons: smelly, short temper and you eat like a pig.

Werefox – Pros: cunning, quick, tricky, nice coat, big furry tail, get to either be, or hang out with, vixens. Cons: you have to eat mice, live in a hole in the ground, and deal with beagles.

Wererat – Pros: sociable, disease-resistant, always employable in the sciences sector. Cons: LARGE “eeww” factor, hard to get a date and terriers hate you.

Wereraven – Pros: can fly, great sense of humour and you get a large collection of bright shiny objects. Cons: tendency to talk too much, kleptomania.

Wereseal – you get to swim, hang out on ice floes and be in the media once a year. Cons: you gotta like sushi.

Weretiger – big teeth, pretty coat, can jump and climb. Cons: picky eaters, lots of people are allergic to you and you might have to live in Siberia.

Werewolf – you’ve seen the movies.

So, which one would you pick?

How do porcupines…..

Old joke.  Very carefully.

But what does a porcupine therapist tell his needlessly overanxious patients?

“Take a quill pill.”

*runs like hell*

CanCon Arthuriana

Book recommendations:  The Dream of Eagles cycle, by Jack Whyte.  He’s Canadian, which is nifty, and his story traces the origins of King Arhtur from the last years of the Roman occupation of Britain through to Arthur’s death and the end of his kingdom.  There’s eight books in the series, The Skystone, The Singing Sword, The Eagles’ Brood, The Saxon Shore, The Sorcerer (2 volumes), Uther, Clothar the Frank and The Eagle.

All are massive tomes, averaging around 600-700 pages each, but the story-telling, characters and historical and cultural texture is enthralling.  The stories never seem ponderous or overblown, instead being engaging and entertaining.

The author’s website is www.camulod.com.

Read them.  They’re good for you.

In the “very cool” department…….swordsmith in New Brunswick

Meet Jake Powning.  I just ran across this extremely interesting fellow’s website not long ago and I keep coming back to it.  He’s a bladesmith living in rural New Brunswick (Markhamville, I think) and his work is just incredible.  He makes swords, daggers, knives and walking sticks in the Celtic and Norse traditions, with intricate detail and consummate skill.

Even if you’re not a sword freak like me, check out his work….it’s wonderful art, and sharp too!

Website – http://www.powning.com/jake/home/j_homepg.shtml

Dragon poop

Everybody went blueberry picking this Labour Day.  Everyone is Me, Katherine, Heather (sister) Bob (her SO), their kids, Jean and Eleanor and Bauers: Shelley and progeny Katie and Sam.

On the way down to the pickin’ spot, about 20 minutes’ walk into the barrens, I walked with Sam and the conversation turned to dragons, as it is wont to do when I walk with Sam.  He just turned seven and is fascinated with swords, dragons and all such other important things as is rightly proper for a lad his age.  He’ll never grow out of it either:

Sam:    “Are there dragons here?”

Me:    “There might be.  You should look for dragon poop.  It’s the best way to tell if dragons are nearby and by the freshness, you can tell how recently they’ve been there.”

Sam:    “Hmm.”

He chewed on this for a while.  Sam likes to explore all aspects of a problem.

About half an hour passes.  Evidently Sam’s deep thoughts on draconic scatology have had a personal biological reaction, for he announces, “I need to pee and poo.  Where’s the bathroom?”  as he looks around at the vista of hills and barrens, clouds, sunshine and blue, blue sky.

No bathrooms appear.  So I told him that he’d have to poop in the woods.  He asked how.

And so began his first lesson in the manly art of pooping in the woods.  (I tend to use another word, myself, but this is a family blog.)

Now, I’m sure there’s a womanly art of pooping in the woods, but I’ve no personal experience with it and even if I did, I wouldn’t be teaching it to a seven-year-old boy.  First off, as I explained to Sam, you need a stick to dig a cathole, some toilet paper and a bag to put said paper in when you’re finished with it.  Deeper into the woods, you bury it in the cathole, but when you can, you pack it out.

The second thing to do is scope out the real estate and as always, what counts is location, location, location. You want a spot at least 100′ away from any traveled path, sufficiently screened by the local flora, not close to any running water and with a good view of the surrounding countryside.  Extra points for an ocean view.

Sam interrupted me at this point.  “What’s the view for?”

Me:    “It’s to add to the whole experience.  A good poop in the woods should be enjoyable in each and every aspect.  It’s the details that count here, boy.  How often do you get to have a vista like this on the toilet?”

Sam: “Oh.”

So we find this spot.  No ocean view, but you can’t have everything.  Sam starts the cathole and  I finish it.  I turn my back to preserve his modesty and he takes care of the first part of business.

Me:    “Well, don’t you have something else to do?”

Sam:    “Nope.”

Me:    “You said you needed to poop too, remember?”

Sam:    “No, I need someone else to poop so I can smell it so I can tell the difference between it and dragon poop.”

I was good.  I didn’t dump him headfirst in the nearest bog.