"Ah, good to see you again, old friend. Come sit down."
The pale man beckons with one hand toward the towering fellow who has just stepped into his chambers. His other grips the stem of a goblet full of something crimson. A smile crinkles his angular features as he watches his old friend lower his lengthy frame into the armchair across the table.
"It's good to be seen and good to sit," the tall man says, "I always appreciate the size of your furniture."
"Grand scale is not always for the sake of extravagance. Some of us do think of more than just impressing others with our furnishings. You sound like you could use a drink."
"I've learned that any time is a good time for a drink though I don't think I'll be having what you are. Something strong and brown should do me fine."
The pale man nods to the butler at the door who immediately attends toward preparing something for their guest.
"It's not easy to come upon a good beverage in your travels, I know. I'm glad that I can offer you something finer than you'd likely scrounge for yourself."
"I can scrounge better than any but even so, it would be no comparison."
He reaches out with a large leathery hand to take the tumbler from the butler, a smile parting his thin black lips. The two men nod and raise their glasses.
"To what, old friend?" the pale man asks with a raised eyebrow.
"To respite, well-worn friendship, and to the drink itself."
"A damn fine toast."
Glasses clink and their contents are sipped. The pale man raises a seemingly clawed finger.
"Perhaps we should have toasted the days of old, overdone though it may be."
"For nostalgia's sake?"
"For our own sake, old friend. Nostalgia be damned, we've merely lived from misery to misery but there was something about our earlier days, something about the reverence and the passion. There was a certain vitality."
"Speak for yourself. I've taken great efforts to distance myself from my youthful passions. I seek not reverence but anonymity."
"Ah, yes, of course, you would rather fade into the crowd than have it stand in terrible awe around you."
"In so many ways as we are cut from the same cloth, we are not. While I seek only compassion in the hearts of man, you seek their hearts for very...different...reasons."
The pale man smirks and eyes his drink.
"You must feel somewhat insulted by their general perception of you, though? The shuffling simpleton, the gargantuan man-child, the misunderstood brute. It's offensive."
"I cannot deny they are all truth in part, my friend."
"Curse your aged bones! The younger you would have squeezed the breath from them!"
"And that is but one proof their portrayal of me as a fool is not so inaccurate."
"You are a fool now for not putting terror in their breast!"
"Perhaps it's best we pause to drink before this fool-talk brings us to blows."
The pale man snorts amusedly and reaches for his glass. Pausing before he takes a sip he cocks his head with a reflective glance toward the ceiling.
"Perhaps I am being the fool, old friend. You have a grace for them that I cannot muster. While the years have given you perspective, I can still only see red when they besmirch my good name," he gives an amused glance down at his drink before taking a swig.
"Heh. We both know you'll see red regardless of whether they speak well or ill of you."
"Fair point indeed. But I won't have you painting me as the only one with certain....passions...festering in the pit of me."
"I will readily admit they are forever clawing at the door, old friend. You could say parts of me want to indulge in such affairs and truthfully I may be more parts than I am myself, after all."
"And what if you should open that door? What if you should let those parts that would crush their throat in your grasp run free, if but for an evening?"
The giant sits unmoving and for a moment there is nothing but the tick of the ornate grandfather clock filling the silence.
"I cannot deny I might find a satisfaction I have longed for for ages..."
"Then why not indulge with me? Why not put down our drinks, leave this table, and go out into the good night beyond these walls for but one night of the pleasures of our youth?"
Suddenly shifting and stiffening his posture, the tall man leans forward on the table, decreasing the distance between them.
"Shall I remind you of the wars that have come to your very doorstep? Shall I point to my life as a nomad forever dwelling in shadow? Shall I speak of your life as a recluse forever locked away in castle and catacomb? Shall I speak of guns, torches, and pitchforks? Shall I speak of unrest, of uncertainty, of the world ready to descend upon you with unflinching determination to end your very existence? These are your days of old, these are your nostalgic longings, these are the reasons why I keep the doors within me bolted shut, old friend. I will not deny that there is a monster straining beneath my skin, seeking to burst through every scar that crosses my flesh, but he must remain a under lock and key, a prisoner and a relic, a reminder of who I was and who they made me and who I do not wish to be."
The pale man smiles and gives a slow applause.
"Bravo, my friend, bravo. I assure you I do not clap with insincerity but again must reiterate my utmost respect for your firm determination to be a better man."
"One must be a man to be a better man. I can only attempt to be less of a demon."
"In truth, you are an inspiration, a voice of reason against the dark hunger that claws at my innards. Were it not for discussions like this I would no doubt find myself giving in to my vices. Rather than having a pleasant evening with a dear friend, I would be defending myself among the ashen ruins of this place against a horde of them with a bloodlust that puts my own to shame. Thank you for keeping me in check, comrade."
"Your words are flattering and I must return your gratitude. You do well to tempt me, I must confess, for it causes me to fortify my resolve. Left to my own devises I worry that I might easily regress but you provide a landmark with which I might find my bearings amidst the fog."
The pale man raises his glass.
"I believe we should drink to our friendship once more!"
The giant nods and glasses clink. For a moment they sit in the quiet, in the savoring of the peace and acceptance they find at this table. The pale man raises gnarled fingers to thoughtfully stroke his goatee.
"What more are you pondering, old friend?" the tall man asks.
"I am debating the best approach to confess my true intentions for inviting you here this night."
"You need not map a course, my friend, but tell me plainly."
"I know how we might find fulfillment for our darkest desires. I know an outlet, a reason and a cause for which we can open the doors wide to unleash and gratify the snarling beasts within our bones."
"I cannot deny my reservations are outweighed by my curiosity."
"There are others. More like us than like them. They come from the other side of the curtain. They have begun to rise up and to spread, slowly at first but their numbers are increasing. They are like a sickness, a plague, a mindless cancer seeking only to consume. We are immune, due to our...unique..nature, invulnerable to infection. This makes us ideally suited to combat this disease. If you truly seek to make reparations for your past then find yourself the will to join me in seeking out and destroying this emerging disease."
Leaning back in contemplation, the tall man's heavy brow furrows above his yellow eyes.
"I have heard murmurs of those of whom you speak. Only the faintest of whispers, fragments of information unfit to be pieced together. I had hoped to find kindred spirits but...purpose, above all else, has forever eluded me."
"Then find it here, my friend. Find it in dismantling this wretched affliction. While this thoughtless swarm might not taste fear as we descend upon them, we can still find the solace of old in rending them to pieces. And you can rest easy knowing we do not assault those with beating heart and light of life but only those who have already crossed the dark divide and now walk as puppets of the simplest of instinct. You can crush their skull without the slightest remorse but instead with the assurance that you are bettering and protecting humankind."
"Something stirs within me, old friend. Indeed, I would say two things: first, the firey-eyed deamon who thirsts to slake his rage, a companion I will now need to learn to wrangle at my command, and second, a fresh, new face, someone who has been struggling to have his birth for some time, a steely-eyed fellow of heroic resolve."
"You may very well be more parts than whole, old friend, but I do believe in this battle you might find you can merge them and find a wholeness you've never known."
"I must admit, you are doing a wonderful job of rallying me to your cause."
"Our cause."
"I believe a final toast is in order then, my dear Dracula."
"Then raise your glass, for they will no longer know you as the wretched fiend of Frankenstein's creation but as a noble warrior and champion for their survival."
"To new found purpose!"
"To the battle before us!"
"To the days ahead, for they shall shine so bright as to drown out the shadows of the past!"
"To spilling rivers of blood without remorse!"
"To not letting our zeal overtake us!"
They share a laugh as their glasses clink for the final time this night.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Friday, May 22, 2015
Weird Places for God: Part 1
God is everywhere. Dude is omnipresent. I should clarify, though, that I'm referring to the idea of God. Whether it's being thanked at awards shows or sporting events, being credited for wiping out a slew of people with a tsunami, or being sung about by N*Sync for his thorough craftsmanship, dude gets name-checked all over the place. And if you're a believer, this probably doesn't make you so much as blink. And even as a non-believer myself, for the most part, it doesn't make me blink, either. But on some occasions, in certain mediums, in certain situations, the mention of God seems just a little weird if you stop and think about it. After a handful of such occasions catching my attention, I figured it might be worth exploring them just a bit and thus, welcome to the first of a series of little blabberings about places where God seems just a little out of place.
This past Christmas my wife and I sat down to watch the Pee-Wee's Playhouse Christmas Special. Netflix just added it and since we both watched Pee-Wee as kids and hadn't seen it in a good twenty-some years, we thought we might indulge in a bit of nostalgia and holiday merriment.
Have you seen this show as an adult? Because holy crap, it is batshit crazy. I lost count of how many times my wife wondered aloud about the drugs involved or feeling like she was on some herself. Its manic and frantic and obnoxious. Every piece of furniture has a face, there are puppets literally coming out of the woodwork, there are tiny dinosaurs, a talking cow, a giant talking hand with a face painted on it, Laurence Fishburne's a cowboy, Pee-Wee can jump in and out of a computer screen...it's ADHD and LSD and glitter and screaming...just all kinds of madness. And that's just what the basic show is like, this one you've got to throw the Christmas theme over top of all that. So while Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon are making a thousand Christmas cards at Pee-Wee's request, the hyper-active man-child is eagerly anticipating Santa Claus' arrival with all his gifts. And of course, in this world, Santa Claus is totally real.
So you go through a good half an hour of zany antics and celebrity cameos and general Christmas-ness and eventually Ol' Saint Nick arrives.
And then it happens:
"The true meaning of Christmas," is mentioned.
Pee-Wee makes a turn toward the camera to give us a thirty second explanation, complete with footage of what looks like a school play enacting the events, of the story of how Jesus Christ was born in a manger to save mankind.
And then it takes a sharp turn right back into the wackiness. My wife and I both questioned if what we just saw actually happened. This brief aside was rather jarring. It felt unconnected with everything else, almost like it was an afterthought, like they'd written the whole script and were about to start filming when somebody said, "Oh shit! We forgot about Jesus! Quick, cram him in there somewhere!" Here is this show, less than an hour, full of off the wall goofiness and energy and the furthest thing from anything remotely serious beyond the moral of the story (don't be a greedy dick, Pee-Wee!) and then out of nowhere, WHAMMO! Quick jab of serious Jesus business. And before you can even process it, it's over and there's a talking pterodactyl drinking eggnog with a shirtless lifeguard who's only there to be a handsome chunk of man-steak while everyone chants along with the genie head in a box to turn the whole thing into a luau. It's like if The Terminator stopped in the middle of trying to gun down T-1000 to do a brief bit of tap-dancing before unloading another shotgun blast or Big Bird stopped singing the alphabet to momentarily remind us of the inevitable finality of death constantly looming over us before getting back to Q through Z.
If it hadn't stuck out like a sore thumb and had been melded into the goings-on a little more, I might not have given it nearly as much thought. But that thumb jabbed me in the eyeball and got my gears turning. Truth be told, they'd already shown that the tiny dinosaurs who live in the wall are Jewish and celebrating Hanukkah. That already raised a few questions in my mind but it was not so heavy-handed. A little odd but kind of cute. But then they came out of left field and resoundingly underlined that God and Jesus exist and matter in this living cartoon. And that's pretty weird if you think about it.
Jesus was God in human form, so God would know and understand our mortal existence but does he know what it's like to be Chairry? Does he know what it's like to have a rambunctious twerp regularly sit on your face? Does he know what its like to be farted on by a boisterous man-boy? Does he understand the suffering of being a piece of furniture? Maybe he should have come to earth as a La-Z-Boy.
If there are living, breathing, sentient clocks and globes and floorboards, do they have souls? Will Magic Screen go to heaven when he dies? Or will he be damned for his ungodly Magic? People might say my cat won't go to heaven but what if my cat is anthropomorphic and plays the bongos? On which day did God create the living furniture? Or are these man-made abominations? Is this whole house actually the devil's work?
In this world, Santa Claus is real, singing flowers are real, a giant joke-telling hand with a face is real, and Our Lord God in Christ Jesus is real because any logic you might use to conclude that none of that stuff makes sense and defies reason is completely out the window in Pee-Wee's Playhouse. Logic does not exist here. But then what about other gods? Same logic applies...er, doesn't apply. So, they must all exist there, too? In that case, I don't know about you, but I'd pay good money to see Thor drop by...actual Norse Thor or sexy movie Thor, I'd be fine with either for fairly different reasons.
Anyway, in conclusion, yeah, I might over-think things. Especially God-related things. But for a very long time I was afraid to question and think too hard about those things so now I do and I sometimes do with a vengeance. Call it making up for lost efforts or something. Maybe this is all a stupid waste of time but thinking and questioning are good things, you can't really do it too much. It's good to stretch your mind, even if you are just wondering about some bullshit on a kid's show. I'm not saying they shouldn't have mentioned this stuff on this show, I'm just saying it was a really weird place for God.
This past Christmas my wife and I sat down to watch the Pee-Wee's Playhouse Christmas Special. Netflix just added it and since we both watched Pee-Wee as kids and hadn't seen it in a good twenty-some years, we thought we might indulge in a bit of nostalgia and holiday merriment.
Have you seen this show as an adult? Because holy crap, it is batshit crazy. I lost count of how many times my wife wondered aloud about the drugs involved or feeling like she was on some herself. Its manic and frantic and obnoxious. Every piece of furniture has a face, there are puppets literally coming out of the woodwork, there are tiny dinosaurs, a talking cow, a giant talking hand with a face painted on it, Laurence Fishburne's a cowboy, Pee-Wee can jump in and out of a computer screen...it's ADHD and LSD and glitter and screaming...just all kinds of madness. And that's just what the basic show is like, this one you've got to throw the Christmas theme over top of all that. So while Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon are making a thousand Christmas cards at Pee-Wee's request, the hyper-active man-child is eagerly anticipating Santa Claus' arrival with all his gifts. And of course, in this world, Santa Claus is totally real.
So you go through a good half an hour of zany antics and celebrity cameos and general Christmas-ness and eventually Ol' Saint Nick arrives.
And then it happens:
"The true meaning of Christmas," is mentioned.
Pee-Wee makes a turn toward the camera to give us a thirty second explanation, complete with footage of what looks like a school play enacting the events, of the story of how Jesus Christ was born in a manger to save mankind.
And then it takes a sharp turn right back into the wackiness. My wife and I both questioned if what we just saw actually happened. This brief aside was rather jarring. It felt unconnected with everything else, almost like it was an afterthought, like they'd written the whole script and were about to start filming when somebody said, "Oh shit! We forgot about Jesus! Quick, cram him in there somewhere!" Here is this show, less than an hour, full of off the wall goofiness and energy and the furthest thing from anything remotely serious beyond the moral of the story (don't be a greedy dick, Pee-Wee!) and then out of nowhere, WHAMMO! Quick jab of serious Jesus business. And before you can even process it, it's over and there's a talking pterodactyl drinking eggnog with a shirtless lifeguard who's only there to be a handsome chunk of man-steak while everyone chants along with the genie head in a box to turn the whole thing into a luau. It's like if The Terminator stopped in the middle of trying to gun down T-1000 to do a brief bit of tap-dancing before unloading another shotgun blast or Big Bird stopped singing the alphabet to momentarily remind us of the inevitable finality of death constantly looming over us before getting back to Q through Z.
If it hadn't stuck out like a sore thumb and had been melded into the goings-on a little more, I might not have given it nearly as much thought. But that thumb jabbed me in the eyeball and got my gears turning. Truth be told, they'd already shown that the tiny dinosaurs who live in the wall are Jewish and celebrating Hanukkah. That already raised a few questions in my mind but it was not so heavy-handed. A little odd but kind of cute. But then they came out of left field and resoundingly underlined that God and Jesus exist and matter in this living cartoon. And that's pretty weird if you think about it.
Jesus was God in human form, so God would know and understand our mortal existence but does he know what it's like to be Chairry? Does he know what it's like to have a rambunctious twerp regularly sit on your face? Does he know what its like to be farted on by a boisterous man-boy? Does he understand the suffering of being a piece of furniture? Maybe he should have come to earth as a La-Z-Boy.
If there are living, breathing, sentient clocks and globes and floorboards, do they have souls? Will Magic Screen go to heaven when he dies? Or will he be damned for his ungodly Magic? People might say my cat won't go to heaven but what if my cat is anthropomorphic and plays the bongos? On which day did God create the living furniture? Or are these man-made abominations? Is this whole house actually the devil's work?
In this world, Santa Claus is real, singing flowers are real, a giant joke-telling hand with a face is real, and Our Lord God in Christ Jesus is real because any logic you might use to conclude that none of that stuff makes sense and defies reason is completely out the window in Pee-Wee's Playhouse. Logic does not exist here. But then what about other gods? Same logic applies...er, doesn't apply. So, they must all exist there, too? In that case, I don't know about you, but I'd pay good money to see Thor drop by...actual Norse Thor or sexy movie Thor, I'd be fine with either for fairly different reasons.
[I can almost smell the smouldering crater already]
Anyway, in conclusion, yeah, I might over-think things. Especially God-related things. But for a very long time I was afraid to question and think too hard about those things so now I do and I sometimes do with a vengeance. Call it making up for lost efforts or something. Maybe this is all a stupid waste of time but thinking and questioning are good things, you can't really do it too much. It's good to stretch your mind, even if you are just wondering about some bullshit on a kid's show. I'm not saying they shouldn't have mentioned this stuff on this show, I'm just saying it was a really weird place for God.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Ol' Squeebishaw
The old man invites us to "Gather 'round, gather 'round". He sucks on a pipe with a mouth that has teeth in the single digits. It only took one cocked eyebrow and one sentence of wondering just what in the hell a 'Squeebishaw' was for him to pounce. Much like he might lead you to some old crate full of musty treasures, he was eager to open this box of knowledge but did it with a deliberate pace. There is a certain ritual to this, I imagine, an order of events that he follows with each curious tourist who passes through his shop. It starts with the yellowing poster tacked to the wall, then your eyebrow raises, a questioning murmur escapes your lips, and there he is, ready to lead you through the rest of the paces. His steps as he moves toward you, the timing of his speech, his movements as he tells you the tale, all a part of a ceremony that's become second nature to him. How many times has he done this?
"'Course you ain't hearda Ol' Squeebishaw...you ain't from anywhere near here. Where you from?"
Our answer doesn't matter, we're just playing our part. His response will be a chuckle whether we say New York City or Nowhere-You've-Ever-Heard-Of, USA.
"Yeup. Ol' Squeebishaw, he stay close. He love this town. Love it deeply."
Maybe we ought to talk about that poster, the one that got this ball rolling. 'Poster' is a generous term, it's maybe twice the size of your standard sheet of paper. It's in sepia tones, gridded with creases as though it had been folded up for the majority of its existence. 'DO YOU DARE?' it asks above a rough sketch of forest with a dark angular figure slinking among the trunks. 'CALL UPON OL' SQUEEBISHAW?' it asks as though that's a second question and not a continuation of the first. Beneath that it becomes an event promotion with time and date and location. I guess if you dare, you dare then and there? Old Man will clear this up soon, I assume.
"He live in the trees. There a tree, there Squeebishaw. He up in there even though you can't see him. He there. Always."
Of course you don't start with, "Squeebishaw is a giant squirrel" or "Squeebishaw is a mutant chimpanzee." You don't get right to the point and answer the question. We'd be done and gone. Things need drama and intrigue, you've got to keep the mystery brewing. That's why you shoot down questions. You don't get a word in asking for clarification before you're hushed. This is his thing, let him do it.
"He watch. He wait. He come in the fall. He come when the moon orange and the sky purple. He come when he ready, when we ready, when it time."
Each nugget of info is punctuated by a long drag on the pipe. Pacing. Masterful. Drag this thing out. Ramp up our curiosity until we're damn-near vibrating. But then I fear he'll just walk away.
"He come down out the trees...gangly ol' Squeebishaw, branchy Ol' Squeebishaw..if you know how to call. If you know how to invite him. You invite him right an' he will come to you. Time gotta be right. Gotta follow the rules, gotta do what he want, gotta do it just right."
I can see where this is going. Those fears weren't off base. He's going to lead us on right to the edge and then, with a grin on his leathery face, he's going to walk away. We'll have to go on from there. We want to know just what in the hell Ol' Squeebishaw is? Well, we gotta do the dance. We gotta put in the work. We gotta invite the gangly bastard out of the trees. Of course.
"You sit under the orange moon, under the purple sky, you sit 'roud with your eyes closed. You need three things: goose, bucket, an' two penny."
So there's a shopping list involved. Good thing we're in a store. I can see a bucket from here. There's probably a goose out back. Hopefully they cost $9.98 so I can pay with a tenner.
"One penny go in bucket, one penny go in goose. It don't matter which end."
I assure you it'll be the front end, good sir.
"An' then you call on him, you call on him the way he like. You gotta sing his name, slow, you sing it slow and long...like you callin' your lover...but you gotta keep them eyes closed, you gotta keep them clamped shut. An' then he come. He come out the trees with his gangly bones...come with saucer eyes...come with snaggle teeth.
He come to you, he be with you, he be among you, Ol' Squeebishaw move among you, and you hear him breathe an' you feel him warm an' you smell him terrible...but you do not open them eyes, hear? You do not try an' see him or SLURP! SLURP! He eat them eyes like grapes an' then he gone, hear?"
We hear. Eyes closed or they're grapes, check.
And that's essentially where he leaves it. Takes us as far as he knows to go and then points us toward the park on the poster. Work 'em up to a fever and then walk away. Classic.
So we buy the bucket and sure enough, he has a goose on stand by. Two cents in my pocket and away we go. The sun's setting soon and that big orange moon will be in the purple sky before too long.
Nice little park. Lots of trees.
It's not often you have to get a goose to eat a penny and thank god for that because brother, it is a challenge. Much harder than putting one in a bucket.
We circle up. Bucket's in the middle, goose is wandering about making a rather awful honk as it tries to cough up President Lincoln.
Eyes closed.
For real, you guys, keep 'em shut.
Remember: SLURP! SLURP! Grapes!
He never said if the song had to be a solo or group effort so we all join voices with less than harmonious results.
"Squeeeeeeebishawwwwwww...
Squeeeeeebishaaaaaawwww...
Squeeeeeebishaaaaaawwwwww..."
And then...
"'Course you ain't hearda Ol' Squeebishaw...you ain't from anywhere near here. Where you from?"
Our answer doesn't matter, we're just playing our part. His response will be a chuckle whether we say New York City or Nowhere-You've-Ever-Heard-Of, USA.
"Yeup. Ol' Squeebishaw, he stay close. He love this town. Love it deeply."
Maybe we ought to talk about that poster, the one that got this ball rolling. 'Poster' is a generous term, it's maybe twice the size of your standard sheet of paper. It's in sepia tones, gridded with creases as though it had been folded up for the majority of its existence. 'DO YOU DARE?' it asks above a rough sketch of forest with a dark angular figure slinking among the trunks. 'CALL UPON OL' SQUEEBISHAW?' it asks as though that's a second question and not a continuation of the first. Beneath that it becomes an event promotion with time and date and location. I guess if you dare, you dare then and there? Old Man will clear this up soon, I assume.
"He live in the trees. There a tree, there Squeebishaw. He up in there even though you can't see him. He there. Always."
Of course you don't start with, "Squeebishaw is a giant squirrel" or "Squeebishaw is a mutant chimpanzee." You don't get right to the point and answer the question. We'd be done and gone. Things need drama and intrigue, you've got to keep the mystery brewing. That's why you shoot down questions. You don't get a word in asking for clarification before you're hushed. This is his thing, let him do it.
"He watch. He wait. He come in the fall. He come when the moon orange and the sky purple. He come when he ready, when we ready, when it time."
Each nugget of info is punctuated by a long drag on the pipe. Pacing. Masterful. Drag this thing out. Ramp up our curiosity until we're damn-near vibrating. But then I fear he'll just walk away.
"He come down out the trees...gangly ol' Squeebishaw, branchy Ol' Squeebishaw..if you know how to call. If you know how to invite him. You invite him right an' he will come to you. Time gotta be right. Gotta follow the rules, gotta do what he want, gotta do it just right."
I can see where this is going. Those fears weren't off base. He's going to lead us on right to the edge and then, with a grin on his leathery face, he's going to walk away. We'll have to go on from there. We want to know just what in the hell Ol' Squeebishaw is? Well, we gotta do the dance. We gotta put in the work. We gotta invite the gangly bastard out of the trees. Of course.
"You sit under the orange moon, under the purple sky, you sit 'roud with your eyes closed. You need three things: goose, bucket, an' two penny."
So there's a shopping list involved. Good thing we're in a store. I can see a bucket from here. There's probably a goose out back. Hopefully they cost $9.98 so I can pay with a tenner.
"One penny go in bucket, one penny go in goose. It don't matter which end."
I assure you it'll be the front end, good sir.
"An' then you call on him, you call on him the way he like. You gotta sing his name, slow, you sing it slow and long...like you callin' your lover...but you gotta keep them eyes closed, you gotta keep them clamped shut. An' then he come. He come out the trees with his gangly bones...come with saucer eyes...come with snaggle teeth.
He come to you, he be with you, he be among you, Ol' Squeebishaw move among you, and you hear him breathe an' you feel him warm an' you smell him terrible...but you do not open them eyes, hear? You do not try an' see him or SLURP! SLURP! He eat them eyes like grapes an' then he gone, hear?"
We hear. Eyes closed or they're grapes, check.
And that's essentially where he leaves it. Takes us as far as he knows to go and then points us toward the park on the poster. Work 'em up to a fever and then walk away. Classic.
So we buy the bucket and sure enough, he has a goose on stand by. Two cents in my pocket and away we go. The sun's setting soon and that big orange moon will be in the purple sky before too long.
Nice little park. Lots of trees.
It's not often you have to get a goose to eat a penny and thank god for that because brother, it is a challenge. Much harder than putting one in a bucket.
We circle up. Bucket's in the middle, goose is wandering about making a rather awful honk as it tries to cough up President Lincoln.
Eyes closed.
For real, you guys, keep 'em shut.
Remember: SLURP! SLURP! Grapes!
He never said if the song had to be a solo or group effort so we all join voices with less than harmonious results.
"Squeeeeeeebishawwwwwww...
Squeeeeeebishaaaaaawwww...
Squeeeeeebishaaaaaawwwwww..."
And then...
Muppet of the Fortnight: Animal
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We're going to start with the one that used to be my favorite, Animal. 'Used to be', eh? Do explain, mth!
Righto, well, back when I was a wee pup, Animal was my favorite. I thought he was awesome. For those who don't know beans about The Muppets, Animal is a bestial rock 'n' roll drummer with a limited vocabulary prone to getting overly enthusiastic, chasing folks, and beating the ever-loving crap out of his drumset.
So, why did little me love him so? A few reasons, I think:
-His comedy is simple. It isn't clever wordplay or satire. It isn't jokes that would fly over the head of a six year old. I suppose part of the reason for that is that he's portrayed as a fairly simple-minded character that talks like a caveman. Easy for a kid to understand his dialogue. A lot of it is him reacting to things with his classic look of confusion or embarrassment, where his thick bushy eyebrows drop and he breathes heavy, the hair on his face somehow seeming to wave with each exhale. Or he perks up, eyes wide, jaw slowly dropping into an open-mouth grin before bellowing about whatever it is and flipping right out. Chasing people, biting people, headbutting a snare drum, and being an idiot are things a kid can appreciate.
-He is easy to imitate. A lot of the Muppets have very distinct voices and that's part of the reason folks struggle to accept new voice actors if they can't nail the classic sound of the character. Animal, though? A bit of gruffness and then just shout. You may not be bang on but trust me, if the gist is there, it'll be pretty obvious to anyone who's familiar and much better than your Kermit impression. Go ahead, try it:
"AN-I-MAL! A-NI-MAL!"
"WO-MAN! WO-MAN!"
"DRUM SOLO! HEH HEH HEH!"
If your spouse/roommate/stalker-in-the-closet knows The Muppets, they'll know who you just impersonated. So as a kid, it was easy to impress yourself and your friends and have a laugh at your dynamite Animal impression.
-He is a bit of an outcast. I've always been drawn to the freaks and weirdos. Quasimodo, Frankenstein's monster, X-Men's Beast, these were my dudes and Animal kind of fits into that crowd. A lot of the other Muppets may be animals but most of them are pretty human as far as intelligence and behavior are concerned. Animal's a peg down from that, not quite on the level of the chickens but they've got the dude on a chain for god's sake! He doesn't quite fit in as an equal and he's even referenced to and treated as a pet in some instances but dammit, he's a Muppet, too! He has thoughts and feelings! They may be a bit simpler and he may not be able to express them clearly and without eating a cymbal but they're just as valid as Fozzie's or Gonzo's!
We could probably delve deeper into my psyche to figure out more but I'm not sure either of us are ready for that. So, why did I say, 'used to be my favorite'? What's changed?
Well, I do still like him. I've got a couple t-shirts with his grinning mug on them. But I've grown up. Over the past decades, I've grown to appreciate other characters the younger me overlooked. For example, little me probably thought Kermit was boring and spotlight-hogging (I accidentally typed that as 'hopping' at first, it should be noted) but older me gets him better now, appreciates his heart and determination, gets witty remarks, and so forth (can't explain too much or this'll just turn into my Kermit entry!). So while I still dig Animal, the playing field has levelled out a bit more and truthfully, sometimes his antics don't do much for me and even annoy me. Sometimes I think he's a little too one trick, almost predictable because of being a bit of a simpler character.
RANDOM THING! Sometimes Animal has a tail. It's a bit like a lion's tail, a long orange thing with a tuft of red on the end. You can see it clearly when he's clamped on that dude's ankle and getting dragged around in The Muppets Take Manhattan. I've seen it in a few other instances as well but the vast majority of the time, he's tail-free. Maybe it's tucked down his trouser leg, maybe he got it surgically removed. Probably a sensitive issue so I wouldn't ask unless you want your face bitten off.
Now how the hell do I wrap this up...?
Favorite Animal Moment?
Sure, let's do that.
I have to say what immediately sprang to mind when considering it was a scene near the end of The Muppet Movie where the feral fellow eats Dr. Honeydew's insta-grow pills. A forty foot Animal's grinning maw bursting through the roof was a striking visual that stuck with me to this day.
I'm not sure how they did the scene but a part of me hopes there's an Animal head the size of a minivan out there in the world. Part of me hope someone lives in it, too. *insert Animal House joke here*
In closing, Animal's an iconic member of the group with an instantly recognizable look and personality. He's pop culture. I owe a lot to him for getting me into The Muppets, he was good gateway character for an idiot kid. And while he may not top my list today, he still holds a place in my heart. Aww.
Take us out with a drum solo, you magnificent shaggy bastard...
Off with a sputter...
Well, of course.
Of course I'd finally buckle down after months of saying, "Man, I oughtta start a blog!" and finally do just that only to hit that inevitable brick wall of doubt. Am I writing something anyone's going to to want to read? Is what I've writing good enough? Interesting? Funny? So I've got a nearly finished post, the first installment of my Muppet series, sitting in the tank and here I am writing this instead of finishing that. I've edited and reread that post several times and even considered just scrapping the whole thing for now. And now I'm wondering if I've put the key in the ignition, started the car, and now am just going to sit in the driveway until the gas runs out.
So how do I tackle this beast of a thing that's keeping me from blogging my little heart out?
Well, first of all I should probably remind myself that no one reads the damn blog yet. I just started it. I made one post. I plugged it on Facebook but no one commented. So as it stands, I think the only people who've read that first post thus far are my wife and myself. If no one's watching, I can go ahead and make a damn fool of myself and not worry about anyone laughing.
But that's the thing, I shouldn't give a hoot anyway, I should just put it out there. I'm a really big fan of not giving a hoot about what other people think of you and your whole thing, it's practically my motto, and here I am doing just that about a post on a blog no one reads.
Excuse me while I slap myself.
The other thing is, I like doubt. I'm a big fan of doubt. I think it's a virtue. It makes you question, it makes you investigate, it makes you prepare. It makes you try that much harder to be that much surer. As long as you don't let it defeat you, doubt's a damn fine tool for being better. And I've already used it to refine the unposted post. I just need to say, "Alright, Doubt, ol' chum, thanks for your help but I'll take it from here," and let go of my dear friend's hand.
It's not even a bad post. It's probably a pretty good post.
And I'll be publishing it in just a few minutes.
Because c'mon, geez.
Of course I'd finally buckle down after months of saying, "Man, I oughtta start a blog!" and finally do just that only to hit that inevitable brick wall of doubt. Am I writing something anyone's going to to want to read? Is what I've writing good enough? Interesting? Funny? So I've got a nearly finished post, the first installment of my Muppet series, sitting in the tank and here I am writing this instead of finishing that. I've edited and reread that post several times and even considered just scrapping the whole thing for now. And now I'm wondering if I've put the key in the ignition, started the car, and now am just going to sit in the driveway until the gas runs out.
So how do I tackle this beast of a thing that's keeping me from blogging my little heart out?
Well, first of all I should probably remind myself that no one reads the damn blog yet. I just started it. I made one post. I plugged it on Facebook but no one commented. So as it stands, I think the only people who've read that first post thus far are my wife and myself. If no one's watching, I can go ahead and make a damn fool of myself and not worry about anyone laughing.
But that's the thing, I shouldn't give a hoot anyway, I should just put it out there. I'm a really big fan of not giving a hoot about what other people think of you and your whole thing, it's practically my motto, and here I am doing just that about a post on a blog no one reads.
Excuse me while I slap myself.
The other thing is, I like doubt. I'm a big fan of doubt. I think it's a virtue. It makes you question, it makes you investigate, it makes you prepare. It makes you try that much harder to be that much surer. As long as you don't let it defeat you, doubt's a damn fine tool for being better. And I've already used it to refine the unposted post. I just need to say, "Alright, Doubt, ol' chum, thanks for your help but I'll take it from here," and let go of my dear friend's hand.
It's not even a bad post. It's probably a pretty good post.
And I'll be publishing it in just a few minutes.
Because c'mon, geez.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Onward, Upward, and Always Twirling
Here we are, you and me, at the start of a thing called a blog. I am just another idiot who thinks what's in his head oughtta be words other people can read and you're...well, you're the poor sap that's giving me a moment of your time. For that, I thank you and probably ought to apologize in advance. I can't promise this is going to be anything close to worth it but by golly, I'm gonna do my damnedest to make this something someone other than myself might think worthwhile. If it makes you feel any better, I've been mulling over writing one of these for a good year or so and have had a lot of ideas rattling around, so hopefully I can polish those up and knock out content fairly regularly.
So, what can you expect here at Climb Out of My Nose? You can expect to climb out of my goddamn nose, that's what.
*cough!*
You can expect bad attempts at humor for starters. I'm going to probably do some random creative writing type stuff, probably have a couple of regular features (something of the month, maybe Muppet maybe pro wrestler, maybe monster, maybe all of the above), and then just spout my bullshit if the mood strikes. I'm into pro wrestling, monsters, comic books, and animals to name a few interests. Married. Atheist. Bisexual. Cut my own hair. Wear too many bracelets. Rather than just spit out various words about me I should just let the blog do the talking.
First hurdle I had to overcome in becoming a blogger was that pesky title. I wanted to go with 'Indifferent Plumbing' initially but then I googled and it didn't seem as unique as I'd first thought. So I sat here for damn near an hour throwing out various phrases and then staring at them in the box before deleting them. Some made second and third appearances. Considered the well worn 'just another idiot with a blog' approach, various song lyrics ("One of a Million Wandering Children" seemed a bit long), childhood nicknames ('The Goobug's Yabber"), and really lingered for awhile on 'Hot Mandrill Sex'...that was the front-runner for a good five minutes. So, what's up with the current title, you ask? Dave Letterman went on a rant about it on the Late Show when I was younger that had me laughing my ass off and it's stuck with me ever since. "What I want you to do is go to the tool shed, get a ladder, and climb out of my nose!" No idea what ol' Dave was on about but it's weirdness and I dig weirdness. You'll understand that soon enough.
Second hurdle: do I swear? You have to consider your audience but you also have to be genuine. In real life, I'm known to fire off some salty language here and there. I feel it adds color and punch and expresses things better than the softer alternatives. At the same time, my dear sweet mother might want to read my ramblings and not be so fond of her son popping off f-bombs. So what's a boy supposed to do? Sorry, Mom, but there may occasionally be some adult language from your adult son.
I think that's long enough for an intro. Maybe too long? I honestly know jack-diddly about blogging protocol, I'm just diving in like an idiot. So come swim with this idiot if you'd like and hopefully we don't drown.
So, what can you expect here at Climb Out of My Nose? You can expect to climb out of my goddamn nose, that's what.
*cough!*
You can expect bad attempts at humor for starters. I'm going to probably do some random creative writing type stuff, probably have a couple of regular features (something of the month, maybe Muppet maybe pro wrestler, maybe monster, maybe all of the above), and then just spout my bullshit if the mood strikes. I'm into pro wrestling, monsters, comic books, and animals to name a few interests. Married. Atheist. Bisexual. Cut my own hair. Wear too many bracelets. Rather than just spit out various words about me I should just let the blog do the talking.
First hurdle I had to overcome in becoming a blogger was that pesky title. I wanted to go with 'Indifferent Plumbing' initially but then I googled and it didn't seem as unique as I'd first thought. So I sat here for damn near an hour throwing out various phrases and then staring at them in the box before deleting them. Some made second and third appearances. Considered the well worn 'just another idiot with a blog' approach, various song lyrics ("One of a Million Wandering Children" seemed a bit long), childhood nicknames ('The Goobug's Yabber"), and really lingered for awhile on 'Hot Mandrill Sex'...that was the front-runner for a good five minutes. So, what's up with the current title, you ask? Dave Letterman went on a rant about it on the Late Show when I was younger that had me laughing my ass off and it's stuck with me ever since. "What I want you to do is go to the tool shed, get a ladder, and climb out of my nose!" No idea what ol' Dave was on about but it's weirdness and I dig weirdness. You'll understand that soon enough.
Second hurdle: do I swear? You have to consider your audience but you also have to be genuine. In real life, I'm known to fire off some salty language here and there. I feel it adds color and punch and expresses things better than the softer alternatives. At the same time, my dear sweet mother might want to read my ramblings and not be so fond of her son popping off f-bombs. So what's a boy supposed to do? Sorry, Mom, but there may occasionally be some adult language from your adult son.
I think that's long enough for an intro. Maybe too long? I honestly know jack-diddly about blogging protocol, I'm just diving in like an idiot. So come swim with this idiot if you'd like and hopefully we don't drown.
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