Review of "The Amazing, Fantastic, Stupendously Ugly Christmas Sweater"

    “The best Christmas gift I ever received,” said my Grandpa Arnie, “was the amazing, fantastic, stupendously ugly Christmas sweater. Boy, was it horrendous! Best thing I ever got!

    “My sister, Beulah, made it for me. She was two years older than I was, and was just learning to knit. After she’d knitted about a dozen scarves, she thought it was time to move on to a sweater, I guess. The funny thing about Beulah was that she loved to learn new things, but she never liked to stick with one very long. You should have had dinner at her place sometime: Mexican, Italian, Polish, and Chinese food – all in one meal! And after that, fifteen kinds of dessert, and all of them her favorites! But back to the sweater. She was learning all different kinds of knitting, different styles, and she wanted to try them all. In ONE sweater!

    “So, there were zigzags, and granny squares, and checks and curlicues! Some parts were thicker than others, and parts of it were what you call ‘cable-knit,’ like lengths of braided rope. There were special knots and fringes, and every color in the rainbow – and two or three that weren’t! It was TREMENDOUSLY garish!

    “But, it WAS quite comfortable -- though one sleeve was about an inch longer than the other -- and it was very warm.  You didn’t even need to wear a coat – which was good, because I had about outgrown mine. So, here I was, looking like a carnival had exploded and all of it had landed on me – and there was my poor sister Beulah, beaming with pride at the very first sweater she had ever made.

    “ ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘the best gifts aren’t the ones you get. They’re the ones you give.’ ”
*****

And so opens "The Amazing, Fantastic, Stupendously Ugly Christmas Sweater."  Young Arnie's adventures/antics center around the sweater, and serve to reinforce the lesson about how it's better to give than receive. It may also stir young minds toward creative thinking/problem solving.  Set in the world of fifty to seventy years ago, it reminded me much of the sorts of stories my own grandfathers told me.

I can see this becoming a classic read for Christmas -- its size makes it perfect for stockings, or as an ideal gift for attendees at your ugly sweater party.

Hard-Boiled Noah(r)

Or, "Film Noah(r)", though there's no cinema involved -- as such.

I finished proofreading an issue of Dime Detective Magazine for RadioArchives.com, and was feeling slightly more passionate about the whole hard-boiled detective genre than I typically am. For some reason -- maybe it was the sleep deficit, maybe it was the recording of Harlem Nocturne playing on constant loop -- I got it into my head to depict Noah (yeah, the guy from the Bible) as a noirish private eye.

Here's the thing, it's also Father's Day this coming weekend. The bulk of my congregation have no kids at home, any more. Noah seems like a good fit for that crowd -- the flawed father of adult kids, still being spiritual leader, still striving to do what's right in a mix of real difficulty and soul-crushing boredom. The more I think about it, the more it helps explain the vineyard incident later on.

Maybe this might work! I said to myself.

Here's a taste, for those of you who are curious -- and, considering that you're reading my blog, you probably are:

*****

It’s hard to say what was getting me down the most. Maybe it was the fact that it was raining – still. It had been coming down steadily for fifteen out of fifteen days and nights with no end in sight, and a fellow gets to wondering if maybe it’s his own tears falling out there.


Then again, maybe it was all the noise. This city – the greatest city in the world – is a jungle; a zoo that never sleeps. And sleep is the one thing a man wants to do most on a day like this, but there’s never a moment’s peace, because half the beasts in this forest want to devour the other half, and neither side will shut up about it. They all seem to want to make it my problem.

On the other hand, what’s really getting to me is the lack of paying jobs. Oh, there’s plenty of work, if you don’t mind cases of runaway kids and missing nest eggs. It seems like that’s all I get any more, in my tiny office in the top floor of the Ark Building. That, and the endless honey-do lists from my wife. The name’s Noah. I’m married, with three grown sons with wives and honey-do lists of their own now. So maybe it’s just as well that I’m not chasing after jewel thieves and blackmailers any more. That’s a young man’s game – and young I ain’t.

Of course, none of those compares to the Big Job. On a slow day at the office, The Almighty Himself – The Creator, The Big Cheese of the Universe – came to me with a job. “I want YOU to save the world,” he said. It don’t GET any bigger than that!

It doesn't exist, but it should!

The Dracula Files



Dracula by Edward Gorey

 I was listening yesterday to Orson Welles and the Mercury Theater On The Air's rendition of Bram Stoker's novel Dracula. Good and creepy, and decent for only an hour in length.

Welles highlights the nature of the book in MTotA's version, that it's pieced together from diaries, letters, telegraphs and the like. It made me wonder "Why has no one approached Dracula from this documentary perspective?" You could do it like a History Channel special.

"We've all heard the stories of strange and creepy goings-on surrounding a Transylvanian count named Dracula. But how much of this is truth, and how much is simply sensationalism? Tonight, we will look at eye-witness accounts, collected by Dr Henry Seward, and see what they had to say about this mysterious figure. Join us as we open up "The Dracula Files."

As excerpts are read from diaries or narrated by scratchy old records, we could be looking at photos of people and places and illustrations or even dramatisations of the events. You could have "literary experts" and "historians" commenting on various items--all as if it actually had happened.

Well, I think it would be fun, anyway.

Completing Conan

I picked up Conan the Barbarian on the cheap* at Barnes & Noble some time last year as a Christmas gift to my brother-in-law, who likes fantasy and sci-fi. Later on, I couldn't resist picking up a copy for myself. I'd never read any of the Conan stories, nor seen any of the movies. However, it seemed that if they were still being published, they might be worth the read. They are, by the way.

Here's the edition I picked up, published by Metro Books.

There were nine short stories/novellas, and I began to think that perhaps looking into full-length Conan novels by Robert Howard--the original author--would be a worthwhile idea. I consulted Wikipedia (please spare me your judgment) and discovered that the cover blurbs had been a bit misleading. (If you've not yet read the footnote, now would be a good time.) The collection I had purchased only contained some of Howard's Conan tales--the last nine, I believe.

Anyway, if you found yourself in the same predicament, my suggestion is to pick up this one: The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian. (Del Rey)

True, there is some overlap (two, maybe three stories,) but it contains the earlier stories you missed--and gives the orginal titles and "Weird Tales" publication dates.
_____
*Well, just under $10, anyway, which seemed like a great deal for "The original, unabridged adventures" of "the original Conan epics."

Pray yourself thin?

Seen in a B&N recently:

Not quite. Turns out "Amen" is the guy's last name.

Satire Collection Sparks Intended Revolution; Author Shocked.

Disorienting Woods - Mere weeks after the release of blogger Ironic Catholic’s second book, Felon Blames 1970s Church Architecture for Life of Sin: the Ironic Catholic News Volume I, a sort of spiritual revival has broken out among her readers.


“It was like she was talking about me personally,” said Kim Preston, 35, of Miller’s Grove, NJ. “Especially the story about ‘Grace for Clunkers,’ the one about ‘occasional unity,’ and–oh yeah!–the one about the patron saint of coffee drinking, St Java, or whatever. Oh! And the one about motherhood as spiritual vocation! OMG! SO FUNNY! But they really spoke to me. I plan on definitely making some changes in my devotional life–just as soon as the Spirit motivates me properly.”

Self-titled religious intellectual, Norm dePlume, had his own favorites. “I quite enjoyed the article on the sudden stability of Jacque Derrida. I also found the Swiftean overtones in the story about the Hemlock Society’s promotion of cannibalism worthy of a chuckle or two. Both stories pointed to much bigger principles about the nature of life and reality that I plan on personally and thoroughly examining just as soon as ecclesiastical authorities emphasize them.” dePlume could not be reached for further comment, having taken up what he believes is his God-given role as diocesan hermit.

Inscrutable, atomically-enhanced brain-in-a-jar and part-time mad scientist, Allen’s Brain, thought Ironic C’s new book was, “A good read, if a bit brief. Of course, this IS only ‘volume 1,’ so that almost certainly means there’s more to follow. And if I know, I.C., she won’t be able to help herself. It’s the best sort of madness that compulsively produces such consistently good material. Not every one made me laugh. Some just elicited a grin, but that’s to be expected. Different things tickle different funny bones. The “Iron Theologian” story got a good laugh out of my gray matter, and was a good way to end the book. The other one that really got me was the computer usage quiz that points to your denominational background. SO TRUE! Ha-ha! But I think my absolute favorite in the collection was the Flannery O’Connor conference where all these O’Connor-esque things keep happening. Wow! I certainly resolve to draw closer to God from now on–once I get some time to devote to it.”

What does the Ironic Catholic think of this response from her readership?

“What is wrong with you people? What are you waiting for? A sign from heaven?”

Nope. Just the next book, I.C. Just the next book.

On depicting religion in fiction

Recent fiction I've been reading/watching has included religion as part of the plot.  Typically, the religious leaders are shown to be greedy and willfuly deceptive, while the "true believers" are simply woefully ignorant suckers. I'm of two minds about this (which, when you're a brain in a jar, is tricky at best):

First of all, the religions usually depicted as fraudulent are, in fact, phony religions, and as a follower of Jesus, I would expect this to be the case. Additionally, sometimes the church is personified in fiction by its worst proponents. As a lover of truth, I like that. Evil shouldn't be allowed to continue, simply because it wears the guise of faith.

However...

It also seems that when these fake, oppressive religions turn up in plots, there is no alternative to it but utter atheism. In other words, the author(s) seem to be saying, "All religions/faiths are like this phony one I've cooked up here." And, in some cases, knowing the authors, that is exactly what they mean. Of course, if I had only had negative experiences with faith, I might be more accepting of this approach.

What do you think? Is no religion in fiction better than negative depictions of it?

Your comments welcome.

Is this the dagger I see before me?

Nope. It's a chainsaw.

Another great Savage Chickens cartoon!

On the Proper Response to Grace

This isn't it.

"Jean Valjean loved his new job at the baguette bakery, but when some urchin stole an entire basket of bread, he felt he had no choice but to notify the authorities."

--From Le Bourgeois, sequel to

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

Actually from Book: The Sequel by Clive Priddle (Ed.)

Allen's Brain meets Chthulu!

Well, not quite...

I went to a book signing last night for local author Bruce Brown's graphic novel Howard Lovecraft and the Frozen Kingdom. Bruce is a very cool guy, and was willing to chat and sign books, even though the signing wasn't supposed to start for another 20 minutes or so. Not only that, but his middle name is my first name, his first name is my old college roommate's name, and his last name is the color of my true love's hair. (Robert Burns?)

Without giving too much away, imagine H.P. Lovecraft as a precocious six-year-old. Now, imagine that he receives the fabled Necronomicon as a Christmas present from his father--an inmate at an asylum due to a nervous breakdown. Now, imagine that he begins to read the weird eldritch text, and it opens a portal to R'lyeh. Non-Lovecraft fans are probably already lost. Now, imagine that it's really fun--and often funny--and appropriate reading for young and old. That's this story.

  Bruce definitely did his homework. Apparently, the real H.P. Lovecraft was a child prodigy, quoting poetry at 2, and composing it at 6. And his father did have a nervous breakdown. That certainly explains a few things about his fiction! Then, there are enough references in the story to Lovecraft-y things, places and characters (I almost said people, but I'm not sure the Deep Ones count) to delight well-read Mythos fans, but not so much that the uninitiated is lost and adrift in a swirling miasma of ancient and long-forgotten personified evils wearing smelly gym socks on their thousand-tentacled frames.

If you're a geek like me, and want to introduce the Great Young Ones in your life (I'm guessing about age 8 would be the lower-end of the spectrum) to Lovecraftiana-lite, this'd be the way to go. And it's a rollicking good read, even if you have no desire to become one of those octopus-wearing sci-fi weirdos who delight in lengthy discussions of just what the elder sign looks like.

Oh, and I have it from the Bruce's mouth, that there's already a sequel waiting... patiently... crouching in the shadows for eons-untold... awaiting the moment when enough books are sold to warrant the release of another.

Quote o' the day

“Writing for a penny a word is ridiculous. If a man really wants to make a million dolars, the best way would be to start his own religion."

--L. Ron Hubbard, 1949.

Ironically, Hubbard's estate (?) seems to be trying to recapture his pulp-writing fanbase, lately.

Suggestions for Killing a Twilight Vampire

While hanging out at a local gaming shop recently, I observed that the owner, Paul, had a bottle of water from the river Jordan with a crucifix built into the lid, ideal for killing vampires. (I'm no a gamer, really, but he's also a great source for the latest in Lovecraftiana.

A discussion then arose about how to kill a Twilight vampire, since, according to an online faq:

Twilight vampires are not allergic to garlic or silver, their reflections can be seen in a mirror, and they show up in pictures. They don't sleep, and their bodies are pale, cold and hard. They don't age or change at all.

***
They can't get killed with a stake through the heart or by exposure to the sun. They can actually go out in the sun, but their skin shines like it was made of crystals; consequently, they don't go out into direct sunlight, as it would mark them as different.

So then, how do you kill a Twilight vampire? I suggested:

-Cheering him up?

-Skewer him with flowers?

-Thrust a rainbow-colored unicorn horn through his heart?

And finally, it wouldn't kill one, but consider whipping out a CareBear instead of a crucifix. "Back, Thou foul and mopey demon!"

-------------------------------

No. You're right. I've never read the books or seen the movies. Please contain your horror at my ignorant retort.

Happy First Day of Octo-Bear!

He was created by powers ancient and unholy, forged in nameless places to be comfort and succor to a restless unnameable evil--plaything of a Great Old One!

(Basically, he was made to be Cthulhu's teddy bear.)

Yet, though fraught by ubiquitous evil on every side, the being's inherent goodness fought forth to the surface, resistant to the encroaching blackness. Clawing his way to the dimensions of this world's realm, he stands in brave opposition to the unspeakable forces, wicked and millenia-old. Empowered by eldritch abilities acquired by his birth in the depths of Lovecraftian mythic places, and aided by four horrific, writhing tentacles, Octo-Bear is the final hope for mankind's survival!

Next Issue: Octo-Bear meets serpentine foe, Otcobra!

To explore strange new worlds... and evangelize them.

Because kosmos in Mark 16:15 includes the entire created order...

But does this really qualify as "go"ing?

I suppose it fits Mat 28:19's "Make disciples of all nations (ethnoi)"

There is a goldmine of potential "inspirational" sci-fi stories that would mimic every book about cross-cultural missions you've ever read, only in outer space.

My fear is that evangelism on other worlds would wind up resembling the "Orange Catholic Church" in Frank Herbert's Dune, or the religion-tinged stories of Stanislaw Lem's The Star Diaries. The latter of the two contains a fairly lengthy discussion of how religion developed and progressed on a world that had the power to infinitely change everything about themselves, to avoid mortality, and even to create new selves. It would probably make for a great theology discussion group. Unfortunately, I returned the book to the library and cannot recall which "voyage" it is. I may have to try and purchase a cheap copy.

Hunting Squamp

Instructions for Foreigners

The squamp as a game animal places great demands on the personal accomplishments no less than on the gear of the hunter. Inasmuch as this beast has, in the course of evolution, adapted itself to meteoroid rains by developing an absolutely impervious integument of armor, squamp are hunted from the inside only.

To hunt a squamp, one must have:
A) in the preliminary phase--base spread, mushroom sauce, chives, salt and pepper;
B) in the phase proper--a whisk broom, a time bomb.

I. Preparation in the field.
One hunts a squamp with bait. The hunter, having besmeared himself beforehand with the base spread, crouches down in a furrow of the torg, after which his companions sprinkle finely chopped chives over him and season to taste.

II. In this position one awaits the squamp. When the animal approaches, one should remain calm and with both hands take firm hold of the time bomb gripped between one's knees. A hungry squamp will usually swallow at once. If however the squamp does balk, one may encourage it with a gentle slap across the tongue. When a miss seems likely, some advise additional salting, this however is a most dangerous move, for the squamp may sneeze. Very few hunters have survived the sneeze of a squamp.

III. A squamp that takes the bait will lick its lips and walk away. Upon being swallowed, the hunter immediately proceeds to the active phase, i.e., with the whisk broom he brushes from himself the chives and spices, so that the spread may freely work its purgative effect, whereupon he sets the time bomb and withdraws as quickly as possible in the direction opposite to that from which he came.

IV. Upon leaving the squamp, one should take care to land on one's hands and feet and not hurt oneself.

Warning. The use of sharp spices is forbidden. Also forbidden is the planting of time bombs already set and sprinkled with chives. Such an act is considered poaching and will be prosecuted to the limit of the law.
*****

from The Star Diaries by Stanislaw Lem, "The Fourteenth Voyage"

Your history lesson for today

“Well, I never give the matter no more’n what you’d call passin’ notice when I read it in the hist’ry books, so there might be some abstruse theological p’int I missed. But as I rec’lect it there was several schools of thought back there in England an’ on the continent regardin’ the proper road to salvation—one faction holdin’ out fer sprinklin’, an’ another fer dunkin’, an’ a third fer purgatory, an’ a fourth fer instant damnation. All designed primarily to prevent folks from enjoyin’ the primrose path to hell. Sech was the fervor of the adherents to these momentous propositions that they backed up their faith with jailin’s, beheadin’s, burnin’s, an’ torturin’s. Well, after standin’ about so much of it these here Pilgrims and Puritans decided it wasn’t no place fer underprivileged minorities, so they sailed acrost the ocean an’ landed there in New England where they could be free to worship God in their own way, accordin’ to the dictates of their conscience—an’ which they done by shootin’ all the Siwashes they seen, stealin’ their land, an’ buildin’ churches on it in which to praise God fer their deliverance.”

“Was these folks s’posed to be Christians?”

-American history according to Black John Smith & Lyme Cushing
in Justice On Halfaday Creek

C.S. Lewis Quote

"Aslan," said Lucy, "you're bigger."

"That is because you are older, little one," answered he.

"Not because you are?"

"I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger."

-Prince Caspian, ch 10

Duck the Halls!

After the rabbits yesterday, I remembered this.



A duck in sheep's clothing. Almost Biblical, that.



And, because you might want a heavenly host of angels:



Yup, teach your children the Nativity story in the bathtub!

They also have a cute set of duckie characters from Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

Less than brilliant name choice

I passed by a childcare facility yesterday which I have passed many times before. This time, however, I took notice of the name of this business.

It's called "The Gingerbread House."

Sounds fun, whimsical, fairy tale-esque! A perfect place of wonder to leave your child! Just one problem: Wasn't the gingerbread house the home of the witch in Hansel & Gretel? You remember her, poor-sighted, spoke in rhymed couplets, ("Nibbling, nibbling like a mouse. Who's that nibbling on my house?") had a taste for dining on children?

Yup, bring your child here for the day! We'll stick 'em in a cage and force-feed 'em goodies until they're fattened up. Then we'll pop 'em in the oven at 450. One of these days, your child could be dinner for the rest of the children. Little Suzy, why don't you go ahead and get started on this shortbread shingle while I show your parents the rest of our facility?