Theatre of Cruelty

The sunken cheeked fellow above is one Antonin Artaud born this day, 1896, in Marseille, France. He had an interesting childhood, after an attack of meningitis that gave him a nervous, irritable disposition for the remainder of his life. If only I had that kind of excuse, I am just irritable. I guess it could be worst, I am not overly nervous. As a teenage he was stabbed in the back by a pimp, similar to the experience suffered by Samuel Beckett. Several trips to a "rest sanatorium" lead to him becoming addicted to laudanum. Perhaps that is what fueled his wonder imagination. It was imagination that he considered dreams, thoughts, and delusions to be no less real that the outside world. Reality, to Artaud, is a consensus, the consensus that the audience agrees to when it enters the theatre and pretends the performance is real. Maybe that is what life is, an agreed upon performance that is just as real as we believe it to be. It some ways that makes a lot of sense reality is just the agreed upon illusion that the masses buy into in order to avoid the more horrible misery underneath. The day to day struggle to get bread, booze, and a bed are "real" enough why not hope that the "dream" of winning the lottery we have when we collapse into that bed isn't just as real? Who knows maybe it is real after all? Maybe somewhere in some alternate universe Sweden did win the World Cup in 1958, and the Vikings are four time Super Bowl champions. Later in life, he obtained a walking stick that he believed was owned by St. Patrick, Jesus, and Lucifer. Talk about having a little to much dope in the system. He spent a majority of his remaining years in a psycho ward at various hospitals, even getting some good, old fashioned electro-shock therapy for his troubles. In January 1948, Artaud was diagnosed with intestinal cancer. He died shortly afterwards on March 4, 1948, alone in the psychiatric clinic, seated at the foot of his bed, allegedly holding his shoe. It was suspected that he died from a lethal dose of the drug chloral. So, for making theatre cruel, and a great deal of fun, and for taking it in a new, exciting direction Antonin Artaud (September 4th, 1896- March 4th, 1948), you are my hero of the day.

Centre Half

The "hard man" above is one Olof Mellberg born this day, 1977, in Amnehärad, Sweden. After starting his playing career in the Swedish league, Mellberg was shipped to a "bigger" club in Spain, from there he went to the place where I got to see him play the most Aston Villa. He starred at Villa from 2001-2008, and even managed to score the first ever goal in a competitive game at Arsenal's, new at the time, Emirates Stadium against my team Arsenal. I have forgiven him for that, though it did take a while. In his final game for Villa, against West Ham United at Upton Park, he gave each Villa fan a home or an away shirt with his name and number on the back and the message Thanks 4 Your Support, 4 being his number at the club. Pretty classy move for a professional football player, and that is something you can not say very often. From Villa he went to Juventus for two years, and is now presently playing his club football for Olympiacos in Greece. Sort of a step down I suppose, but he is a 32 year old (as of today) centre half that might just be a step slower than he used to be. However, it is as the 9th most capped Swedish footballer that he earned my undying respect. In 90 caps for his national team, Mellberg has even managed to score 4 goals. Not that bad of a record I suppose. One of the most "famous" incidents of his international career occurred during the 2002 World Cup when he got into a training ground fight with team mate Fredrik Ljungberg. Anyone who knows anything about these two fellows understands that the world in general, and football teams playing in a World Cup need a lot more Mellberg than Ljungberg in their makeup. So, for being that no nonsense "hard man" every team needs to deal with diving, flopping forwards, Olof Mellberg (September 3rd, 1977- present), you are my hero of the day.

March

The be cloaked fellow above is one Joseph Roth born this day in Brody, 1894, in the easternmost reaches of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Most famous for his lovely novel The Radetzky March, the arch type of the Golden Age of Austrian literature. Even though his birthplace is in modern day Ukraine, he is still considered one of the best Austrian writers of all time. I managed to slog through it, and it is well worth the time. If you like that kind of stuff. Shortly after Hitler took power in Germany Roth send fellow author Stefan Zweig the following letter.

"You will have realized by now that we are drifting towards great catastrophes. Apart from the private - our literary and financial existence is destroyed - it all leads to a new war. I won't bet a penny on our lives. They have succeeded in establishing a reign of barbarity. Do not fool yourself. Hell reigns."

Pretty far seeing since Hell was in fact coming to Europe in the guise of the Second World War. However, Roth would not live to see it he died in Paris from the effects of chronic alcoholism in 1939. But for writing lovely prose about the nostalgic period before World War I, Joseph Roth (September 2th, 1894-May 27th, 1939), you are my hero of the day.

Hansel and Gretel

The bewhiskered fellow above is the fabulously named Engelbert Humperdinck born this day, 1854, in Siegburg, Germany. He began writing music at the age of thirteen, and in spite of his parents wishes that he become an architect, he won a scholarship to the Cologne Conservatory, and prize winning music star was born. His most famous work is the opera Hansel and Gretel, based on the story by the Brothers Grimm, funny how the guys that catalogued all those "fairy tales" had the name of Grimm. The opera was originally composed as a play containing sixteen songs, but upon realizing the work's potential, Humperdinck turned it into a full scale, sawdust on the floor, opera. It was an overwhelming success, becoming the first opera ever broadcast in its entirety over the radio in 1923. Shortly before his death, Humperdinck developed a hearing problem, and became partially deaf. Guess all those hours of pounding away on the keyboard had taken its toll. He began his final composition in 1915, and completed, even after suffering a stroke that partially paralyzed his left hand, in 1918. He was able to attend its first performance, but during it suffered a heart attack, and died the next day of a second heart attack. That might be considered some sort of irony, even ironic enough for an Englishman to appreciate. However his fame for Hansel and Gretel continues to this day, and it holds a special place in my heart because Hansel and Gretel are two of my co-workers nicknames. So, for writing a lovely opera, and helping to prove that a trail of breadcrumbs can be all it takes to lead to fame and fortune, Engelbert Humperdinck, (September 1st, 1854-September 27th, 1921 of a heart attack), you are my hero of the day.

Le Gros Bill

Today's hero is not the "world leader" or "great writer" type. He is the fellow above, one Jean Beliveau born this day in Trois-Riviers, Quebec. He played parts of 20 seasons,and 18 full seasons with my favourite hockey team the Montreal Canadiens. During that time he won TEN Stanley Cups. TEN! Not a bad record in any business, 10 for 18 would get you in the Hall of Fame in pretty much anything in the world. For his last 10 seasons, he was the team captain. He was nicknamed "Le Gros Bill" after a mighty character from Québécois folklore. He won the first ever Conn Smythe Trophy in 1965, and for those non-hockey fans that is the NHL'S version of an MVP award. To put his success into perspective, he won 10 Stanley Cups as an individual player. The next highest TEAM total is the Toronto Maple Leafs with 13, and they have not lifted the Cup since 1967. Béliveau retired at the end of the 1970-71 season as his team's all-time leader in points, second all-time in goals and the NHL's all-time leading playoff scorer. He scored 507 goals and had 712 assists for 1,219 points in 1,125 NHL regular-season games plus 79 goals and 97 assists for 176 points in 162 playoff games. His jersey number (#4) was retired on October 9, 1971. He is now the second all-time leading scorer in Canadiens history. Granted I was born when he was doing all of these glorious things for my team, but a true fan embraces their team's history when they embrace the team. Good, bad, or ugly, everything thing the Habs have done, or will do is something I that I signed up for when I became a fan. So for all those times he "lit the lamp" even if I was not alive to see it, Jean Beliveau (August 31st 1931-present), you are my hero of the day.

A little to the left, gentlemen, if you please

Today's hero is the dapper fellow above, one Jacques-Louis David born this day 1748, in Paris, France. The self-portrait above does not show the facial tumor he had as a child, which helped keep him from being an outgoing study, and thus he was always hiding behind the instructor's chair filling notebooks with drawings. An inspiration to failures everywhere he attempted to win the Prix De Rome four times between 1770 and 1774, and managed to fail to win each time. Not to be discouraged he then goes on to paint such lovely paintings as the Death of Socrates, the Oath of the Horatii, and the Death of Marat. The last painting was his masterpiece, and immortalized both him, and that poor, dead bastard Marat. Guess David got the best of that deal. Like a lot of people, he, at first, chose to back the wrong pony during the French Revolution becoming fast friends with Robespierre. Only a bout of stomach pain kept him from being guillotined with that manic. Tossed into prison, he painted a self-portrait of himself depicting himself much younger that he actually was, and conceived of the idea of a series of painting about the Sabine Women. These paintings attracted the attention of Napoleon, and after a bit, David found himself to be the official painter for the Emperor of the French. Even managing to paint Napoleon crossing the Alps on a "fiery steed." When he actually managed to cross them on a mule. After Napoleon's fall, David chose exile rather than the post as court painter to Louis XVIII, I suppose at least after picking the right horse he decided to ride it to the end. So for helping advance the art of painting from the rococo style to a more classical style, and for showing that history may in truth ride a jackass, but needs to be portrayed as riding a stunning white charger, Jacques-Louis David (August 30th 1748-December 29th, 1825, after being run down like a dog by a carriage in Brussels), you are my hero of the day.

Here's Looking at you kid

A bit more of a lightweight hero today, but then again who is not lightwieght compared to Goethe? Also a first for today, our hero is actually a heroine. She is the lovely and talented lady above, Ms. Ingrid Bergman born this day 1915, in Stockholm, Sweden. Certainly lovely enough to have been a member of the Swedish bikini team, had such a team existed back in her day. She started acting at the age of 17 with the Royal Dramatic Theater, by the age of 24 Hollywood's David O. Selznick "discovered" her. He then made the mistake of telling her to get her teeth capped, change her name, and have her eyebrows plucked. Quiet rightly, and thankfully she refused to do any of the three, and a star was born. Her appearance in her films was almost entirely natural, with little or no makeup an at five foot nine she was one of Hollywood's tallest leading ladies. And what a leading lady she was, drop dead gorgeous with more acting talent in her little finger than most people have in their entire bodies, she went on to win three Academy Awards, two Emmys, and a Tony award. The woman was so talented and gorgeous that even Alfred Hitchcock had a crush on her. Talk about out of your league! Watch her in Notorious, and you will lose focus of anything else around you. She filled the screen, and the room your sitting in watching her on the screen. Breathtaking is an understatement. She is probably best known for playing Ilsa Lund in Casablanca with Humphrey Bogart, whose wife was convinced they were having an affair during the filming. In 1949, while married to her first husband, she became pregnant by director Robert Rossellini, and gave birth to his son in 1950. Showing once again was a bunch of Purtian pukes they are, the American Senate had her declared "person non grata." Basically forced into exile in Italy for six years because of her affair, she eventually make a return to American film with her Oscar winning performance in 1956's Anastasia. She continued to act right up to her death in 1982, winning her second Emmy posthumously for her role in A Woman called Golda. She was so big that Ferrari has a custom made colour fashioned after the colour of her eyes. If you have the means, you can go order one in the colour of "Grigio Ingrid." So, for all those wonderful on screen performances, and for still 65 years later managing to make me gasp at your beauty, Ingrid Bergman (August 29th, 1915-Augst 29th 1982 on her 67th birthday of breast cancer) you are my heroine of the day.

The Sorrows

Today's hero is the well posed fellow above, one Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, born this day 1749 in Frankfurt, Germany. Well technically it was not "Germany" yet, but still you get the idea. An incredibly brilliant fellow, he was a true master of many trades. A fulsome writer, an outstanding scientist, and a fantastic lawyer were just some of the many skills he possessed. He is probably best known for writing Faust, and for bringing the idea of selling your soul to the devil for all knowledge. Until I found Goethe one day in the library I merely thought that Mephistopheles was just part of some song by the Police. Took me quite by surprise when I looked that stuff up in the good old World Book Encyclopedia. Credited with founding the Romantic movement in Germany, our boy Goethe was much more than just a writer of blindly good tales. He was also interested in mineralogy, and has a mineral named after him. His other famous work is The Sorrows of Young Werther, a lovely tale that I can not recommend highly enough. It was the book that put him on the map, and on the way to super stardom in the literary world. He later repudiated many of the ideas espoused in the Sorrows, but it still makes excellent reading. His influence on all sorts of different writers in all kinds of fields was immense, and he is consider Germany's finest writer, and that is against some pretty good competition. I must confess a lot of his Theory of Colours stuff and his science work sails right over my head, and his art criticism is pearl before swine in regards to me,but for teaching me that the Sorrows of Young Werther are not just Young Werther's sorrows, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (August 28th, 1749-March 22nd 1832), you are my hero of the day.

Dismantle the Sun

Stealing a line from my buddy Tidy's last post, that he stole from Four Weddings and a Funeral, that they stole from W.H. Aulden. Pack up the Moon and dismantle the Sun. Today is non-heroic, and I searched high and low. A few contenders presented themselves, and maybe on a happier day, having a nice rack a la Sarah Chalke would get you hero status. However, not today. Today, while being a quite pretty day, is not the day that blonde hair, and a perky role in an American sit-com gets you on the big board of heroes. All is far from being lost, but it just is not one of those days. Perhaps, I am just lazy, and have taken on a project that is too much for my limited skill set. After rereading yesterday's sub par attempt, I almost threw the whole project overboard as being too difficult. I was actually all set to admit my failure at keeping this farce going for another 300 plus days, when I wandered over to Tidy's website, and read his post (here is the link http://tideliar.blogspot.com/2009/08/so-very-fat-and-very-rude.html). I encourage you to wander over yourself, and give it a read. Pure genius it is, and I know he had no clue the effect it would have on me, but sometimes pure genius is like that. That is why it is genius, hard to explain, and hard to understand, but bloody fantastic when you see it in motion. That is what a hero should be, and no Tidy is not my hero of the day. It isn't his birthday, and he is still a pigeon chested Englishman, but he has helped me understand that I should continue this little foray into literature. For that is what happens to heroes, they struggle onward, like Sisyphus pushing that rock up that hill for all eternity. Sometimes the rock is all you have, and push it you must. That is why when a hero dies, or falls from grace we feel like Aulden, and want the world to pack up the moon, and dismantle the sun. We believe that all is lost, and we just want to crawl away, drink ourselves into oblivion. Oblivion will find us all soon enough, heroes, villains, postmen, police, and Indian chiefs are all headed to the same oblivion whether they know it or not. However, the trick is that when oblivion is the final stop, the thing that begins to matter is the trip. Sometimes how we get there, and who we help, harm, or inspire along the way is our own way of being heroes. All that being said for the second time this month, no one is my hero of the day.

That Sinking Feeling

The rotund fellow above is Sir Robert Walpole born this day, 1676, in Norfolk, England. Regarded as the first "Prime Minister" of England, Sir Robert struck my fancy long ago in my previous life as an intellectual. Coming to power in 1721, after the bursting of the South Sea Bubble, Sir Robert is credited with helping pull England out of a serious financial crisis. Everyone needs a Walpole around, especially in today's credit environment. He is the first Minister to reside at No. 10 Downing Street, turning it down as an outright gift, Walpole accepted it as only the residence of the First Lord of the Treasury. He was a central figure in my studies as a graduate student, and his idea of a "sinking fund" to help pay the nation's debt is, in my opinion, bloody brilliant. Setting aside a fund of money solely intended to pay down the national debt is an idea that many of us non governments should think about doing. Trick is you have to dedicate yourself to religiously putting money into the fund, and not piss about with borrowing against it. A simple, but still brilliant idea that is still just as brilliant today as it was back then. Sir Bobby was not universally loved by any stretch of the imagination, and in some respects he could be considered a source of the first ever political parody campaign. Waged by such famous writers as Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, Samuel Johnson, and Henry Fielding. If a true measure of a man can be determined by the ability of his enemies, the Walpole was a giant (in more that the straining the waistcoat buttons to popping sense). So for making the words "Prime Minister" mean something before steakhouses made it popular, and for creating the wonderful "sinking fund" idea, Sir Robert Walpole (August 26th, 1676-March 18th, 1745), you are my hero of the day.

Polling is open

The Mad King of Bavaria

The gaudily dressed fellow above is one Ludwig II of Bavaria born this day 1845, in Munich, Germany. Ludwig was a bit of an odd duck, who had curious relationships with his parents, he referred to his mother as "my predecessor's consort." Never really close to his father either, part of his later odd behaviour is blamed on the strict regime his tutors put him through as the heir to the throne. He ascended to that throne at the age of 18, and was perhaps a bit under prepared for the whole being King business. After all, think back to your 18th birthday, do you think you could even balance your own checkbook? Certainly I was not prepared to rule a kingdom at 18, and I am quite sure old Ludwig II felt the same way. Caught on the wrong side (on occasion) of German politics Ludwig had to relent to the idea of a unified Germany. Unified, of course, by Prussia by the Iron Chancellor himself, Otto von Bismarck. Ludwig was famous as an "eccentric," meaning he was an oddball that people whispered about at parties. He wasn't too keen on that whole day to day governing shit, and I can't says that I blame him. That is what underlings are for right? He did build some of the most fantastic castles in the world, the upper right picture is a great example of one. Declared "mad" by a group of doctors who had never even met him, Ludwig was deposed in June of 1886. One of them, Dr. Bernhard von Gudden, was found dead along with Mad King Ludwig II, on June 13th, 1886, under circumstances that have never been fully explained, but for building such lovely castles in the air, and showing that oddballs can get to the top, even if it is by the accident of birth, Ludwig II of Bavaria (August 25th, 1845- June 13th, 1886 by "drowning"), you are my hero of the day.

Delight in Disorder

Easy choice today, as heroes are just as thick on the ground as I thought they might be. The big nosed fellow above is one Robert Herrick born this day in London in the year 1591. A poet that started out as a goldsmith's apprentice, and eventually became a vicar, Mr. Herrick still found the time to write some lovely verse. In fact anyone who has ever had a girlfriend (and I did, back in the day) named Julia owes Mr. Herrick a large debt of gratitude. He wrote the following lovely poem, that when declaimed at the proper time was money.

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES

WHENAS in silks my Julia goes,

Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows

That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see

That brave vibration each way free ;O how that glittering taketh me !

Good stuff, and quite racy for the time he was writing it, my personal favourite poem of his is the following.

DELIGHT IN DISORDER

A SWEET disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness :

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction :

An erring lace which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher :

A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly :

A winning wave (deserving note) In the tempestuous petticoat :

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility :

Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.

Great stuff as well, of course, most people will recognize his "To Virgins Make Much of Time" poem from the movie Dead Poets Society, but for me the poems above were far superior, and I never had to declaim poetry to a virgin. Guess I was just lucky that way. So for writing the exquisite lines above, and helping my awkward ass win over the girls, Robert Herrick (August 24th 1591- sometime in October?-1674), you are my hero of the day.

Water, water everywhere

The fellow above is one Thales, Greek philosopher born around 625 B.C. in the Greek city of Milteus. Thales exact date of birth is unknown, and therefore, I have unilaterally decided that today is the day we should celebrate his birth. Rather arbitrary of me, and I have absolutely no authority to proclaim this day as Thales' birthday, but I am doing it anyway. Since today's crop of heroes was deficient, at least in my opinion, I decided to shoehorn Thales into today's slot. A lot of what we "know" about Thales is second hand, and some of it is not trustworthy. He supposedly dabbled in a lot of different things, and made contributions in several different fields. I must confess a lot of what this bugger did sails over my hungover head. The one thing that I remember about Thales from my philosophy classes all those years ago is that he opined that the world was created from water, and that all things were basically able to be traced back to water. Anyone who has, like myself this morning, woken up with a massive hangover, and a parched throat, can relate to Thales' ideas about water. It seems that last night some bastard put too much beer in my water, and today I have been drinking massive amounts of the pure stuff to try to get some sort of balance back to my day. Thales came up with all sort of other brilliant ideas, and put a lot of thought into the nature of the universe. All that crap that philosophers without Direct TV have time to do, you know the important shit that you have to learn, and promptly forget the day after your exam. I must confess to only a limited knowledge and understanding of the majority of Thales' ideas, but the water thing I am fully on board with. For that one brilliant idea (among all the others ones) that I am able to grasp, and agree with, Thales (ca 625 B.C.- ca 547 B.C. of causes unknown to me), you are my hero of the day.

Second Fiddle

Not many people will recognize the serious faced fellow above, and hearing his name which is Aime Bonpland will not set off too many bells of recognition either. Born in La Rochelle, France on this day in 1773, M. Bonpland will be forever known, if he is ever really known at all, as the guy who accompanied the far more famous, and more remember Alexander von Humboldt on his five year exploration of Latin America. I guess somebody has to get the great man in the right spot to take the prefect picture, and perhaps Bonpland was just a plugger. Not as bright a star as von Humboldt, or maybe not as good at selling himself. Perhaps he was just not as bright, or as energetic, or as worthy of the greater fame that will be forever given to von Humboldt. He did manage to collect and classify nearly 60,000 plants that were, at the time, unknown in Europe, and he has achieved some repute for that, but the star of the show was von Humboldt. Perhaps that "von" in his name made all the difference, after all it means he is from the upper crust, and the world loves an upper crust hero. Bonpland did manage to get a few animals and plants named in his honour, a lunar crater named for him, and a peak in Andes is graced with his name, but all in all he was clearly the second fiddle to von Humboldt. He even managed to get himself arrested in Bolivia in 1821, and be detained for about a decade. I guess someone has to be second fiddle, after all the limelight or spotlight is only so big, and one star on the stage is more than enough. Someone has to be waiting in the wings to feed the star the lines. Not the greatest role in the world, but it beats being the slugs that probably had to carry all that heavy scientific gear these two bastards carted all over South America. So for showing us that second fiddle is better than having to clean the orchestra pit after the show is over, Aime Bonpland (August 22nd 1773-May 4 1858), you are my hero of the day.

Rooting Tooting

Today's hero is not the rooting, tooting, cowboy above, but his creator, Mr. Isadore "Friz" Freleng. Unlike yesterday's hero, Mr. Freleng's creations gave me a great deal of joy when I was a child (yes I was actually a child one, still am in many respects). Who am I kidding, I would still watch Yosemite Sam chase Bugs Bunny around a TV screen today, and might just do so tonight. After all Mr. Freleng's creations made getting up early on Saturday morning worthwhile. Freleng helped to develop Yosemite Sam, Porky Pig, Sylvester the cat, and Tweety Bird. Major players in the Looney Tunes universe. It is a sad indicator of the modern age that I just spell checked this post, and Tweety was highlighted as misspelt. Apparently today's generation uses Tweeter so much that Tweety Bird is no longer first choice in the spell check. Sigh. It seems Mr. Freleng bore a passing resemblance to Yosemite Sam, a fact that he denied, and was a bit of an alter ego for the animator. Freleng managed to win four Academy Awards for his work, and to think Martin Scorsese can only manage one. Sam's voice was apparently very hard for Mel Blanc to perform (and he did most of the Looney Tunes voices), and was always saved for last in the recording studio, so that Blanc could do the other voices properly. His voice was based on Blanc coming to the studio after an incident of road rage, and thus the yelling at the top of his voice Yosemite Same was born. So, for creating the manic above, and all the other characters that made my Saturday morning more fun, Friz Freleng (August 21st 1906-May 26th 1995), you are my hero of the day.

Call of Cthulhu

The scary looking fellow above is one Howard Phillips Lovecraft authour of the Cthulhu Mythos horror stories that sometimes make brave men whimper like school girls. Not particularly well read during his lifetime, he only gained a cult following for his stories after his death. Isn't that just great famous, but after I damn near starve to death. Anyone who has ever played the first "Alone in the Dark" video game has this fellow to thank. Not directly based on his stories, but still inspired by them. Playing that game in a dark room in the middle of the night was down right fucking scary. Also, it was no the brightest idea to play the game, or read one of Mr. Lovecraft stories before bedtime. Unless, of course, you like having nightmares. It seems Mr. Lovecraft was afflicted with night terrors as a child, and perhaps some of his stories are his revenge on the world. If he had to wake up screaming, might as well try to ensure that as many people as possible would do so as well. Here read this, and try to get a good night's rest. Not bloody likely. There was also a role playing game based on his Cthulhu, that myself,and my dork ass friends played back when the world was young (I know hard to believe I was that big of a goob when you see the sophisticated man of the world I became).His work was based on the idea of cosmic horror, that the world is generally incomprehensible, and unable to be understood by the human mind. There is much to be said for that idea, and who knows maybe all the shit we think we have a solid grip on is just so much illusion. Maybe good old H P was just born to write stuff that scared the dog crap out of people, both of his parents eventually would up in (the same) loony bin, and at the age of 18 he claimed to have a nervous breakdown. Sounds like a lovely family dinner with this group around, try not to drop the gravy, or who the hell knows what will happen. His works are deeply pessimistic (perhaps that is why I liked them), and his "heroes" usually have to face the horror of glimpsing the terrifying face of reality, or at least reality as Lovecraft envisioned it. Though I came to my deeply held agnostic belief via another channel, Lovecraft does an excellent job summing up his reasons in a letter to Robert E. Howard (the guy that created Conan the Barbarian).

"All I say is that I think it is damned unlikely that anything like a central cosmic will, a spirit world, or an eternal survival of personality exist. They are the most preposterous and unjustified of all the guesses which can be made about the universe, and I am not enough of a hair-splitter to pretend that I don't regard them as arrant and negligible moonshine. In theory I am an agnostic, but pending the appearance of radical evidence I must be classed, practically and provisionally, as an atheist."

Well said, well written, and well thought out. I wish I could encapsulate my believes so easily, and so simply, but I guess that is part of the wide gulf between a professional writer, and my goofy ass. Maybe that will narrow one day, and maybe it will be soon. I can only hope, but for the beautiful verse above, and for writing stories that can still scare the ever loving dog shit out of me, H P Lovecraft (August 20th, 1890- March 15th, 1937 of intestine cancer), you are my hero of the day.

Poor Leander

The word hero comes from a person named Hero, a priestess that lived in a town called Hellespont (now Dardanelles). Hero was loved by Leander, a youth who lived at Abydos, a town on the Asian side of the channel. They could not marry because Hero was bound by a vow of chastity, and so every night Leander swam from Asia to Europe, guided by a lamp in Hero's tower. One stormy night a high wind extinguished the beacon, and Leander was drowned. His body was washed ashore beneath Hero's tower; in her grief, she threw herself into the sea. The above story is supposed to be the origin of the word "hero." Not sure where the modern meaning came from but our girl Hero does not sound the type to live up to the present meaning. Having some damn fool drown his fool self while swimming across the Hellespont to meet you, and not giving it up to him, smacks more of a villain than a hero. I guess this is my way of saying that today is hero-less. I was unable to find anyone that rose to the level of hero in my eyes. I had a suggestion or two, but they just did not do it for me. I suppose that sometimes life just throws pitches at you that you just can not hit. We all can't be French soccer players, or Austrian Emperors that make our mark in history. Not that making your mark in history makes you a hero, there are countless non-famous heroes out there right now. One may be sitting in the cube beside you, one never knows. I still prefer the named hero, the one you can stick on a pedestal, if you have one handy, and use as an example to live up to. I guess life just does not always follow the same plan that you do. To survive this madness that we call day to day existence, and reach the exalted status of hero is not easy, and for today at least, no one is my hero of the day.

The Darkness of the Matinee

Another lightweight hero today, but the show must go on as they say. Franz Joseph I is the ancient looking fellow above. He managed to remain emperor of Austria-Hungary from 1848 to 1916, a whopping 67 years. Any fool (and he was a bit of a fool) that can pull that kind of magic trick is worthy of hero status. Sometimes just showing up is enough to win the race, and Franz Joseph did do a lot of just showing up. An early riser, he was usually at his desk slaving away by 6 a.m. on most mornings. To keep the ramshackle Austro-Hungarian Empire together at all was a heroic task, not exactly sure how much he had to do with it, but praise always goes to the guy at the top, and blame to the plodder at the bottom. I guess you can say that he was at least a hard worker, which does count for something. He married a complete shrew, and had quite a tosser for a son/heir. One committed suicide with his mistress, and the other got assassinated by a raving lunatic. Not a particularly happy personal life, and no wonder he had to find some solace in the young, blonde, actresses type. Though it would appear that solace is all he took, but I guess to each his own, and he was the Emperor, and could do what he damn well pleased I suppose. For just showing up to work for about 67 years, and keeping all those Slavs, Huns, Czechs, Magyars, and Slovenes from murdering the world before its time, Franz Joseph I (August 18th, 1830-November 21st, 1916) you are my hero of the day.

Oh Henry

Today's hero is the fellow above, one Thierry Henry of fubol fame. Still alive, and still kicking as of today, his 32nd birthday. He is a bittersweet choice as my hero of the day. As you can see in the above picture he now plies his trade for Barcelona of La Liga in Spain. That is the bitter part, the very, very bitter part. Mr. Henry just happens to be Arsenal's (my club) all time leading goal scorer with 226 goals in all competitions. Breaking Ian Wright's record of 185 goals on October 17th, 2005. He is also Arsenal's all time league goal scorer as well with 174 goals breaking Cliff Bastin's record of 150. He played an integral part in Arsenal winning the double in 2001-2002, and was the leading goal scorer on the "Invincibles" of the 2003-2004 season. Winning the Golden Boot as Europe's leading scorer twice in 2004 and 2005. Not bad for a skinny Frenchman, and not bad considering he started his career as a winger. Of course, like all footballers or professional athlete his is also a lying sack of mule shit. About three months after signing a new four year deal to stay at Arsenal, and proclaiming he would stay at Arsenal "for life," he signed a mega deal with Barcelona on June 25th, 2005 (which happens to be MY birthday). Once again proving the theory that whatever a professional footballer says to the public, is pretty much a big fat fucking lie. I hope he enjoyed that UEFA Champion League victory over Manchester United last year, and I hope that a small part of him burns in hell for leaving the Gunners, but for all those wonderful goals he banged in while wearing an Arsenal shirt, Thierry Henry (August 17th, 1977), you are my hero of the day.

It's very clean

A bit of a slow day in hero land, the fellow above, T. E. Lawrence (better known as Lawrence of Arabia) is the best we can do. Granted, he did possess some heroic qualities, but he also had very deep, very odd, flaws. I suppose we all do, and maybe heroes are just people who possess normal human qualities in large quantities. Born this day in 1888, one of five illegitimate children, our boy above was a very clever lad, and one prone to making myths about himself at an early age. Known for his exploits in Arabia as one of the leaders of the Arab revolt during World War I, our boy was a rather talented leader of irregular troops. His Seven Pillars of Wisdom chronicles his time with the Arab Revolt, and deal with his attempts to convince his superiors that an independent Arab state was in their best interests. It is a wonder book, and I recommend it as a very good read. His pleas fell on deaf ears, and in 1920 the fledgling Arab state he help create was crushed by the French, and perhaps a chance for a more stable region was lost. The film starring Peter O'Toole was my first exposure to Lawrence, and as with most films, it takes certain liberties with the truth. However, if you have about fours to kill, and about 10 beers it is a lovely film to watch. It is in the film that the title of this post comes from. Someone asks Lawrence why he likes the desert so much, and he replies that "it is very clean." O' Toole's portrayal does point out Lawrence's eccentricities, but not to the extent that he was very eccentric. He was apparently a masochist that paid people to beat him. I guess we all have our personal issues that we do not talk about at parties, or want exposed to the light of day. Lawrence's issues should not distract from his achievements, helping to tie down thousands of Ottoman troops in Arabia probably saved thousands of lives on some other front of the war, and his death even had it positive effects on the world. He died of head injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident that led his attending physician, Hugh Cairns, to eventually help develop crash helmets. For that, and for writing a cracking good yarn, T.E. Lawrence (August 16th 1888- May 19th 1935) you are my hero of the day.

Short but .......

Today's hero is the short, but stocky man above. Napoleon I born this day in 1769 on the lovely isle of Corsica which was owned by the French at the time. Thus, one of the world's greatest military geniuses was, by the accident of birth French rather than Italian. Not sure he really came out ahead or behind in that particular lottery. Huge biographies have been written on him, but I suggest David Chandler's "The Campaigns of Napoleon" as required reading. It is a weighty tome of about 1100 pages, but well worth the read. Our boy above had to be a genius after all he led the French in conquering the majority of Europe. This was presumably before they became cheese eating surrender monkeys that got their asses handed to them three times by the stinking Germans. Pretty large task getting the French to fight like real men, but he managed it for about 20 years of so. Of course, as any of us who have had to beat up a really short man in a bar know, he is also the "origin" of the famous Napoleon complex. Seems he was really about 5 foot 7, and the whole complex thing was created by Alfred Adler. Still the name persists, and people like Tanner of the Bad News Bears continue to try to prove their manhood by fighting the entire world. Since our boy above eventually had the whole of Europe ranged against him, I guess the name is not that far off base. Amongst all his warring he did find time to establish the Napoleonic code which is in effect in a quarter of the world's jurisdictions. Not bad for a man whose reputation is mainly based on war. He also emancipated the Jews in France, quite the modern thing to do at the time. Not a man of peace certainly, but a restless genius that had an interest in almost everything. Slept only about 6 hours a night, and was quite incapable of "doing nothing." Perhaps this boundless energy was gained at the cost of his star burning out at the fairly young age of fifty-one. There are many theories on the cause of his death, including poison by arsenic, but the official cause at the time was listed as stomach cancer. Napoleon Bonaparte August 15, 1769- May 5, 1821, you are my hero of the day.

My Own Far Side

Today's hero is the first of the lot that is still alive, lucky him. His is Gary Larson born this day in 1950 in Tacoma Washington. He is the fellow behind one of the great "comic strips" of all time the Far Side. The one above is the one he was requested to draw for the New Yorker. That such a snobby, pseudo-intellectual, rag like the New Yorker would request a mere "cartoonist" to do there cover is a sign of this man's ability. We all have our favorite Far Side strips, ones with cows smoking, and drinking martinis, and doing other "human" acts. One of his most famous strips got him into trouble with the Jane Goodall institute it is detailed in his Wikipedia article. I encourage you to go read it. It shows that sometimes people just take shit too seriously. Sort of like the New Yorker pretending to be something it isn't. Mr. Larson's great gift to show the surreal nature of life, and to point out that taking it too seriously means you miss out on a great deal of laughter. Of course, I hate him for this talent, because I can not draw a proper stick man. If I were to actually get a stick man drawing correctly done, I believe my mother would put in on her refrigerator in a place of pride. "Look at what my boy drew! Isn't it fantastic." I can just her the pride in her voice, sadly it is not to be. The skill of drawing has passed me by forever I believe. However, the gift of looking at life as a bit of a surreal journey, and the ability to think that at some level everything is funny, I still possess in great quantity. Mr. Larson's drawings and captions have made that journey much more pleasant, and put many a smile on my (and millions of other people's) face, and for that, he is my hero of the day.

The Birds

Today's hero is our laughing boy above one Alfred Hitchcock. Well known director, and a man whose imagination could conjure up things to scare the piss out of people world wide. He remains the rest that every time I see a flock of birds, or just one determined bird that appears to be swooping in my direction causes a moment of panic on my part. Though I know it is irrational (as are most fears) birds still sometime freak me out. His films are so good that it makes me want to watch Carey Grant, and I am in no way a fan of Carey Grant, but with Hitchcock directing you can almost forget you are admiring Carey Grant as an actor. Of course, Hitchcock did have the great good sense to cast Ingrid Bergman in a couple of films, and you can't go wrong with Swedish beauties can you? Even no talent bums are helped by having a brilliant Swedish actress to direct, and Hitchcock had enough talent for three people. All in all, quite a hero, especially if you like black and white films from back in the day, of which I happen to be a huge fan. Alfred Joseph Hitchcock, (13 August 1899 – 29 April 1980 of renal failure), my hero of the day.

Diamond Jim

Our first hero is the surprisingly slim fellow above one "Diamond" Jim Brady. The slim photo is a surprise because it seems Mr. Brady was a man with a legendary appetite. Seems that his breakfast consisted of enough food to feed a family of four for about a week. For dessert, he enjoyed pastries and a two pound box of candy. This is after main course of two whole ducks, six or seven lobsters, a sirloin steak and all sorts of other goodies. Any man that can eat a two pound box of candy is a hero of mine. It seems that he did balloon up a bit in later years, I mean who wouldn't after meals like that? I would gain five pounds just watching the fat bastard eat all of that candy. After his death it was discovered that his stomach was six times larger than an average person's stomach, so at least there is a good explanation for his appetite. He also pulled himself up by the bootstraps to amass a fortune valued at around $12 million dollars, and this was in 1912! He was that rare breed, a generous rich man, who gave away large portions of his fortunes to Johns Hopkins University. All things considered quite the hero, and quite the bon vivant. I can only hope one day to manage to get two whole pounds of candy down one day. "Diamond" Jim Brady (August 12th 1856-April 13th 1917), you are my hero of the day.

Hero of the Day

Sorry to steal a line from Metallica, and I am sure that Danish bastard Lars will find out about it and sue my pants off, but too bad. I have a project in mind, and it is to find a hero of the day. There are around 6 billion people alive on the planet right now, and untold billions have came before us. I need 366 heroes, one for everyday of a normal year, and a back up for the crazy leap year(s). I figure that there has to be 366 people that I can safely attach the label "hero" to, and not feel like I am off base. Granted I want them to be my heroes, not necessarily generally acclaimed heroes. So Abraham Lincoln need not apply, nor Oliver Cromwell. I want my heroes to be people that I would admire, or at least be able to stand for 5 consecutive minutes if I was in an elevator with them. The idea for this project is that for each day of the year I will post (I hope) a little blurb about the hero of the day. This is going to be a lot of work, and feel free to write in your own suggestions. Just be aware they are MY heroes, and I hold them dear. I will select my hero of the day on their birthday just to make it tougher on myself. I figure it is, in theory at least, better to celebrate the hero's birth rather than their death, no matter how noble it might have been. I would suspect that the majority of my heroes might be dead, but at least dead heroes can no longer screw up their hero status. Also, having the benefits of a classical education, might make my hero bandwidth a bit narrow, but I will try to venture far afield to find people that I can at least find something heroic about. Of course this idea seemed much cooler last night when I thought it up than it does in the harsh glare of this morning as I realize that this hero of the day crap is going to be a lot of work.

I am man hear me Roar(Whimper)

I am a guy. I like to think I am a man's man. Burly, strong, square jawed, and radiating masculinity. Of course I can still put together a room, and I might not stride the world like Olympus due to a minor birth defect, but I still like to think of myself as the John Wayne type. All this being said, men mature at a MUCH slower rate than women. The gentleman above, one Arthur Schopenhauer, went so far as to equate men to fine wine. The older we get the better we taste maybe? Clearly, an eighteen year old boy is a mere child when compared to an eighteen year old girl. This is just a sad fact, though no more sadder that the fact that the seventeen year old boy is hitting his sexual peak with no real clue what to do about it. However, it led me to thinking about another sad, in my opinion, fact. The fact is that we are about to send that seventeen year old, immature boy to college. Where he will, in theory, receive the education that will prepare him for life in the "real world." Of course, being the immature idiot that he is most of it will be lost on him for the first two years. After all, there are GIRLS here, and booze, and frat parties, and football games. How the hell is he supposed to react? Not that girls have it any easier, they may be more mature, but they get to be surrounded by immature jackasses like our boy who just want to grope, paw, and fondle her. Perhaps this is just sour grapes on my part as I realize, now that I am a 40 year old geezer, that the stuff I was exposed to would be MUCH more appreciated by me now. I suppose youth is wasted on the young, and all that crap, but no wonder the vast majority of men are the fucks up we are. By the time we are mature enough to appreciate it, the education we should have had, has already passed us by, and we are too busy rearing children, and/or dodging the rampaging boss to do anything about it. It is sad that now, this late in my life, I feel so much more ready to learn the philosophy of fellows like the guy in the photo above. At least that is what I tell myself, as I watch another stirring episode of Family Guy, and feel my IQ drop by 5 points or so. I actually had a philosophy teacher, despairing of trying to get simple precepts into my thick skull, said that I should come back to philosophy when I was 40 so I could then better understand and appreciate it. Perhaps he was right, and perhaps I need to get off my stagnant ass, and do something about it, but of course there are two full hours of Family Guy on tonight.

Artaud

There is a song by a lovely little band by the name of Okkervil River that mentions the handsome devil above. In this little tune they discuss someone who has wealth, lots of wealth, and then they bemoan the fact that isn't it a pity that life gave the person shit else. A know or have known a couple of people so afflicted. They have wealth and fuck all else. No talent, no grace, no intellect, and very little class. Yet, these people are, in many respects, better off than me. All because their mother had the foresight to screw someone with money. It seems that the wolf that raised me has even more crimes to answer for than I originally thought. I mean would have really made that much difference to hold out giving it up till a rich fellow staggered along? Apparently that was too much to ask. Not that I am overloaded with talent, grace, or class, but really you can clearly see that these people have NO other saving grace(s). Sad in some ways, very frustrating in other ways. Mommy and Daddy's money can buy just about anything. Heaven forbid if junior gets into trouble with the law, or does something eye watering stupid at work. Money can fix that no worries, to whom do I make the check payable to? These little "acts" are worthy of being included in Artuad's Theatre of Cruelty, though not quite in the way he intended it. Of course, in some respects these people are a victim of their own parent's success. What should they do? Refrain from getting that private school education in order to rub elbows with us public school plebs? Being a man of the people is all well and good as long as you can afford to keep the people at a safe distance. I suppose we should not begrudge them the "luck of the draw," or the "accident of birth" that made them have a gold plated childhood. The true crime is the ones that waste it. Though in my limited experience I have come to the conclusion that all our parents fuck us up in one way or the other, and rich kids parents can just afford to fuck their kids up on a grander scale. May they feel the need to atone for being rich by making their kids lives so very "easy." Who knows, and at the end of the day I can not fathom why I cared enough to write a post about it. Other that the fact that it gives me something to post about. I feel some sort of renewed vigour to post now days. Not that I think I have gotten much better at it, but their is one theory that does state practice makes perfect. Maybe if I keep pecking away I will achieve something in the general vicinity of decent product. Perfection always needs to remain a goal, if it isn't then why bother trying after you achieve it? Sort of the ending on a high note theory of George Costanza. Always leave them wanting more, and make sure you do not bury you shining moment under a mountain of gaffes, mistakes, and down right blunders. The irony of this post is that my previous post celebrated, in my own limited way, my "talent" and here I am writing one of the most unfocused, meandering, pointless posts I have every managed to write. Guess I am saving everyone the trouble, and writing my own comeuppance.

Mover of Mountains

I can move mountains, you know, I can with just a few minor keystrokes move mountains, make animals roar, children cry, or the universe fold in upon itself. With those little hand movements that we all take for granted, and with the time to unshackle my imagination all sorts of wonders can be unleashed. Disasters can be either averted, described, or slammed into head first. All sorts of yummy sights, sounds, and flavours can be unleashed. Little mundane things that most of us overlook in the day to day grind that is our lives can be made into the most glorious, important, or terrifying thing any of us have ever seen. All of this I (at least believe) can do. With mere seconds of preparation, and a firm grasp on the spell check button I can transport myself to distant lands that I will never be able to visit. I can, if I think hard enough, go back in time, or zip into the future. All while just sitting here in my ass groove in my favourite chair. Those happy few amongst us that wish to come with me are more than welcome. I, of course, do not pretend to believe there are that many, nor do I think that the trip is always well received or planned. I suppose at some level that is not really the point, though a terribly executed trip is certainly something to be avoided at all costs. One should not over pack for a journey, but one has to be careful to bring along just enough clean underwear to last. Sometimes it is very, very difficult to move these mountains, or wander amongst these clouds. Other times it seems to be the easiest, most natural thing I have ever done. I, being the person that I am, usually look back, and think "damn I could have done that SO much better if I had any talent." Once in a blue moon, I indulge myself, and think "wow, that is certainly a lovely job, and I should be proud." I sometimes move the same mountain twice, or I sometimes fail to move the right mountain, or I move the damn mountain too much, or too little, or in the wrong direction. I suppose these are just some of the pitfalls of mountain moving. Sometimes you just have to let the mountain go where it wants to, and try to enjoy the ride without getting buried under the stones that you, yourself broke loose. Of course it is not just mountains. Given enough time to think things through I can provide you with many more things than just mountains. You like rivers, swamps, alleys, or multitudes of gleaming armed men willing to die for a cause? No worries, I can up to a certain point pull them out of the proverbial hat. Just make sure your expectations are not set too high, and I am fairly sure I can meet your needs. Sometimes it is just that easy. Of course, other times I can not conjure anything of value, and those are the times that life just is not any fun. We all have our crises of faith, and dry spell afflict even the best of us, but the trick is to keep the lines of imagination open. After all, everyone loves a good mountain story.

The Peninsula War

"I feel as if my life has become what the Peninsula War was to Napoleon." Kind of cheeky I guess quoting myself, but it is how I have felt the last few weeks or so. I did consider making that the entire post, and leaving my hordes of readers to decipher what I meant by that murky comment. However, since I not exactly sure what I mean by it either, I figure that perhaps writing it out would help. At least that is what my therapist(s) Dr. Kronenbourg and Dr. Duvel say, but who knows how much grasp they have on reality? The fellow above one Louis Suchet was one of the few of Napoleon's military men to come out of the Peninsula with his reputation enhanced. I fear that my war will not enhance, but destroy my (albeit already shaky) reputation. I had this brilliant idea about this analogy last night, but in today's overcast light it does seem much more difficult to put into what passes, for me, coherent thought. Napoleon, he of the excellent love letters to his lady Josephine, I am not. I have not sent legions of my men/minions across the Pyrenees to their doom. Mainly because I do not have legions of minions, nor am I anywhere near the Pyrenees. Legions of minions would be nice, they might be able to deflect, or at least soften the blows that I have taken lately. Granted, some of them are self-inflicted, but the majority are from outside sources. However, all my disasters are, to me at least, just as brutal as Salamanca, Fuentes de Onoro, and Bailén where to the French. Napoleon called his little Spanish adventure "a bleeding ulcer." Well I can feel his pain, here I am two hundred and one years later reliving it for him. Unlike him I have several Dukes of Wellington aligned against me. If one can defeat Napoleon, imagine what several have been, and still are doing to me. It is not pretty, it is not fun, and it is not safe. There is, as far as I can tell, no escape the violence of my ancestors (I can almost trace my family fruit tree back to one of Napoleon's generals) is coming back to haunt me. The bill is due, and I am the one having to write the check. I am quite positive that I am not equal to this task. I can only hope that the flimsy gates that I have erected keep the barbarians at bay long enough to salvage something. I certainly do not expect to be exiled to a nice little island off the coast of Italy as my punishment simply because, to me, that would not BE punishment. The ship of my state has sprung several leaks, and I do believe I will be forced to continue sailing until I sink it. Perhaps I am, like Eeyore, being a touch too gloomy, but at the moment it does not seem that way. I suppose, that at the end of the day, I have little choice but to soldier on, after all, surrender terms have not even been considered. I am not sure my Dukes of Wellington are interested in surrender. I think they may be more of the burn and annihilate types. One in particular has expressed his hatred of me and my kind, and seems to be "in it to win it." There is both good news and bad news concerning this. The bad news is that he has minions, well-placed minions that could, if they choose, crush me like a bug. Hey, I did say it was bad news. The good news is that his publicly expressed hatred of me serves as a sort of a ralllying point, an inspiration to not surrender but to dig in, grit my teeth, and blast away with all my remaining strength. Even better news is that this "Duke" is several years my senior. In a war of attrition this is important. After all his path to the grave is, in theory, shorter than mine, and that might just make all the difference.

Good News, Bad News

I read, I read a lot, and I read a lot of various things. For the last year or so I have been noticing a disturbing trend in my readings. Not the topic, they are still as varied as ever, but I have begun to notice that I have real problems with character(s). There has been in almost ever book I have read in the last two years a character that I absolutely LOATE. A character that I wish a quick, painful, brutal death to on every page they appear. Characters that make me want to put down the book, and stop reading altogether. Characters that when they show up make me start to just skip pages, not skim, but SKIP. Great swathes of pages that I can not read because the character is such a pain in the ass that it makes me want to puke. I had begun to be really concerned about this a couple of months ago when I figured out that almost all the characters I loathed were female characters. Granted I am an unrepentant misanthrope, but have I sunk to misogyny as well? There were female characters that I wanted to boil in oil just so I would not have to read any more of their blathering. In my mind, I begged the author to kill off this character for the sake of Western literature. Of course, as usual with these things, invariably the character that I loathed not only survived to the end of the book, but was, of course, the heroine of the day. Generally, the one who gets the boy, the castle or whatever, the title, and lives happily ever after to my general disgust. This usually made me even madder, not only did the lousy character live, but lived to the very fucking end of the book. One of the characters was in a EIGHT book series, and I loathed her from the first book. Imagine reading SEVEN more books itching for her to die an agonizing death and having her live to the last fucking page. This is the bad news that not only do the characters I hate seem to be predominately female, they seems to live forever. I have become a misogynistic pig. Great my mother will be so very proud. But then along came Karsa Orlong a character in a series of book entitled the Malazan Book of the Fallen. A series of (so far) about ten books. Mr. Orlong puts in his appearance in book four titled House of Chains, and let me tell you I LOATHE him. He is like superman, batman, and God all rolled up into one. Can not be killed, can not be harmed (if he is accidentally wounded he heals super fast), can not be wrong. His character is about a deep as a mud puddle, though part of that may be on purpose, but whenever he shows up large amounts of people die at his hand by his superhuman, godlike ability, and he just strolls away. It is disgustingly bad, and somewhat sad because the rest of the books in the series that I have read, have been fairly good books. However, Orlong made reading House of Chains both a chore, and eventually quicker. When he put in his appearance I could just skip about 15 pages of him killing about a hundred heavily armed people, and no sully myself with reading about it. Watching superman/god cut through normal humans like butter gets really, really fucking old about the 12th time it happens. I mean this guy is amazing. I am really not doing him justice calling him superman/god. I am pretty sure Mr. Orlong would beat god to death with superman's head after he lopped it off. However, the good news is that at least he has solved my earlier problem, he is ALL MAN, ALL THE TIME, and my loathing of him at least sets my compass back to mere misanthrope. Of course, I am quite sure that he will survive, and conquer until the bitter end, which is this case is a mere six (thousand pages or so per) books away. D'Oh!

In Vitriol

Very rarely can any one point to one moment in time, and with the remarkable clarity that comes from 20/20 hindsight, realize that there, at that precise moment, it all started to go horribly wrong. However, there are we few, we unhappy few, that have that gift bestowed upon them. I am one of that band of brothers. For me, the date is September 29th, 2006. That is the day on which my life went down the path marked "SHIT ZONE AHEAD." Funny, how clearly it is to see the mistake(s) that I should have known I was making. That was the day that I purchased the money pit/death trap in which I currently reside. I loathe it. There is, in fact, not one good thing about it. I can't even say, with any confidence it will not leak or collapse, that I have a roof over my head. There in lies part of the reason for this vitriolic post. The roof that was "redecorated" by the tree that tried to kill me, and one very crooked, crackhead contractor later, is STILL not fixed, and needs to be completely redone. The joy of home ownership is one of the biggest fucking lies perpetrated on the American people in a hundred years. There are no joys. The "tax break" myth is absolute bollocks. The money you save in taxes is more than made up for by the constant lawn work, the plumbing leaking, the painting that needs to be done, the updating of the kitchen that you need, the heater breaking, or the fucking trees that try to murder you in your sleep. All in all, I would just rather pay the fucking taxes. Let good, old Uncle Sam buy a ten thousand dollar toilet seat with my money. Some government official or local politico needs to have a comfy place to take a crap right? Why not let me pick up the tab for it? After all at least then I would not have to worry about doling out the extra money to fix the fucking toilet when it starts to leak. Of course the money pit/death trap, while being by far the largest mistake I have made since that fateful (fatal?) day, is not the only one. After all, why do things in half-measures? If you are going to ruin your future make sure you do it right, no need for just fucking up half way when you can shoot the moon. The beauty of these mistakes are that they are all encompassing. There are horrid personal mistakes, glaring career mistakes, shocking financial mistake, and just down right stupid fucking everyday mistakes. I am like the Baskin-Robbins of mistakes, 32 flavours, and then some. The sad part is that on some level I had some vague notion of some of this mistakes, and yet I made them anyway. I feel like I should adopt the George Costanza approach, if every instinct I have is wrong, then the opposite MUST be right. Like some bizarre world where up is down, and left is right. Perhaps the opposite of whatever my next decision is will be the right one. The one that gets my life out of the aforementioned ten thousand dollars crapper, and on the road to recovery. One never knows I suppose until, of course, almost three years later when they put two and two together and finally, after multiple attempts, get an even number less than six, but more than two. Wisdom comes late, or so they say, and trouble when it comes, comes not as a single scout, but in battalions. Well it appears I have battalions of young, unwise idiots piloting my brain ship into the shoals of disaster. Somewhere I am depriving a village of a perfectly good idiot. I say this with complete honesty, and in no way motivated by a desire for any sympathy. Sympathy is for the old, the weak, and the feeble minded. Oh wait I am old, and appear to be feeble minded, perhaps a LITTLE sympathy would not be such a bad thing. Actually, it probably since I am so feeble minded it would just be lost on me anyway. Whatever this disease is that allows people afflicted with it the ability to see, but not learn from, or repair their major life changing disasters, it is certainly one that you don't need.

This War

See those lovely brown spots? They are not some ancient symbol of infertility, or some crop circle some slack jawed farmer in Iowa found one day while out milking the cows. No, those sweet, sweet brown spots are what happens to my lawn after about ten days of 101 degree heat with no rain. Not even a mist or some dew to slacken the raging thirst of my grudge against the world grass. After Mother Nature's attempt to assassinate me, war was declared, and has been progressing quite well for my troops. You see without rain, i.e. water green shit dies. It dies a slow, painful, horrible death. Slowly withering away to a brown husk of its former self. Tough, and I am sure that if grass could feel pain (here's hoping) it sounds like a painfully shitty way to die. As I previously posted nothing green can stay, and Mother Nature's head on a silver plate would be a lovely way for this war to end. Once the rains of May give way to the sizzling heat of June, and the mind numbing heat of July my forces(meaning myself and various tools of minor destruction) will be triumphant. Until Mother Nature decides she has had enough, or brings the rain, I control the water supply that my lawn, and it various minions of Mother Nature receive. Would you care to guess how much water that is going to be? Let's go with none, nada, rein, zilch, the big ZERO. I am not a cruel man. The thought of perhaps giving the lawn a snippet of water once a week has crossed my mind. Sort of a new, improved water torture. Give it just enough water to not die, but not enough to keep it alive. Fairly wicked of me it is not? However, mercy is a sign of a civilized man, and I am the model of civility (ask anyone they will tell you). I do not wish to prolong the death throes of Mother Nature's denizens on my property, in fact the quicker they wither and die the better for everyone involved. This was never meant to be fun for anyone. It simply became a test of wills, and a matter of principle, and while the civility comment above might be horseshit, ask those same people if I have principles shot through with an iron will to achieve what I set out to do. I will leave Mother Nature high, and will leave Mother Nature dry on the property that I own. I repeat for her benefit nothing green can stay.

We are the Nearly Men

Nearly men, the ones that ALMOST made it big, the ones that ALMOST got carried around the village square on the shoulders of their fans, the ones that ALMOST got that ticker tape parade in New York City. It seems I am a fan of nearly men, possessing a unerring ability to pick them out, and hitch my wagon to their almost star. The nearly men I speak of are, of course, sports teams. Hope you did not think this post was going to be some deep political, or philosophical discourse on the nature of ubermen. I have already chronicled my sad love affair with the Minnesota Vikings, and the four super bowls they have lost in my life time. This does not include their other near-misses going to two NFC championship games in the last decade or so, and losing. Once again nearly men. Then there are my soccer clubs. The picture on this post is of my latest "nearly men" the Swedish Under 21 team that just lost the semi-finals of the European Championship to perfidious Albion on penalty kicks. The fellow with his head in his hands is Guillmero Molins, and the reason he is on his knees in despair is because he just clanged his penalty shot off the post, thus ensuring that the douche bag keeper's team, i.e. England, get to play in the final. I know it is odd for a full blooded American to be a fan of the Swedish football (soccer) team, but I never claimed to be normal. I have been a of Swedish soccer since their senior side were nearly men in the 1994 World Cup. Finishing third after losing to those samba bastards Brazil. Beginning my love affair with Swedish soccer in general, and Henrik Larsson in particular. Even before I was born (many, many moons ago) they were nearly men in 1958, losing in the final to those bastards Brazil and Pele 5-2. Seems Brazil just has my number. Even the women's soccer team managed somehow to lost the World Cup final to the stinking Germans in 2003 2-1, after leading 1-0. Then there is my EPL team, Arsenal. The team that has the most 2nd place finishes in the Premier league since its inception in 1992 (5). Granted I have not been a fan of Arsenal all my life but they have one exactly one thing in the years I have. Even managing to lose in the Champion League final in 2006 to Barcelona and my favourite player Larsson. Nothing like watching your favourite player rip the heart out of your favourite team on a big screen TV. Of course the Swedish hockey team has been nearly men a few times as well losing in the Under 21 finals to Canada in 2008. Though they did to be fair win the gold medal and the European Championship in 2006. The only team that I support that has climbed to the top of the mountain is the North Carolina men's basketball team. Winning the title 4 times in my lifetime (1982, 1993, 2005, and 2009). Of course they have made the Final Four 13 times in that time. So four out of thirteen not the best odds in the world, but at least they won something. Maybe this is some sort of character flaw of mine, or maybe I just like a bunch of fucking losers. All these nearly men moments leave me a bit like M. Molins up there, head in hands despair coursing through my soul, and the realization that we were THAT close. I guess at I should be encouraged that at least my teams are there at the end. I mean losing the FINAL, while gutting, does mean that you were in the final to begin with. It could be much worse I could be a Cubs fan or a Tottenham fan (shiver).

Nothing Green can Stay

"I would like to report a crime please." The desk Sargent looks up from his paper with a bored expression on his face, slaps down three pieces of paper on the desk in front of him, and asks "your name?" "My name is GI," I reply a bit shakily since the crime in question had happened a mere few minuets ago. "Name of the person you are complaining against, and the nature of the crime." "Simple," I say "Her name is Mother Nature, and she just attempted to murder/assassinate me." That gets his attention he looks at me through narrowed eyes, and says "look buddy, I do not know, nor do I care, what fucking drugs you have to take in order to make yourself believe that Mother Nature tried to murder you, but this is a police station, not a lunatic asylum." "Filing a false offense report is a felony, so why don't you just get up, and leave, and I will pretend this did not happen." "Sir, I am serious." "Not more than 48 hours ago that bitch Mother Nature tried to kill me." Now if I were a better writer of dialog, I would continue to tell the tale of my attempted murder along this story arc, but since I suck at it, allow me to explain why this post is being written. I have a small yard at my house, and it is a constant source of angst for me. It seems I have grass that grows like it has a grudge against the world, and therefore, requires mowing at least twice a week. It is amazing. I LOATHE yard work. I went to nearly a decade of school(s) so that would no longer be forced to do yard work. In my opinion the day I was handed a diploma I said goodbye to yard work. Being fantastically wealthy I do not feel the need to nurture the world by making shit grow. In fact, I get a certain sense of sadistic pride in cutting shit DOWN. Trees in my yard are not safe. I purchased a handy dandy tree lopper just so I can lop off trees heads like Robespierre during the Reign of Terror. I lop them with undisguised glee. However, of course the bastards just grow back again. Thus, my unending war against all things green. I have big plans for this war. Large swathes of my fee simple are going to be laid to waste, and sown with salt to ensure that I win this war. Well, on Friday Mother Nature decided to fight back. The photos above are of my house and the huge fucking tree that the bitch lobbed with evil intent onto my house. As you can tell, it was not a small tree, and as of this writing is still on my house awaiting some lunatic with a crane, a chain saw, and a death wish to come remove it. All for the low, low price of around $1800 American dollars. Good times. A hole in the roof, and a rainstorm or two has added to Mother Nature's crimes. I need roof repair, gutter repair, and a stiff drink. The drink was necessary because the kicker of the tree attacks house story is that not thirty seconds before the tree "fell" (or was pushed) I was standing in its landing zone. Good thing I did not drop any of the items I was carrying into the house, or this post might be written as an obituary. It might not have killed me, but it certainly would have given me a peek at the other side. Thus, my complaint that Mother Nature, that dangerously insane cunt, is trying to kill me. So war it is, and it is going to be a long one. I understand that she has forces at her control that can pick me up like a rag doll, and toss me miles away, or forces that can crush me like a bug. Legions of animals at her beck and call, can devour me whole as a snack (and I am not a small man). Whole acres of ground can open up and, swallow me at the wave of her outstretched hand. Plagues, diseases, fires, pestilences, and all sort of nasty things are at her disposal if she wants to rid the world of my stain. My power pales somewhat in comparison. However, I am stubborn as an Army mule, and I hold a grudge. I have reestablished plans to build a particle accelerator in my bathtub in order to arm myself with nuclear weapons. All I need is a little plutonium, and I am set. Until then, I will have to do with my tree lopper, weed whacker, lawn mower, and an indomitable will to win this war. Consider this post to be my declaration of war on good old Mother Nature. I plan on turning my freehold into Hell's Half Acre for Mother Nature. Until one of us quits, or is crushed like a bug (or by a bug), within my dominions (i.e. my house and small yard), Nothing Green Can Stay.