The Troll Prince

The Troll Prince

Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Trolloria there stood a mighty castle made of smooth black stones. It rose from the top of the highest hill, looking down over the kingdom. Inside the impressive dark fortress, many a strong and terrible troll had sat upon the throne. Within its mighty walls, many a troll prince had been born and raised up to be king when his father’s rule reached one-hundred years.

This was the way it had always been. On one warm summer’s evening, such a prince was to be born. But the legacy of this particular Troll Prince would be the most unusual of all.

A castle servant named Scralp was dispatched by a nursemaid to fetch King Ungerous and inform him that the Queen had given birth. Scralp’s stumpy legs carried him as fast as they could through the cavernous halls of the royal palace. Menacing, monsterous portraits of past Kings stared down on him as he went. The King had been pacing the castle all morning gnawing on ox bones and nervously slurping down steamy buckets of tar pit tea with saw grass blades and ground thistles to calm his nerves.

Scralp finally found the King in his trophy room grinding the edge of his favorite battle axe for a third time that day. The hulking, mustard skinned King hunched over with his back toward the door, running an otter pelt rag across the broad curved blade. He peered with satisfaction down his squash-like nose at the blade. Squatty, green Scralp cowered in his presence. He knew this was the very axe that King Ungerous had used to slay the legendary fireworm that threatened Trolloria decades before. Scralp nervously cleared his throat. He smoothed his frizzy red mane and side-burns with a moss-colored hand and stuttered to get the first words out.

“Ah-ahem, you . . . your highness,” he said.

King Ungerous whirled his mountainous body around, his black and silver robe twirling around him, gripping the axe in his melon-sized hand. His large oval eyes squinted at the servant and he leaned down, glaring past his bulbous nose at the diminutive servant. His thick, purple beard with braided knots fell against his barrel chest. He gnashed his jagged teeth with irritation.

“What is it?” he demanded. The steel crown shifted on his furrowing brow. His bushy purple hair rose three pumpkins high off of his head and flowed back in a wave, resting on his pancake sized ears.

“It’s the-the-the Queen, your highness,” Scralp stammered. “She’s given birth.”

The King’s eyes widened like ostrich eggs.

“My child has arrived?” he said with excitement. “What is it? What did she have?”

Scralp shifted nervously.

“I believe I heard the nursemaid say it is a Prince,” he answered. “I mean, he is a Prince. The child, that is. You – you have a son, sire.”

King Ungerous raised his mighty axe into the air. Scralp’s knees buckled and he covered his head with his stubby arms. The King let loose a howl of joy and flung his beloved axe across the room, sticking the blade deep into the stone wall with a powerful thud.

“I have a Prince!” he bellowed. He lifted Scralp into the air and swung him around like a child’s stuffed werebear. They danced around the room as the King chanted a joyous tune. His trophy room shook with every foot fall. “I have a Prince! I have a Prince!”

Finally Ungerous dropped Scralp to the hard floor and bounded down the corridor toward the East Wing. Suits of heavy troll armor clattered and shook as his huge yellow feet pounded the stone. When he reached the thick oak door of the nursery, he didn’t even stop to turn the handle. His mighty spotted forearms rammed the door off its iron hinges as he burst through with an excited grin on his watermelon sized jaw.

“Where is he?” he bellowed. “Where’s my boy? Where is my Prince?”

Queen Grebleena had her head back against a pillow and a blue skinned maid dabbed at her forehead with cool cloth. Her orange hair was matted to her round ears and her pink skin glistened with sweat. She looked exhausted.

“Madam,” said the blue troll softly. “His Royal Highness has arrived. He’s asking to see the child.”

“Yes,” said Ungerous, going to his wife’s bedside and taking her clammy hand. “I have come, dear wife. Where is he? I wish to see our son.”

“Ungerous,” said Queen Grebleena, opening her gentle purple eyes. “I sent Rattina to clean the child and wrap him in warm blankets. She’ll bring him in momentarily.”

“Someone fetch her now,” Ungerous demanded. “I want to see the boy. We must give him a name; a proper name. I was thinking Grunlock, after Grunlock the Terrible. Grunlock was the greatest bridge troll in history. It’s a strong name. A name befitting the next King of Trolloria.”

“Husband, please,” said the Queen. “You must stop blathering. I need you to listen to me.”

The King could see she was looking at him gravely.

“What is it?” he asked. “What is wrong? Is the child not healthy?”

“Oh, he appears to be healthy,” she said. “And he bellows as loud as his father.”

The King swelled with pride.

“He’s a born King,” said Ungerous. “I knew he’d be a natural leader among trolls. Just like me! What is his color?”

“That’s just it,” said Queen Grebleena. “His color is, well, unusual.”

The King eyed her suspiciously.

“How do you mean, unusual? Is he some new shade of purple or green? There’s no shame in that. A leader should stand out. I’ve often wished my yellow hide and lavender spots were more unique.”

“Ungerous, listen to me. I suppose his skin is somewhat . . . pinkish.”

“Pink? Well, then he takes his color from you. Your skin is pink. There is no shame in that. Blagthorpe the Bloodthirsty was pink, and bald. No one mocked him, I assure you.”

“Not pink like me,” she said. “A strange, lighter shade of pink. Almost more like the peaches that grow in the fields along the southern border by the Mungo Bridge.”

“Hmm,” the King muttered, pondering this news. “I don’t find that so alarming. Unusual yes, but no need for panic. When his hair grows out and his nose sprouts, he’ll be a fine troll.”

“That’s the problem my husband,” said the Queen. “He has some hair already. It’s soft and thin and lays flat against his head. Strangest of all, it’s merely . . . brown.”

“Brown?” repeated the King.

“And his nose,” she went on. “Bare in mind husband, he is just born, but his nose is somewhat tiny. In fact, it’s barely a button on his peachy face.”

“Rattina!” King Ungerous growled. “Bring me my child, now!”

“Ungerous, please,” said the Queen, trying to calm him and patting his hand.

“I want to see this child for myself. I want to see this brown hair, and unformed nose, and strangely peach colored flesh. I want to see it with my own eyes, before I let this madness you speak affect my mind.”

The nervous maid did as she was commanded and carried in the newborn for the King to inspect.

Ungerous took his infant son and with one calloused yellow finger moved the blankets away. The child was sleeping. Indeed the flesh was soft and pinkish, and he had a tiny round head, like a melon. Its hair was thin and straight and brown. Ungerous poked gently at it. Finally, he pushed the child back at the nursemaid.

“Take it away,” he said softly. “There must be a mistake. That is no manner of troll I’ve ever seen.”

“Ungerous!” the Queen exclaimed. “That is our son! Your son. You can not cast him away simply because he is different!”

“How can that be our son?” he bellowed. “Our child is to be the next King of all Trolloria. He is to lead our people and strike fear into the hearts of our enemies! Do you think the ogres or goblins will remain in exile if they learn the next King of Trolloria looks like a . . .? “

“Like a what?” the Queen glared. “What were you about to say? And consider your words carefully before you answer, husband.”

“Well, I mean to say . . . that is,” The King stammered, seeing his wife’s displeasure. Perhaps, he thought, best to tread gently. “It’s just that, well, the child looks . . ., that is to say, he resembles a, well, a human.”

“Ungerous,” she said again, “the boy is your son, no matter what you think he resembles. You will not shun him. If you do, you will find yourself feeling quite shunned. At least around this castle! In fact I dare say you are beginning to resemble a creature other than a troll yourself. A jackass!”

The King sighed, looking again at the sleeping infant.

“But how can he grow to be King?” he asked.

“Give it time, husband,” said the Queen. “Perhaps he was just born a bit premature. Surely your mighty nose was not so protrusive the day you were born. And I recall your ears were quite small for your head well into your training years.”

If the Troll King weren’t yellow, he might have blushed bright scarlet at this memory.

“Very well,” he said. He took his Queen’s pudgy pink hand. “I will love this child as though he were born with green skin and hair of bright fuchsia.”

The King looked around the room at the servants and maids. They were all smiling now. It made him nervous. As King, Ungerous knew he had enemies all around. He could not afford to appear weak. Nor could he allow talk of weakness in his line.

“But I make a decree here and now, in front of all of you,” he boomed, looking sternly at every troll in the room. “News of his birth shall not leave this castle!”

He took Scralp by the throat and lifted him into the air for all to see.

“None of you is to say a word,” Ungerous continued. “The child is to remain safe within the castle for as long as I say, and not even a hint of his birth is to slip over these walls.”

“Ungerous,” Queen Grebleena protested.

“It is for his own good,” he interrupted. “We will raise him here and watch his growing until he blossoms into a full-fledged troll. When that happens, I will proclaim his birth from the top of this castle so that it will be heard on the furthest edges of Trolloria. But not before, is that clear?”

“Y-y-your majesty m-makes himself quite clear,” Scralp squeaked as the grip around his neck tightened. “Naaaa . . . not a word will be uttered of the Prince’s birth beyond these castle walls.”
The other servants nodded in agreement.

“Very well,” said the King releasing Scralp with a drop and thud. “Your confidence will be rewarded. Just as any loose talk or disloyalty will be met with a wrath unimagined.”

King Ungerous took the child again. He could cradle the babe in just his palm and forearm. Gently he patted its small head.

Queen Grebleena watched with a sigh. She was glad at least to see her husband accepting the child, if in his own way.

“What do you wish to name your heir?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Perhaps he should be called Mannen.”

The Queen knew this was a word for “human” in one of the outsiders’ tongues. She once again scowled at her husband.

“He will not be called Mannen,” Grebleena growled. “What do you say to calling him Kronen?”

“Kronen?” the King repeated. “After Kronen the Wise, who ended the Troll War and united bridge and cave trolls?”

“That’s correct. Prince Kronen. He will wear the crown of Trolloria after his father’s one-hundredth year, just as tradition demands. This child will impress you, I am sure of it.”

And so it was.

The birth of Prince Kronen, first son of King Ungerous and Queen Grebleena went wholly unheralded in the kingdom of Trolloria. The King ordered construction of a whole new wing for the boy, complete with a private garden courtyard not visible from outside. The child had his own little forest, complete with a bog and a waterfall. He had toy clubs and wooden troll soldiers. Pet swamp rats and spikeypines to hunt. Even a purple Iguanadog called Groot who followed him faithfully wherever he went. Prince Kronen knew no life outside of the castle, and little life outside of his southern wing. He also knew nothing of the difference between himself and his mother and father, or the servants who attended to him daily.

To Prince Kronen, he was just a young troll, and he was happy.

to be continued . . .

B. Scott 12/01/2009

We Had It All, Like Bogey and Bacall: An Ode to Christmas Past . . . and Bertucci's!

Well it's that time once again. Early November, and you know what that means. The Christmas music is already on a continuous loop in my office.
I'm not the Grinch here. I actually like hearing Christmas music. In fact, I dare say my heart has grown to enjoy the Christmas season in recent years. And that's saying something because I spent a great deal of my Twenties locked in "Bah Humbug" mode.

Maybe it's fatherhood that softened me to it. Admittedly I always feel inadequate that I can't really spend the kind of bucks I want to on my son. But let's be honest, he doesn't need a $300 powered Lightning McQueen that he can sit in and stear. Nor does he need enough Duplo blocks to build a castle he can actually stand up in. I just want him to have those things.

Still, that not withstanding, I am looking forward to the holidays. I've even made my peace with with the inevitable snowfall that's soon coming. I just don't feel we need to rush it. Thanksgiving is a wonderful holiday too. The smells, the sights, the tastes, . . . I suppose the fellowship. Well, I suppose we just have to accept that, especially in this tough economy when retailers are flailing about in the tide, they're going to keep inundating us with Christmas music earlier and earlier to get us all in that shopping mood.

Which is why I've stopped verbally complaining about the music and decorations materializing so early. It is pretty much a tradition in itself now, and we can all stop marvelling at it. We're really not that surprised any more, are we?

There is something to be said for Christmas in Novemeber. The radio station we've got on at work has pulled a couple obscure ones out of their bu . . . stockings. I'm pretty sure I just heard Anita Bryant singing "Sleigh Ride."

Nothing says Peace on Earth and Good Will Toward Men like the vocal stylings of Anita Bryant.

I'll pause for those of you under the age of 50 (and/or non-Pop Culture junkies like 34 year-old me) to Google "Anita Bryant." You'll get it.

A favorite Christmas classic of mine is Happy Holidays (It's the Holiday Season) by Mr. Branson, MO himself, Andy Williams. Now let me be quite candid. I hate this song. Musically, lyrically, it drives me up a tree. Andy Williams doesn't help with his cheesey, Catskills delivery. And yet, it's still a favorite of mine, because it somehow transports me back in time every time I hear it.

The song takes me back 14 years. I was 20 years old, waiting tables in a mid-scale Italian restaurant in the suburbs. It was the first place I remember hearing that song, and I must have heard it at least 3 times a shift. I have vivid memories of the quiet times before the rush would start when we'd be refilling romano shakers, wiping down table tops, and hearing Andy singing "So leave a peppermint stick, for old Saint Nick."

I can clearly remember rolling my eyes thinking what a stupid song.

Or as Andy says "whoop-dee-do."

But, those days were some of the happiest of my life. I was young, lost, with little responsibility (other than having to start paying back the student loans for the education I'd quit attempting halfway through), and doing a job that was easy and fun and put cash in pocket every day.

Ok, maybe I shouldn't say "easy", as I spent my fair share of evenings deeply lost in the "weeds." No, that's not a drug reference. Fellow food service veterens know that term all too well, as we've all been there. Still, I loved that job. And even on my worst nights, I was good at it. Damn good.

And I will tell you there was something special about that particular restaurant. Perhaps it was because most of us there, especially that first year, were hired before the restaurant even opened.

It was a Boston-based outfit new to the Chicago area. We went through training together, just like school. We discovered this new menu together. It helped us all grow together like a crew on a ship. I'm not the first to draw the analogy that restaurant people are the modern day pirates.

Without the automatic weapons of course.

The owner, because at that time there actually was one owner - Joey, believed strongly in the idea of family. The decor and motif was very warm inside, intended to be very "homey" and comfortable. It was said they even chose green table cloths as it was a soothing, calming color. The walls were lined with big jugs of wine. We wanted people to sit and relax. Take their time. Sip some vino. Mangia.

We had these fresh baked rolls that were just, you can't even describe. Tear open a hot one and stuff with caponata, or dip it in the sauce . . .! I'm not Italian, but let me just say "fuggedaboudit!"

We had a big beautiful wood-burning brick oven that just smelled . . . wonderful. It made coming in to work every morning better.

And it made the holidays feel even more like, well, just like they're supposed to. It was our own giant buring hearth.

It also helped that the entire staff was like a big family. Almost everyone got along, even with the many different personalities. Sure things got tense. But when the customers began to filter out, and the Mexican music began to play in the kitchen, everyone began to smile and joke and breathe again.

I loved working Christmas Eve there. We'd all be sneaking little "cordials" between the handful of tables that came in. There was a lot of love and well-wishing when we closed early that night.

To be honest, I didn't want to go home. I could have spent that Christmas Eve in the restaurant, white shirt and Looney Tunes tie and all.

This was my other home and those people were my extended family. In fact, that first Christmas, my family was out of town and I was returning to an empty house as I would be making the drive to Indiana on Christmas morning. At the last minute, a handful of my compadres asked if they could come by (my house had become something of the hangout for those of us not yet legal to hit the bars) and I said of course.

We spent our Christmas Eve playing monopoly, drinking fully-loaded Eggnog, and soaking in my parents' outdoor hot tub while snow fell all around. Not a bad way to wait for Saint Nick.

Now I find myself back in the present. Still in a white shirt, but the ties are a little more expensive (though sometimes still stained by tomato sauce.) My hair has some gray, and I'm rounder 'round the middle from sitting at a desk the last decade.

In those days I was on my feet all day, checking on tables, expediting food, washing dishes when necessary (something I actually LOVED to do, and strangely still do - you choose your brand of therapy; mine's cheaper) and just generally rocking and rolling. Making less than half of what I do now, but in some ways never happier.

I'm sure when I talk about those days, I sound like Edward G. Robinson in the movie Key Largo. It was classic Robinson as he played Johnny Rocco, a fugitive mob boss holed up with his gang in a small Key Largo waiting out a Hurricane. It's my favorite Bogart flick, after Casablanca. While Rocco is again type-cast as a gangster scumbag, he has this running heartache about the end of Prohibition.

He's constantly asking other gangsters in the flick, "Don't you think we'll get it (Prohibiton) back? You'll see, we'll get it back," he says. "Then we'll be back on top."

Even though he's a feared and respected gangster, he still yearns for the past. Times were simpler. You ran hooch, you made money, everybody got along. Then things changed. They got more complicated. Money was harder to come by and pressures were building.

I suppose it goes back to what I was saying about knowing you were really good at something once. It's tough when that thing doesn't exist any more. After the restaurant business, I found myself working in the sub-prime mortgage industry (talk about a Pirate analogy - but don't hang me, I was only a lowly crewman) and I think I was pretty damn good at that job too. Til the ship sank, and then of course the entire ocean dried up.
Point is, I understand Rocco's speech, and his feelings all too well.

Still, I wouldn't trade the blessings I've recieved since then to ever go back. But Christmas, and that song especially, will always take me back to those days.

Ok, so I took a funny turn there. If you want a Christmas themed Bogart film, rent We're No Angels. The original. Not that DeNiro/Sean Penn thing from the 80's.

Here's to the good old days of many a Christmas Past. Here's to the start of Christmas Present, early though it may be. And to the hope for many and even happier to come.

Oh yeah, . . . Happy Thanksgiving!

"He'll be comin' down the chimney, down!"

Rough character sketches

Max & the ghost of Hammerhead Jack

In the mood for a Pirate Tale . . . ?

The Legend of Hammerhead Jack

Port Ignatius, Virgin Islands – 1675 –
It was mid morning and the docks were full of merchant ships bringing livestock, textiles, and tea to the colony of Port Ignatius. In return they loaded crates of sugar, barrels of coffee, and cases of rum to sell back in England and Holland and Spain. Sailors and merchants bustled about the shops and businesses alongside the townsfolk.

A group of children gathered on the porch outside the Flying Fish Tavern. Inside, the owner Percy Johnston swept the dusty floorboards. It was still a few hours til opening time.
Out front two expectant “patrons” rested in the morning shade. One was a scruffy straw-colored dog that constantly wandered the port. The other, a stout old man who was a fixture at the tavern. He was the unofficial mascot and storyteller of the Flying Fish, known simply throughout the island as the Commodore.

The Commodore had a round, pink face with a twisted and knotted gray beard. He sat on a stool telling stories to whoever would listen. He had no home or job to speak of. His clothing was tattered and dirty, but his belly was round and full. A green parrot stood a constant watch on his left shoulder, picking tasty fleas from his stringy hair.
His chubby calloused fingers wrapped around the head of his walking stick, which was carved into the face of lion. Where his right leg should have been, instead there was a wooden peg screwed in at the knee.

Everyone knew when the Commodore was around by the clip-clopping sound he made along the floor. He rarely moved though, except to dab sweat from his brow in the tropical heat, or take a swig of grog from the tin cup on a crate beside him.
The Commodore told tales of adventures on the high seas, always he said, as a merchant sailor or privateer. Never did he once claim to participate in or endorse a life of piracy. Often the children who gathered every Saturday to hear him speak would ask to hear how he fought off a tiger shark with only a whale bone knife. It was the same shark, he said, that took his leg.
But on this particular morning, they all wanted to hear another familiar legend – the story of the legendary privateer, Hammerhead Jack.

“So,” began the Commodore with a sly grin, “ye wants to hear a tale of Captain Hammerhead Jack, do ye?” To which all the children would cheer.

“Very well, then. I’ll oblige, only because Hammerhead Jack was the finest man to ever sail the seven seas. The greatest pirate hunter this world has ever known.”

“Is it true he wore a mask?” a little boy asked.

“Aye,” said the Commodore. “A mask the color of turquoise that covered his head and eyes. Hammerhead Jack knew early on the Pirate Brethren would set a fine price on his head. He figured if they didn’t know what he looked like, they’d have a hard time finding him, even when he was sat among them in a tavern.”

“Did Hammerhead Jack ever come to Port Ignatius?” asked another child.

“Did he come here? Why, it were just off these shores he made his final stand,” the Commodore declared. “I was aboard ship with ol’ Hammerhead as he chased down the dastardly pirate Black Eyed Bill right here to Port Ignatius. Little did I know then it would be our last adventure, as it was to be Hammerhead’s final voyage.
Jack despised Black Eye above all other pirates. Legend has it he and Bill know’d each other as children all of yer age. Some even rumored they was brothers but some rift sent Bill astray.”

The Commodore took a slobbery swig from his cup. Foam ran down his beard, dripping onto his belly.

“Well after years of being thwarted at sea by Captain Hammerhead, ol’ Black Eye
set about burning down villages across the Caribbean, after robbing them of all their goods. His plan was to pin the blame on Jack, making it appear that Hammerhead was turncoat. Black Eye instructed his crew to spread rumors throughout the taverns and ports that someone had seen Jack’s ship always sailing off after each attack.

Then one night he and his crew came upon an East India merchant ship listing at port, and set fire to her deck. Before rowing away in the night, Bill took a blue glove, much like one of Jack’s, and tossed it onto the dock. What fool would believe ol’ Jack would drop his glove I don’t know, but it didn’t matter. In spite of all the good Hammerhead Jack had done capturing pirates all over the Caribbean, or his reputation as a gentleman, the King was furious.
The English Navy began chasing Hammerhead Jack all over the ocean, with a warrant for his arrest on the charge of piracy and treason against King and Country. The same King, it should be said who’d commissioned him to hunt pirates in the first place. It was well assumed that if the Navy overtook Jack’s ship, he’d be hung in the first port they found.”

The Commodore ran his meaty finger across his throat, making a grinding sound out of the side of his mouth. The children recoiled and gasped in horror.

“It was likely Jack would be spared the benefit of a fair trial in London,” the Commodore continued.

The yellow mutt at his feet lifted its head and whimpered. Even he’d heard this tale many times before

“Aye,” he continued. “Some say justice is a blind lady. I don’t know if she be blind, but she can sure be misguided. It’s no wonder ladies are considered bad luck aboard a ship. Fortunately, the Navy never caught up to the Mermaid Queen.”

The Commodore looked at a young girl in the front of the group. Her family was new to the Port Ignatius.

“That of course be the name of Hammerhead’s ship. Oh, the Mermaid Queen was a beauty of a Dutch Flute, with a high rear where you could see over the whole vessel. Many nights I stood watch on that quarter deck. Captain Hammerhead would come up and stand with me, often taking the wheel his self.

One day, nigh on twenty years ago Jack came across Black Eyed Bill only a mile out past our very docks. Bill was on his way to sack Port Ignatius, and maybe burn her to the ground as well. Captain Hammerhead gave the order to fire all guns across his flank. As Bill’s ship began to slip into the drink, his band of cut throats began to swing across to board the M.Q. and overtake the crew. Jack’s men had the higher position, but they were far outnumbered by the pirates.”

“You mean you were outnumbered?” said another child.

The Commodore chuckled. “That’s right,” he said. “We were outnumbered. There was little chance we could have kept the ship, or our throats, and ol’ Jack knew it. He climbed atop the quarter deck and called out to us with his sword held high. ‘Men,’ he called out, ‘I order you all to abandon ship!’

“Well at first we all refused. But Hammerhead Jack would not be defied, not even by his loyal crew. He would rather die than let dastardly Black Eyed Bill take his ship or bring harm to us. He drew the pistola from his belt and fired it at the deck by his feet. The men were confused at first. Then we watched as a ball of orange fire ignited on the deck and began to slither down the steps, across the ship. The dancing flame was quickly advancing along a black trail toward an overturned powder keg. Our beloved captain was going to scuttle the ship.

All the men scrambled toward the side of the ship, diving headfirst into the water. I remember bobbing along the surface when the first explosion lit up the night sky. And there still stood Hammerhead Jack aboard the ship, watching as the unlucky pirates were launched into the air. We all shouted for him to dive in after us. It were only moments ‘afore the flames would reach the other barrels below deck. There was enough powder on board to blast that ship to kingdom come!”

“Did he jump?” asked a child.

“Oh no,” said the Commodore, “not Hammerhead Jack. You see one last pirate still stood aboard the deck of the Mermaid Queen. It was Black Eyed Bill himself. The filthy dog lunged at Jack from behind. Oh, sorry there pup.” He reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears. “No offense meant.”

“Where was I? Oh yes, Black Eye tried a sneak attack on Hammerhead. He drew a dagger and swiped it at Jack’s back. Hammerhead swung around and punched Black Eye right in face. I didn’t see it, but some closer to the ship say the black opal that Bill kept in his empty socket bounced across the deck. Bill drew his sword and the two arch rivals engaged in a duel to end all duels. They were both brilliant with a blade, and they danced across the deck trading blows as fire began to overtake the ship. Hammerhead looked brilliant against the orange flames in his blue and white, and Black-eye just a devil in his blood red coat and black wig.
Hammerhead looked out at us all treading water in the bay and gave us a grin. Then he swung ‘round and knocked the sword right out of Bill’s hand. He brought the butt of his sword down hard against Bill’s head. Ol’ Black Eye hit the deck like a sack of flour.

From the water, the whole crew let out a cheer. Ol’ Hammerhead turned to see us all floating below and he gave us a salute with a wide grin. Sadly, just as he turned to dive down to the water, the flames reached the powder kegs in the hold below.

The sight was like a volcano spewing up out of the sea. The burst was so bright we had to shield our eyes. Most of the men dove under the surface for safety. By time we came back up, the ship was but a memory. Planks of burning wood were spread out all across the blackened water. Our great captain, Hammerhead Jack, the man who’d spent his life chasing pirates and protecting the innocent was gone.

Mind you, I imagine that’s how he’d have wanted it, waging battle with a villain the likes o’ Black Eyed Bill.”

“Hammerhead died?” some of them asked.

“He never swum back up,” the Commodore answered. “We waited for what seemed an eternity afore swimming ashore. Even once we reached the shore, the whole lot of us sat up all night around a fire, hoping to see Hammerhead crawlin’ up from the surf.”

Percy Johnston came out of the tavern with a pitcher in his hand. He saw the wide-eyed children drinking in the old fool’s tale. He took the mug from the crate and filled it. It was a service he always extended the Commodore, even though he knew the old man had no coins to speak of. Percy would also slip a plate out the backdoor when his wife wasn’t watching. He didn’t believe a word the man said, but he appreciated a good story just the same. It was the most entertainment one could get on the island, and Percy was happy to pay for it in his own way.

“Oh Commodore,” he said, setting the mug down again. “There wasn’t any Hammerhead Jack. Don’t lead these children on that way. Hammerhead Jack is just a myth they used to tell us about when I was a boy myself.”
Percy shook his head and chuckled then walked back into the tavern.

“Don’t be paying attention to what that man said,” said the Commodore, taking a sip from the cup. White foam dripped from his moustache and he set it back down.
“Hammerhead Jack was no myth. He was a man, like you and me. And he was a hero. The bravest, most upright man I ever knew and not even I knew his real name or what he looked like behind that blue mask over his eyes.”

The Commodore took another drink and scanned the horizon. He squinted in the sunlight as a black smudge crept across the horizon. It was a ship. A dark ship from what he could see with no flag of any country flying above her sails.

“Aye children,” he said. “I’d give my other leg to have a man like Hammerhead Jack here in Port Ignatius again.”

To Be Continued . . .

B.Scott 11.10.09

Balaam: Introduction

Balaam

The market place was buzzing early that morning. Rugs were laid out along the street, covered with all manner of fruits, vegetables, figs, and nuts. Tables were piled high with fabrics. In small tents and stalls, craftsmen showcased ornate jewelry and stones, as well as fine dishes and goblets. Herders corralled livestock to be butchered or sheered. Merchants called out over one another, fighting for the shoppers’ attentions. Amid the bustle and the morning heat, a lean but strong traveler led his donkey through the crowded street.

His name was Aman. He tended to a small vineyard on the other side of the mountain and normally would have brought his wine here to sell. His skin was tanned from a life in the sun, and his hands cracked and cut from working the vines. His feet stained from years of stomping juice from the sweet grapes. His robes were tattered and worn, showing the signs of working the land for survival.

It pained Aman that on a day when the bazaar was overflowing with shoppers he was not there to conduct business. As it was, he barely earned enough money to provide the basic needs of his family and few animals they kept. He wiped his sweating brow on his sleeve and took a sparing sip of water from the skin slung over his shoulder.

Atop the shaggy brown donkey, a form wrapped in a blanket swayed with the trudging of the beast. It was a young girl, the winemaker’s daughter. Her name was Farideh. She was nine years old. Her black hair was pasted to her face with sweat. Her eyes were opaque and barely open. The girl was sick. Her father offered her the skin but she was too weak to lift her hands to take it. Aman stopped the donkey and held the skin to her lips and poured water into her mouth. Gently he tipped her head back to make her drink.

“My poor child,” he whispered, fighting tears. “My dear Fari.”

His child’s head slumped forward and drops of warm water ran down her cracked lips. She made no sound and showed little signs of consciousness. Weeks ago she’d complained of not feeling well. It progressed over days and weeks. All the locals said surely it was just some fever and would pass. Since then it had only gotten worse. His young girl, the jewel of his eye who used to twirl about the vineyard and sang songs to him as he worked was now but a breathing corpse.
No local doctors could offer any hope. Frustrated and desperate Aman decided to follow a rumor to a part of the market not often visited by respectable traders.

Aman wound his way through the streets until he found the rug he was looking for. A young, scarecrow of a man sat cross-legged behind the carpet. A strange array of dried plants and leaves bundled in small arrangements were set out before him. Aman had never heard his name first hand, but Bashu was what the other merchants called him. It was a Persian word for lizard. Aman saw it was an appropriate title.

Bashu looked up and saw the winemaker and his daughter. He grinned a wide crescent smile, revealing a number of black holes where teeth had rotted away. His pink tongue flicked in and out of the empty spaces. His skin was pocked and burnt by the sun. He raised a dirty hand to push the stringy black hair off his face.

“Ah, yes. Yesss,” Bashu hissed. “You came after all. Yes, yes. I knew you would.”

“You said you know of a doctor,” said Aman.

He did not even like speaking to such a man. There were many rumors about this merchant and the products he peddled. It was well reported that Bashu had damaged his mind partaking of his own wares. He was also said to be a thief and perhaps even a murderer. Aman wanted no part of him. Nor did he like bringing his beloved daughter any where near this man. However, to make her healthy again he was willing to do anything.

“Where is he?”

The merchant stood up slowly and wagged a finger at Aman. The tip of it was burned and calloused.

“Not so fast, my friend,” he grinned. “Nothing is free in the market, yes, yes? Not even directions.”

“My daughter is sick,” Aman snapped.

“Then I’d think you’d be willing to pay and pay quickly to someone who can help,” he answered.

Aman’s stern face fell soft. This scoundrel was correct. Reluctantly he reached inside his robe for the small purse tied to his sash. He fished out a gold coin he’d been saving.

“Very well,” he said, hesitating a moment before laying it in Bahsu’s outstretched palm. Seeing his money in such a filthy claw disgusted Aman. “Now tell me!”

“Alright then,” he said, holding the coin up in the sunlight before depositing it inside his robe. “You must go to the river.”

“The river?” Aman asked.

“Yes, another three hours travel,” he went on. “You will find a hut.”

“How will I know which one it is?”

“There is only one house there. You will know it when you see it. It is not fit for men to live in.”

Aman thought that was some statement from such a reptile as this.

“Yes, yes. The hut is on the muddiest bank of the river,” he continued. “It looks as though it was molded right up from the muck and slime.”

“And this is the home of a doctor?” Aman asked suspiciously.

“Oh yes, yes. An amazing doctor,” he said. “Perhaps, it is said, a sorcerer. He can cure any sickness. He knows medicines and spells. He will mix her a potion that will have her dancing again. That is of course, for a price. You do have more money with you, yes?”

“Of course I do,” said Aman. “You told me he requires gold, didn’t you? I am prepared to pay all I have to heal my child.”

The merchant smiled. “Good. Very good.”

His eyes wandered away from Aman and gazed at something across the street. He seemed to nod just slightly. Aman was certain he even heard Bashu whisper the word yes.

Aman whipped his head around to see what Bashu was looking at.
Three rough and tattered young men lounging between two tents quickly rose and began shuffling away down the street. Every few seconds one of them would look back toward Aman and then his eyes would dart away. Aman looked back to Bashu with a raised eyebrow.

“This information had better be good,” Aman growled.
He peeled back a section of his robe to reveal a curved dagger at his hip.

“As I said, I would pay any price to heal my child. And I would just as sure slit the throat of any street devil that would play games with her life. Do not question the limits of a desperate father. He has none.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, good sir,” Bashu cowered, his spacious grin fading. “But I would suggest you get going now. The sun is high and must be very hot on your poor daughter’s head. Go quickly. That way. Straight through town.”

He pointed off past the end of the market. The same way the three thugs had headed.

Aman tugged at the reigns around the donkey’s snout and begrudgingly it lifted its hooves.
They trudged forward through the crowd towards the end of the tent city. Aman kept a watchful eye on the three boys just a few yards ahead. There was treachery in the air.

He grit his teeth and clutched at the handle of his dagger. Were he alone, he might run them down and challenge them. But not with his precious child. He’d never dare place her in harm’s way. Within a few minutes he was nearing the end of the market. He realized he had lost sight of the three men. That made him nervous.

Soon Aman and his child were well beyond the marketplace and reached the end of town. There were only a few huts and stalls here that were deserted and crumbling around them selves. Tucked in among them was a dilapidated old stable which appeared long abandoned as well. This was the dark end of town.

No merchants came here any more. Only the poor and the sick. They sought refuge in these deserted structures. When the bazaar closed, the beggars and the pick-pockets would return, Aman thought. Best not to doddle. He wiped his forehead and gazed out ahead.

Rough desert terrain rolled out before them. Just beige sand for miles and miles. The heat vapors danced off the ground and gave the air a mischievous life. It would be a long hot walk to the river. This doctor had better be there, he thought. He gave the reigns a tug to signal his donkey to carry on.

The donkey jerked his head.

“Come along Hadi,” Aman ordered. “Let’s go.”

Again he gave the lead a firm tug. The animal dug his hooves into the ground. He did not wish to go on.

Aman ran his hand across the donkey’s tan snout and through his chocolate mane. Fari had named the animal Hadi when he was a foal. He was now nearly seven.

“Hadi,” he spoke into the animal’s long ear, “I am not in the mood. Get moving. You have always been a faithful creature. Would you now force me to find a reed and make you move?”

Hadi huffed and yanked his head away from his master’s hand. The donkey stomped his hoof. Aman became angry and cracked the rein against the animal’s snout.

“Stop this Hadi,” he said. “We must get moving!”

From the corner of his eye, Aman saw a flash of movement. He snapped his head around and saw the edge of a shadow disappear around a mud hut. Aman reached in to his robe and wrapped his fingers around his knife. They were not alone.
He suspected he knew what or who was hiding behind that little building. It was just the right size to hide three young men planning to attack a lone traveler and his sick child.

Aman quickly realized he’d been deceived. There was no doctor by the river at all. Bashu had led him far enough from the busy market that no one would see or hear what was to come next.
Slowly but deliberately, Aman drew his dagger from its sheath and held it out. The sun gleamed off the blade, a warning he hoped to any would-be robbers.

Aman felt a tug at his elbow. He looked back to see Hadi biting down on his sleeve and pulling at it.

“What are you doing crazy animal?” he growled.

Hadi pulled and began to back away, the garment still clenched in his teeth.

“Not now Hadi!”

The donkey let go. He turned away and began to trot away with his precious cargo atop his back. He moved with a speed and determination Aman had never seen in any donkey.

“Where are you going?” Aman called out.
He gave a nervous glance back to the hut only a few yards away. They were lying in wait. As soon as he passed, Aman knew they would spring out. There was no sense in taking another step forward. Aman was strong and sure of his blade, but not against these odds. Clearly there was no help for them across the desert. Now it was only his daughter’s immediate safety that mattered.

Hadi was trotting off towards the old stable across the road. His instinct must have told him it was a place to find shelter. Aman followed at a nervous pace, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.

When he reached the stable door, Hadi was waiting for him, pawing at the ground. Aman picked his daughter off Hadi’s back and ushered the animal inside. He held Fari tight to his chest and ducked in.

Aman immediately noticed a manger packed with hay which he laid her carefully across like a crude bed. He stroked his daughter’s brow, watching as Hadi disappeared into the darkness of the barn. Fari’s breathing was shallow and raspy. Aman’s heart broke with each pained exhale.

He went back to the doorway and pulled the heavy door closed, struggling to pull the rusted latch locking them inside. Between two rotting boards of the door was just enough space to peer through. Aman watched as the three men appeared from their hiding place. They were looking in every direction and scratching their heads with confusion. Aman even caught a glimpse of a blade being held low at the side of one thug.

“By God,” Aman growled, “I will find Bashu and I will have his head.”

“Not in this house,” came a firm female voice from the darkness of the barn.


(Bart Scott, 10/22/09)

Disconnect Yourself

So a week ago I came home from work and sat down at my desk to look at something, only to discover my home PC was completely frozen. Couldn't refresh. Couldn't reboot. Zilch. Had no choice but to pull the plug, literally.

I gave it a few seconds, ala Sam Jackson in the first Jurassic Park when he had to cut power to the whole park uttering those famous (nearly) last words "hold on to your butts" before throwing the master switch, hence turning off the fences, hence unleashing hell's fury in the form of angry, giant reptiles!

Sadly when I turned the power back on, the chaos I experienced was simply a computer that refused to reboot.
Don't know what happened, as I'm not a tech guy by any stretch. I get the DELL load screen, I get a progress bar, and then I get a black screen.
For a week I've been without the internet. I have limited access at work, but given that I'm at work I'm really supposed to limit how much I use it. Not too mention our firewall blocks out everything. Heck, they even block out a Disney site I like! I can only imagine there's a risque shot of Minnie in a bathing suit.

I confess my initial reaction was one of panic. I usually get a couple of spouse-free hours in the evening as my wife owns her own business and works later. I admittedly spend a fair amount of time online at home at night. It's how I relax. I don't think in this day and age that's too uncommon. There are a handful of entertainment news sites, blogs, and the dreaded Facebook, that I like to visit when I'm unwinding. Not too mention I'm always thinking of songs I want on my iPod.

I admit the first couple days of coming home to no internet connection, let alone Microsoft Word (which of course goes out the week I really feel inspired to write) were incredibly frustrating. But then there came a shift.

I suddenly found myself finding things to do. I got down on the floor and
played with my son. Not just found him something to pacify him while I stared at the monitor or even the television. We rearranged the entire track layout on his train table. We played for hours (though I'm never allowed to be Thomas. That's always his.) He and I wrestled on the floor. Played with cars. Went outside and he rode his tricycle. It was so strange and new to be a human being again. It was like the olden days. You know, before Al Gore invented the internet.

Being away from my computer has also been an amazing accelerator for my creative engine. I've been going over things I wrote (or rather started) a long time ago. Editing with a red pen. Finding hidden treasure I'd long ago forgot about, or simply cast off. And this weekend, while the boy napped and the wife worked, I sat down at the table with an old sketch pad and set of pencils I found in a box in the garage. I still doodle on my notepad margins at work all the time, but I haven't actually set out to "draw" in a long time. Between Saturday and Sunday (when on top of all else, the cable went out too) I just sketched and sketched, and colored, and created, and just had a great time, all by myself. Well, me and the characters that have been residing in my brain for a few years anyway.

Ideas have been flowing out of my head like crazy. I can't keep up. In fact the most frustrating thing is that I don't know what to do with all of them. What's the next step? Usually this is where I'd go hit the internet to find out. But you know, there was no internet (hell there were no computers) when my hero I wrote about prior to this got started.

I have to admit, it would be nice to go home and log on tonight. I want to update the iPod. Look at a couple things, etc. And I'm sure my Farmville on Facebook is in terrible shape right now.
I could probably have this problem remedied quite quickly with a simple phone call. There are a number of services that will come to you in funny cars to fix your computer now. Something is keeping me from dialing. Yes, the added expense could be the reason. But truth be told, it might actually be me.

I'll get to it, eventually. But there's been something pleasant about not having it. True, my current day job does not require an internet connection at home as many of my friends' careers do. I'm just enjoying playing with my kid, looking out the window, reading a book, drawing pictures, moving around the house. None of which, it turns out, require a high-speed connection.

Pull the plug sometime. You might like it.

Have We Gone Too Far to Wish Upon Stars?

As you might well imagine since I was recently in Walt Disney World, I've been thinking a great deal about the works of Walt Disney. I say "works" because he is not a man whose accomplishments were limited to one or two recognizable things or products or ideas. When you say to someone "Walt Disney" and ask what they immediately think of, you're likely to get at least a few different answers.

One says "amusement parks" or "vacation" or "resorts." One says "cartoons" or "animated films" or simply "Mickey Mouse." They're not wrong. But they're only scratching the surface.

The truly savvy might say "branding" or "customer service." Again 100% correct.

When you ask me what word comes to mind when I think of Walt Disney, I might simply says "pioneer." And in my mind, that encompasses all of the above.

Walt was a leader, an explorer, a businessman, a philosopher, a General (sometimes perhaps a Dictator), and a dreamer.

He coined the phrase, "if we can dream it . . . we can do it."

I'd like to say this is a mantra by which I live my own life. I'd like to, but I can not. I have many dreams. Some so far out in the clouds that it would take a fortune and an act of God to make them reality. Some are so simple and pure it would seem, at least to my mind, they shouldn't take but a simple step in the right direction, or perhaps just the hand of providence opening the right door at the right time to bring that dream from conception to birth.

Yet we live in a world where I'm afraid dreams no longer hold currency. Commerce has all but destroyed art.

I wonder if Walt Disney were a young man today, could he do it all again? Is it possible for a man with a dream, a fantastical dream, and determination to build an empire. 20 years from now, could a man stand in the midst of his entertainment kingdom and say it all started with a mouse?

Or would he have to say it all started with a hedge fund and a group of venture capitalists who hired an independant research group to determine the probability of Americans to watch an animated mouse and go to an amusement park . . .? Sadly, odds are he'd never even get to that point, as how would even get to those investors?

Someone asked me when we were at Disney World if I thought someone could "do this all again, now." I thought for a moment and said "no."

I just have a terribly cynical feeling that dreams are no longer enough. We live in a world of cold metal, concrete, circuitry, and theoretical currency. Or to simplify it, the old addage is true: you gotta have it to make it.

If you don't already have it, your dreams probably aren't going to be enough.

See, I think all this. I hear it my head, every time I sit down to the white page (screen) in the hopes of creation. There's a monkey perched squarely on my shoulders, slapping my skull like a bongo telling me all this. Until, finally, he stops for a moment . . . and I think about Walt.

If "Uncle Walt" knew I was thinking all this. If he believed I truly felt this way, he might slap me harder than that monkey. Because in times like ours, especially in times like we're in now, where those corporate raiders and investment bankers and short-sighted politicians on the take have sold the American Dream up the river. Maybe this is the time when our dreams mean more than ever before. Maybe the world needs a visionary who believes that something simple and pure and whimsical can be the cornerstone of a business that is not only profitable but also brings true joy to millions of lives.

Could Walt Disney do it all over again now? No, of course not. Everything's changed. The game has changed. The playing field is completely different. So the new Walt Disney would have to do it all differently. But he would still do it. He would more than likely relish the challenge. Even if he had to scrape for it inch-by-inch, rejection after rejection until he finally reached success.
He would not give up, as I've wanted to and have so many times. And when he finally looked out over all the success he'd made, he'd still think of ways to "plus it."
Above all, no matter how different the new Walt Disney's empire might be, it would more than likely all have still started with something the size of a mouse.

Back from Fantasyland . . .

To my legion of devoted followers (hah) I must apologize for the long absence.
I have just recently returned from the happiest place on Earth, and now find myself back in the "real world." And it sucks.

Of course I mean Walt Disney World. My favorite place in the universe. Some might find that ironic, from a cynical, grouchy ogre like myself. It's the truth. The minute I feel the wheels of the plane hit tarmac in Orlando, I suddenly feel the world is a little better. The sky seems a little bluer. The sun a little brighter. Although it is Florida so that may actually be true, coming from Chicago!

They wrote the book on customer service down there. The minute you get off the plane they are working to make you more comfortable. And talk about branding! Especially if you're staying in a Disney resort, which, if you're going there you really should if you have any sense.
As soon as you get to the main terminal, you make your way to the Disney check-in desk, where you then board the Disney Magical Express motor coach which drives you to your Disney resort, not too mention shows you a promtional video about the parks and resorts featuring Disney characters.
Some people like to attack Disney for their blatant branding, or brain washing as naysayers would like to call it. Personally, if you're going to be inundated with promtional material and branding all day anyway, what better choice than Mickey Mouse. He is an internationally recognized and adored icon. And truly the symbol of the American dream. Look what a poor, sickly kid from Chicago did with that mouse!

And the resort we stayed in, one of their "value" resorts, was amazing. Just what you want when staying at Disney. It was designed with so much "whimsy" that simply looking at the buildings made you feel like you were on vacation.

Every employee, or Cast Member, be it at your hotel, on the bus, or in the parks greets you with a smile and warm hello and offers assistance almost immediately. And for at least a good majority of them, you can sense its not forced, or that their not just doing it in case management is watching (although management usually is watching!)
They seem to know they are part of something special. Something bigger than just a job. They are creating dreams, fantasies, bringing joy, even if only temporal, to thousands a day. Call me a dreamy-eyed idealist, but I wish I could put that down on my job description.

After an amazing week, here I am, back at my desk, gagging on a shirt and tie. And I'll be perfectly frank with you, I'd trade it for a funny outfit and name tag, or even an ungodly warm Goofy costume in 90 degree heat in an instant.

Beautiful Day

It is an ugly day here in the Western burbs of Chicago.
It's rainy, the temp has dropped, the sky is just grey. To cap it all off, I was dodging school busses on my way in this morning. It is a reminder that summer is essentially over.
Yet, ironically, as I waited in the dark kitchen this morning, hunched over the counter, anticipating that first splash of hot coffee in my eyes, a song popped into my head. U2's "Beautiful Day."
The song really didn't do much for me when it was released back around, what, 2000ish? Far be it from to click over to Google for a fact check.
Truth be told, I didn't like it at all then. In fact with a few exceptions, I have fallen completely out of love with U2. I have a simple rule with music, it has to move me. Go figure. And nothing off their last few albums has. There are three exceptions of course: "Walk On" and "In a Little While" off the same album as "Beautiful Day" and "City of Blinding Lights" from How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.

Other than those, I haven't been "into" a U2 record since Zooropa. Maybe I've just gotten old and little too cynical. I don't relate to a billionaire telling me to save the world. I'm trying to keep my family fed first, then I'll worry about relieving famine elsewhere. So while I still consider myself a socially liberal person in many ways, Bono can more or less suck it. (For what it's worth, I'm sick of Green Day too.)

That said, I have found an appreciation for the song "Beautiful Day." It happened roughly 8 years ago, nearly to the day. It was during my first trip to Las Vegas, August of 2001. A city I would immediately fall in love with and return to many times. And I am not much of a gambler at all. I lose $50 in three days and I'm pissed.
Its the energy there that I love. The vibe if you will (and you must if you choose to read on.)
I was there with my best friend and his little brother, and we were meeting a couple other people. I had recently gotten engaged and this was to be an early bachelor party. Our first morning in Las Vegas, I woke around 5:00 AM because I was on Chicago time so in my body it was 7:00 and time to go to work.
I couldn't get back to sleep so I quietly dressed and slipped out of the room into a hazy desert morning. We were staying at a little dive casino / motel called the Westward Ho. If you've seen Vegas Vacation, there's a scene where Rusty (in his 4th incarnation) buys a fake i.d. on the strip. That was shot outside the Riviera, but for the entire scene you're looking at the Westward Ho behind them. It had these weird umbrella shaped structures with lights twinkling down the sides. Anyway . . .
So I got up, walked across the parking lot to the casino (as I mentioned, it's a MOTEL) and crossed through. I grabbed a coffee and strolled down the sidewalk, past a neighboring joint called Slots-O'-Fun. It was nothing more than an open air casino and bar. They have penny slots and $1 Blackjack. A magnet for High-Rollers this is not, but if you just want to try gambling without getting into too much trouble, this is your place. As I'm walking past I hear the intro to Beautiful Day begin to pump from inside. For no particular reason I stepped in and just meandered through the casino. Immediately I noticed a crowd of guys in their early-thirties who were rolling the bones (that's craps for the laymen) and had empty glasses and bottles lined up all around the table. These guys were partying strong at just before 6 AM.
It occurred to me then that I really was in Las Vegas. I chuckled and found myself humming along with Bono and I circled the casino and stepped back onto the strip. The sun was now bright and hot and the morning haze only a memory like the cash-in-pocket would later become. On the street, I watched cars full of normal people go by, clearly on their way to work, probably in one of the casinos. I thought, what a surreal life these people must live. Yet, I'm sure they go home and it's as normal as life in the Western burbs here. They drive to the Eiffel Tower or a pyramid in the morning, and then back to a three bedroom ranch and two kids and a dog at night like most of us. While inside, middle-class working stiffs are drinking Bud at 5:30AM praying for a hot shooter as the sun rises over the desert.
That's one of a million little memories that make me love Vegas. I suppose that's why I can now say I like the song "Beautiful Day." Maybe that's why it randomly plays in my brain on rainy Wednesday mornings like today.

We Now Return You . . .

So I've been away for a bit. The day job took over.

While I didn't want to spend a week in a training class, I have to admit it was a good week. Its always nice to get away from the office for a while. And the instructor was one of the funniest (albeit unintentionally some of the time) people I've even encountered.

I wish I could just put a camera on him for a month. Every two minutes something came out of his mouth that made me laugh. Although I suppose I might be the only one fascinated by the daily life of an openly gay African American man with 21 pet snakes.

Personally I think he's got all the makings of a star.

During the week I made multiple trips to the O'Hare Oasis for lunch. No, I don't cruise the bathrooms! They had a Panda Express. God help me, I'm a slave to low-rent Chinese food!
Not only that, I found it a fascinating experience for people watching.
I don't know if the "oasis" exisists in other states. They are common along the tollways of Illinois. Imagine a mini-mall erected over the highway, only accessible by special on-ramps and off-ramps. In fact they're designed conveniently so that you come and go the same direction you were headed. No need to turn around. Sadly, no possibility to turn around either, as I learned with only a few minutes to get back one day.

For those unfamiliar, imagine a giant concrete and glass covered bridge. And inside, a cornucopia of fast food options, as well as an airport-style gift shop, Starbucks, Aunt Annie's pretzels, even a Cinnabon. They were designed for motorists to get out, stretch their legs, pee, and grab a bite.

Though for me they hold a little history. As a child of divorce with one parent in Illinois and one in Wisconsin, the oasis was a convenient halfway point for dropping off and picking up. A place of simultaneous joy and anguish. Of course in the early-80's they were a little darker and dingier.
This oasis was white and clean with sunshine streaming in from all sides. Dare I even call it "inviting?"

I highly recomend any tourists passing through Chicagoland, and even locals who forget they're there, to make a stop next time.

I was struck with an idea for a movie or even better, an ensemble sitcom based in such an oasis during third shift. I'm working with the title "Midnight At the Oasis."
What do you think?

Radio Will Kill What Killed the Radio Star . . . Again!

I have a confession to make. I'm a radio junkie.

I love radio.
As a young kid I had my ear glued to Casey's Top 40 every weekend (this was before Mtv - or at least before we could afford cable.) And in grade school and Jr. High everybody listened to Z95 before school each morning. I would spend my afternoons waiting for my favorite new songs to come up with a tape recorder pressed up to the speaker. Those were my first mix-tapes! I used to get so annoyed when the disc jockey couldn't hit the post and would step all over the song.

And when I got my first "boom box" with two, yeah that's right, TWO tape decks, I would produce my own little radio shows, talking up songs, trying to be funny, always giving the weather as "sunny and 78 in the city!" Even in the dead of a long miserable Chicago winter, at my station it was always a beautiful early summer morning. The funny thing is, I never really considered being on the radio when I grew up. I didn't even think it was a job you could get. DJ's were these mysterious, etherial creatures who weren't even real. They were voices in the air.

My Freshman year of college, I saw a flyer for anyone interested in being on air at the school's station to come to a meeting. It immediately clicked - I wanted to do a real radio show! And as fate would have it, I knew the station manager through a high school friend so there was a real chance I could get a show! He'd met me, he'd seen I was amusing and had a decent voice. The odds were in my favor, if I could just beat out the competition. I was only slightly disheartened when at the meeting, pretty much anyone who showed could sign the sheet and they had a show. The meeting was simply to choose your time slot. Mornings were pretty much out. I think there was a morning show two days a week, but otherwise it was kind of the verboten time slot due to classes, and being a Baptist college, morning Chapel three times a week.

So if I couldn't have mornings, my choice was clear. Late night! I started watching The Tonight Show about age 5 with my Granddad. It was our tradition when my brother and I spent summers with them. Gramps would watch the news and I'd kill time with toys or something til the talking heads said Good Night, and I heard Ed McMahon's voice. I seldom managed to stay awake through the first guest, but it didn't matter. The monolog was what mattered. Carson was a master. No host will ever fill those shoes.

Then there was David Letterman, a fellow Hoosier. While he was not Carson, he wasn't trying to be Carson. Dave was unlike anything. He was dry, and smart, and weird (which I really clicked with - to be witty and weird.) Beyond all that, Dave seemed almost angry. Maybe even a little dangerous. Like if broadcasting hadn't worked out, we might have all been in trouble. And I liked that.

I scribbled my name on the 10 - Midnight shift. I was disappointed at the prospect of only two hours a night. How quickly I learned that filling two hours with content can be a Herculian task some nights. Especially while attempting to balance the rest of school (which those who know me know how successful I was at that!) Not too mention if you think FCC regulations are tight, try a Baptist college radio station. Talk about having to be funny, irreverent, and inappropriate without crossing the line! Carlin would be grateful he only had to worry about 7 words.

Rumor was a guy got kicked out just for playing a Grateful Dead song!!!

It took some doing, especially since our signal didn't even reach the far end of the campus, but by my second year, I actually managed to build a bit of a following. Only had two riots nearly erupt outside of the studio, and contrary to popular belief, I did not inspire some rapscallions to steal a box of forks and plant them in the school President's front yard. I applauded them, but did not encourage them!

Freshman year I had my roommate on the air a lot and we'd perform live music. We had some fun late nights, going on way past 12. It was during my Sophomore year I found a partner that I really clicked with and to this day think Brad and I could have pursued a real broadcasting partnership and been successful. We shared a similar sense of humor, but he was able to keep it reigned in, while I tended to fly off into the stratosphere. I still have a cassette of our biggest (and possibly best) show.

To show you how sheltered the kids at this school were (think the movie Saved, but in college) there was an explosive article in the school paper about the problem infecting our campus like a virus: PDA. That's right, Public Displays of Affection. The author, a wannabe-goth girl who'd likely never felt the ackward groping of a young man ( but desperately wanted it) was outraged by couples making out in every shadowy corner of the campus. I had a field day with that one! I think Brad and I stayed on the air for at least 4 or 5 hours because the calls kept coming in.

Then of course, I left college. Whether I quit or was kicked out is a subject of some debate. That was the end of my radio career.

I considered broadcasting school. Even went down to the Loop's AM 1000 studios and met with a few of the on-air people, though by the mid-90's it was a shell of its former self. Even Danny Bonaduce had already come and gone, ditching Chi-town for the Motor City (don't quote me, but no wonder he went off the deep end!)

If not for Steve Cochran covering mornings with his smart, funny laid-back style back then, the station was dead. Cochran I might add is the only one who has managed to stay on the air here consistently since those days.

In the end, while there's nobody to blame but myself, I allowed the fears my family planted in my brain to talk me out of chasing that dream any further. One more of those choices in life I'll always regret at least a little.

Still, the invisible sounds and voices coming through the speakers will just always have a hook in me.

Maybe it's because I live in Chicago, and for my money there was a time when we had the best radio personalities in the world. Back in the late 70's on into the 80's and early 90's, Chicago had radio locked.

And the definitive station of the day was WLUP, the Loop!

I remember as a kid you couldn't take five steps without seeing the familiar white on black logo. Bumper stickers plastered everywhere, billboards, tee shirts . . . it was THE Chicago rock station.

While Howard Stern was shocking the east coast , personalities like Steve Dahl & Garry Meier, Jonathon Brandmeier, Kevin Matthews were connecting with those of us landlocked in the midwest. These guys were rockstars.

And their live appearances drew the crowds to prove it.

Steve Dahl made history with Disco Demolition in the 70's when a stunt blowing up disco records made national news and caused fans to storm the field at the old Comiskey Park. Footage of the Stever in an army helmet leading the cry "Disco sucks!" was seen all across the country that night. Even the Bee Gees and K.C. & the Sunshine Band have attributed Dahl with bringing on the beginning of the end for their so-called "art form." If so he deserves a medal to go with his helmet!

I was in Jr. High when Jonathon Brandmeier and his band, Johnny B & the Leisure Suits played a series of Sold-Out concerts at Poplar Creek Music Theater. This was not just some local bar. It was a 20,000 seat amphitheatre, and this morning jock sold it out! I have a VHS tape he put out of the shows. I'd pay a fortune to go back in time to be 22 at one of those shows! It was a concert party of beer soaked rock & roll debauchery that nearly rivaled a Buffett show.

Those are the guys I wanted (and still want) to be like. Local legends. Entertainers. Commentators. Public voices. And even at the height of their popularity, they could still go to a restaurant, or to a movie, and for the most part choose whether they wanted to be recognized or not. With the exception of maybe Howard Stern, the paparazzi isn't usually stalking radio guys.

Speaking of Stern, there are those, he chief among them, who say the medium of radio is dead. And it's true that in the last few years, circling back to right about the time he left free radio, that the industry has been hurting. Satellite radio, the David that no one ever gave any thought to 10 years ago has risen up and become the new giant in town. Some radio execs are no doubt fitting their necks for the right sized rope, but I would say don't pull a Carradine just yet. Now there's a double-entendre for ya!

I have a little secret. Satellite radio is only strong because of Mr. Stern's presence. And his contract is up in a year & a half. He has practically said he will not renew - at least not in the form of doing a full daily show again. He's too tired, and by God he's made more money than he can possibly spend . . . and I get the feeling he'd like to spend it. Mark my words, he will not be a factor after this 5 year deal of his expires in 2011. And when Howard leaves, so will a large percentage of satellite subscribers.

When the product they've been paying for is gone, they will stop paying. But they'll still want to be entertained in their cars.

So to the boys at terrestrial radio, just hang in there a little longer. Or better yet, start fostering some young local talent now so that when the day comes, and it will literally happen over night, you are ready.

To the radio executives here in Chicagoland, we need a Radio Renaissance. We need to bring back the days (and the ratings) of 20+ years ago. Allow me to humbly throw my hat in the ring as your next Da Vinci!

I'm In Shock

http://www.slashfilm.com/2009/08/06/breaking-john-hughes-has-passed-away/

R.I.P. John Hughes

If only you hadn't ended an amazing career with Home Alone.

Finz Up!

I'm getting psyched! This Saturday is the one day a year I really look forward to. The Prophet of the Parrots is ascending on Chicagoland this weekend. James W. Buffett will be performing this Saturday and next at Toyota Park, our newest stadium.

I know, I know, Jimmy Buffett is a niche artist. Yes, he's the middle-class Midwestern white workin' man's idol. He represents what we all want to be, the guy who escaped - who went on a permanent vacation to the tropics. He's a guy who looks for snow on holiday because he spends a good majority of his life in paradise. He sails, he flies, his life, as he once wrote, is "a mixture of reggaes and tangos." Of course that's said tongue planted firmly in cheek, as he's still a man, with a wife and kids and real life. But yeah, to the outsider he's made it look like a pretty phenomenal life. And has said for the most part it has been. That's why we, the fans, the "Parrotheads" love him so much and yes, aspire to be like him . . . or at least grasp a tiny part of that lifestyle he's selling.

In many cases is a polarizing subject. People you ask often either love him or hate him. But the truth is, most people don’t even know him. They know that one song. The one about the frozen tequila based cocktail. And they damn well should. It's a great song. And it's really a mystery and an amazing success story. That song was allegedly one of those "ten minute" wonders, and it's turned into an industry for Mr. Buffett. Let's face it, until the early 00's and his resurgence to the charts (albeit on the Country side where he started and failed back in the early 70's) Buffett was a top-grossing summer act for over 20 years on the strength of one song. He was a "one hit wonder" making tens of millions of dollars a year, because of one song. One song, and an image.

I've heard Margaritaville probably a million and a half times, and it still stirs the Peter Pan in my soul. Or maybe I should say my inner-Captain Hook!

But true Parrot heads know there's so much more than one song. There's a catalog of great music that the mainstream hasn't heard. Buffett, who doesn't have the greatest voice and claims to only know 3 chords, is an incredible songwriter. He's put out more songs that move me and makeup the soundtrack to my life than U2, the Beatles, you name it. And beyond that, he's an "Entertainer." He's a showman. He's James Taylor, Bob Marley, Harry Nilsson, P.T. Barnum, Walt Disney, and Louie Prima all rolled into one.
And I'll happily keep supporting him as long as he'll keep putting out more and rolling through town every summer. I'll even tolerate the beer-soaked frat boys who come every summer that only know that one song, maybe two, who treat it as an outdoor summer kegger, and the scalpers who've driven up ticket prices so high I won't tell you what I paid.

Jimmy has said publicly from the pulpit, I mean stage, "I'm spending your money foolishly." And we all applaud. At the end of the day, that's what we want him to do with our money, because alone we can't do it ourselves. We want a hero whose flying seaplanes, drinking rum and eating lobster by a turquoise sea with his feet in white sands. A troubador and International Man of Mystery who is as welcome in Jamaica and St. Bart's as he is in Palm Beach, Florida and Cincinnati, Ohio.
We live for the tales of being mistaken for a drug smuggler and being shot at by machine guns off the coast of Negril (ok that kinda contradicts the "welcome in Jamaica" part . . . but the government later apologized!)

Jimmy says in his book A Pirate Looks at Fifty, as a teen he was asked in school, "what are you going to do with your life?" And his response was "Try to live a pretty interesting one."

He's a man who has clearly accomplished that goal. Howard Stern isn't the King of All Media. Jimmy Buffett is. Top selling musician, best-selling author, movie producer, restauranteur. Nice work if you can get it. Sure beats spending your life in a cubicle.

So this Saturday, you'll find me field level, drink in hand, slapping beach balls across the sea of people, singing along with every song. The originals, the covers, the hit(s), and the one's only 5 of us in the crowd know. And trying to steal my little piece of that charmed, sun tanned life.

And no, I don't wear coconut shells. Well, not at the beginning of the evening anyway!

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-8622802860572314949&ei=nZV5Ssi6HaWUrALCuZxg&q=Jimmy+Buffett+-+Here+We+Are&hl=en

Who would have thought this game, this flame would still be burning
Who would have guessed that all these blenders would still be churning
Not even we on our bended knees could have ever blessed it
Not even I with my head in the sky could have ever guessed it

But here we are, for a family reunion, costume barbeque
All the black sheep, family outcasts, and a freak or two

No the hat tricks and the gold bricks still don't have us down
Still a party, we are the hearty when we come to town
You're still grinning and we're still winning, nothing left to say
I'm still gliding as I go flying down this endless wave

And here we are, we're the offbeat Uncle Freds who spill their wine on you
And the in-your-face Aunt Rachels with an attitude
All the ones that use your bathroom then eat all your food
We're the dreamy Deadheads who just like us and Dave Matthews

Here we are, maybe it's because in spite of all the work we do
It's the child in us we really value

Here we are, with our fins up and our feathers flashing
Here we are, with our coconut shell brassieres chanting

Too Low Rent to be a Low Rent Disneyland!

Greetings true believers!

So I took Friday off so that we could visit a local treasure here in the Chicagoland area. It's a tiny amusement park that was built specifically for young kids called, ironically, Kiddieland.

Kiddieland opened 80 years ago, and this summer will be its final season. It started as a patch of dusty land with a handful of ponies for little depression era tykes to ride. Today it is a barbed-wired city block loaded to the gills with the carnival rides that time forgot. You have your stand-by's like the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Scrambler, a carousel. They also have about a half-dozen incarnations of the same ride. All carousel like machines with once glittery cars, rocket ships, helicopters and airplanes, even boats all for little kids to ride around in circles til they're dizzy.

This summer Kiddieland takes its final bow. When the founder died, as I understand it he split the property between his kids. Half got the park, the other half got the land it sits on. The ones who own the park and collect admission, pay rent to the others for lease of the land. A nice little arrangement I guess, as long as there's never a rift in the family. Oops. So apparently the ones that own the land have decided the property is more valuable to sell to developers than as a the resting place of decrepit kiddy rides. They've more or less pulled the rug out from under their relatives and told them they won't be renewing the lease for 2010. And that, as they say, is that for Kiddieland.

I don't want to rip on it too harshly. Kiddieland is a piece of Chicago history. You ask any 40 or 50-something local and they nearly get misty reminiscing about the goold ol' days when the park was only 4 or 5 decades old and the rides were considered "like-new."
And the park still serves a purpose. It is affordable fun for families who can't afford that trip to Disney. Or even families who can't afford the trip to Six Flags. Sadly, you just get what you pay for. The rides are mostly kept up, though many are in dire need of a paint job (which they'll doubtful get given this is the final season.)

Even I, the king of cynics and iconoclasts (natch!) couldn't help but feel a sense of history walking the cracked, uneven asphalt grounds. Still whenever a whiff of nostalgia began to creep into my nostrils, it was quickly overpowered by the strange combination of hot garbage and old lady perfume that seem to permeate the air of Kiddieland.
It's hard to be an urban amusement park on its last legs, sitting in the shadow of a horse track and three different trucking schools.

I want to feel sympathy for the owners. I read a touching story about the grandson of the original owner, who is in the park 7 days a week, even when it's closed for the winter. The man who has given his life to that place and now knows its about to be ripped away.

Sadly things could have gone differently. One historically poor decision might have turned the course of fate indefinitely for Kiddieland.

The story goes that when a man named Walt Disney was planning his own little Keebler tree out in Anaheim, he made a trip to his native home Chicago. He stopped in at Kiddieland and walked the grounds and observed the kids and parents enjoying the day. Legend has it Walt met with the owner and told him of his own plans. He offered the gentleman a position as a consultant (maybe even a partnership of some kind) on what was to become Disneyland.
The guy basically told Walt to go scratch. He apparently answered Walt with something to the effect of "I've got my own park. What do I need to help you for?"

What indeed.

That aside, Kiddieland, I salute you for what you are. As I left, I swear I could hear Templeton singing in the background, preparing for a feast that evening with a thousand cousins.

Authors Note: I am drawing my "details" from a vague, alcohol hazed recollection of a recent Chicago Tribune article on Kiddieland. Hence the reason I haven't named any of the principle characters. And if my facts are a little off, strap me to the Tilt-a-Whirl til I puke!

Feeling Kinda Fuzzy

Having a psychic day today. Just hoping I'm as cracked as most of the other psychics in the world and this is nothing more than depression and cynicism playing games with my head.

Just have an overwhelming sense of dread and a seeming-certainty that something bad is about to happen. Be it here in my own little world or something bigger, more global. Don't take this the wrong way. Well, for what I'm about to say there's no other way to take it than the wrong way. I'm hoping it's the latter of the two.

If the world's about to fall into some post-Apocalyptic James Cameron battle zone, I'm more game for that than I am losing my job or a personal tragedy. In fact, I think the occasion to rise up against tyrannical corporate governments and ravenous mutants is the world in which I will shine brightest. It's clear to me I stand a better chance against monsters and murderous machines than I do cubicles and Corporate America.

That said, there's a good chance I'm just having a bad day.

Speaking of monsters I spent some quality time at Starbucks reading my book about Warren Zevon. I mean no disrespect. There are plenty of his closest friends and family referring to him in much worse terms in there. And besides, much like the demon Catch in Christopher Moore's first novel, Practical Demonkeeping, I like to think of Warren as a loveable monster. You could probably make a similar Sesame Street / Muppet reference there too, but I don't know. I don't think Warren ever went that far the other way in his monsterous ways. Not to mention if I did choose to lump him in with the likes of Elmo, he'd probably come back from the great beyond to sock me in the nose.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Practical_Demonkeeping

Go Shorty . . .

So, here you are again, July 29th. You've been coming around for 34 years now. I mean, sure, you've probably been an annual visitor for much longer than that, but I can only measure time in the time I've been on this rock.

I have such mixed feelings about my birthday. As was pointed out to me, I get very reflective on my birthday. Pensive, if you will. No, not that bowl that Harry Potter dunks his face in to see other people's milky white memories. I believe that's a Pensieve. (Geek check!)

I think, especially as an adult, that's what birthdays are mostly for. I don't need parties. Presents are nice but not required. A cup of coffee makes me happy. Anything that I really desire at this point can not be wrapped in brightly colored paper and bows anyway. (Well, I suppose a creative publisher or producer could send a contract in crepe paper or tied with a ribbon.)

At this stage of life (God I make it sound so old), I'm looking for a combination of personal happiness, professional fulfillment, and overall security for my family. Not so crazy, right? Yet why does it feel so hard to attain all three???

This morning as I was walking to the car it occurred to me last night was the Mega Millions drawing. Sometimes on Tuesday nights I'll stop and buy 3 quick picks for shits and giggles. As the old commercials used to sing, "somebody's gonna Lotto, might as well be you."

I know I've got a better chance of being bitten by a radioactive spider and developing web-slinging super powers than winning, but what the hell? No harm in trying. However this morning I rememebered I hadn't bought a ticket. That realization was quickly followed by the one that said, "I would love to have money, but I'd much rather earn it than win it."
And I wasn't trying to comfort myself. I really felt it. Meant it. I aspire to be the "father of the feast" for not just my wife and kid, but all my family and loved ones. A great personal hero of mine is a man who has done well in this world and has shared it with many. I admit, in a way that selfless giving isn't so selfless. I suspect if gives him pleasure and sense of accomplishment, and I don't think that's a bad thing. I dream of being that "self-serving."

But I don't want it to come from a fluke. I want to be able to say, "all this came from me. From my efforts. From my talents. I did this."

If the fates are listening, don't get me wrong. If you want to hook me up this Friday night with those six magic ping-pong balls, by all means! I won't be offended!

But if you just want to send the right connection at the right time, and if possible send them sooner than later, I would truly be appreciative and eternally grateful.

There's a great Jimmy Buffett song that he released a couple years ago with Martina McBride shortly after the Five O'Clock Somewhere phenomenon called Trip Around the Sun.
It's a birthday song. It's about aging and reflecting and weighing your efforts so far. Ultimately the song is saying that there's no point in doing so because you won't know what it was worth til it's over. So just hang on and enjoy the ride.
I love the song. Love the message. But sadly I can't adhere to it. I will spend my life living in hope (and hopefully not dying in despair) that one of these days I'm going to crack it. That said, I now listen to it a few times ever year on this day. Check it out:

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/jimmy-buffett-trip-around-the-sun-featuring-martina-mcbride/122258012

The Architects of Fear, Aliens, and Cybernetic Werewolves

Lately I've been trying to be a little more aware of the route my train of thought follows. Though I assure you it has more bends, tunnels, and bridges than the island of Sodor. It can be very difficult to keep up.

For instance the name Lazar Wolf just popped into my head. Why? Subconsciously maybe I saw the add for Topol's farewell tour in Fiddler on the Roof. But in truth, what I was thinking replace one vowel and you've got a sweet super hero. Lazer Wolf! A government created cybernetic werewolf soldier who chooses to run rather than be used as a weapon. I'm copyrighting that by the way!

For about a week now I've been obsessed with an old episode of The Outer Limits (as if there was a new one to be obsessesd with) entitled The Architects of Fear. It is a pretty well known episode from the series. Perhaps finally seeing Watchmen is what made me think of it. If you're familiar with both you'll understand the connection. As the kids say, spoiler alert!

In Architects, a group of scientists decide that the world is on inevitable slide into nuclear Armageddon. Remember this was the early 60's; the days of the Bay of Pigs and Civil Defense. Kids in school were being instructed to crawl under their desks, put their heads between their legs, and kiss their asses goodbye. The leader of the group hypothesises that the only way the different super powers of the world will stop fighting amongst themselves, is to galvanize them against an single foreign enemy. So this secretive group in a shadowy conference room hatches a scheme to turn one of their own into an alien adversary. Personally, I'd have suggested the Dutch.

Of course the experiment fails. The chosen mutant becomes deranged in the process and is ultimately shot down by the most nonplussed trio of duck hunters to ever encounter an alien attacker. If only Elmer Fudd could have ended Independence Day in the first 20 minutes, instead of waiting for Will Smith to do it in 2 hours. "Welcome to Earth. Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

The special effects are beyond dated (less special like "high-tech" and "cutting-edge", more like "helmet at the dinner table") and the acting terribly overdone. That said, it's a great episode and hits just the right tone of creepiness to linger in your brain for a while. I've heard Kevin Smith tell a story of how, after Mallrats he was offered to rework a couple scripts Warner Brothers was considering making, one of which was to be a feature film remake of Architects. While I am the first to say Hollywood is currently remake crazy, I think that idea had and still has some merit.

Many years ago I started outlining a story for a Creature from the Black Lagoon remake, as well as its sequel, The Creature Walks Among Us. Then of course The Mummy was released and shortly after Universal announced they'd be remaking Creature themselves. It hasn't happened yet, but now and then rumors of its "re-greenlighting" spring up. I still wonder if I should write it anyway, just for my own jollies. I think I had an interesting take on it and the monster's origins. And I love sketching out my designs for an updated creature.
I've been working on concepts for a current version of the mutant-alien on my notepad at work the last few days. Yeah that's right . . . hard at work.

The entire episode of The Architects of Fear can be viewed on HULU, if you can stand a couple Ford commercials scattered throughout.

I'm hungry. Where's my helmet?