The Call of Cat-thulu

This time of year always makes me a little a little nostalgic for the days when huge, evil and monstrous things were hiding under the bed or in the closet. What I wouldn't give for some simple monsters right about now.

So, with that in mind, I actually bothered to replace my copy of "At the Mountains of Madness" by HP Lovecraft. That those books disappeared during that fateful expedition of my wife and myself, is common knowledge, as are the general details of the expedition itself, which we reported by means an ingenious relay, from the midst of parts then unknown. Those books, with their myriad of amusing horrors, have lain safely out of human knowing, their terrible fate, mercifully vague. It is only now, when others threaten to unearth the terrible truths that have laid safely hidden from human eyes for long, that I can force myself to speak of the hideous end which befell those books, and the terrible consequences, which included the end of my sane fiscal life.

I had, at one time, almost all of Lovecraft's works of fiction in paperback form. They kept me company throughout high school, providing a safe, if not entirely sane, backdrop of mythology. They were a paper wall of fancy, which defended me against the true ugliness of a world that had long since gone madly real. Slowly, however, I was drawn away from such things by faint and blasphemous piping of college degrees, gainful employment, and the modern world of politics and religion. As I moved from place to place, first alone, then with my wife, I transported the books with me, until that ultimate step. That terrible step, of which I speak only as a warning to others. Some will be tempted to risk fate, but I implore them, hear out my tale. I tell the truth of what happened reluctantly, with greatest hesitation in fact, and only so that others may be spared the maddening fate which has befallen me.

Our family having grown beyond the comfortable size of our 600 sq ft apartment, we decided to move to a house. A real and true house, whose unknown challenges and apparently boundless size lured me on, in spite of my cautious nature. A place which we determined to examine, to set up camp in, and perhaps even to conquer. Preparations being made, the books, safely in a box with others of their kind, were loaded so that they might travel with our expedition. Little did I know, I was also transporting the terrible means of their destruction. Oh, fateful day, on which my ignorant and careless excitement for the unknown set in motion the steps to the demise of my dear and old friends, and my own entrance to the land of the fiscally insane!

Upon arrival at our new base of operations, we quickly set all things in order, delivering supplies and material possessions to their appointed places. Dishes went to the kitchen, couches to living room, and, of course, books to the den, where they would be safely ensconced on tall shelves. We also brought with two examples of the exotic creature known colloquially as "cat." These smallish, fur covered beasts had been domesticated for the performance of simple tasks such as holding down the sofa for 20 hours a day, the warming of feet at the end of the same sofa, or the protection of pillows... also on the same sofa. These creatures even emitted a mysterious, low whirring noise, which we decided to be both benign and hypnotically calming. So convinced were we of these creatures docility that we did not hesitate to cohabitate with them in our new domicile.

Ancient myths and rumors did, however, hold vague warnings about these creatures. Though clearly the work of a primitive and superstitious age, these warnings carried terrible hints, and soon began to act wildly on our imaginations. We would awake to the distant and inexplicable sound of little jingling bells, and a strange scratching, as if some terrible force were playing viciously with the small cloth likenesses of mice which we kept in a corner of the living room. In fact, we would often awake to find these small, cloth mice, sometimes with little bells detached by a brutal show of force, lying scattered about the house. Though suspicion clawed at our minds, we did not speak of it. For the sake of our own peace of mind, however, we decided to close the door to that den which held so many precious items, including the still loaded box of books.

Here, I must admit my own culpability in the horrors which befell our simple home. In my enthusiasm for having two bathrooms, my wonder over the vast expanse of a garage capable of holding more than two, I dare say, almost three! vehicles, in my joy over being in this new land of discovery, I unleashed a horror which mankind has been free of for aeons. I have caused this menace to awaken, to once again walk through the land of the living. I witlessly left open the door to between two worlds not meant to meet: the world of the hallway, and the world of the den.

And so, I tell of the terrible thing which I found, on rising early, and seeing with guilt and fear that open door. Would that I had closed it, never to be opened again. But no. Having gone this far, I willed myself to go further. I stepped through that unholy gate, into the great beyond, hoping, praying, that my mistake had not caused the doom which I indeed feared and somehow knew I would find. That doom which I speak of now, only because it may spare you the same hideous fate.

There, lying plainly amidst all those familiar surroundings, was a sight that will haunt me until my end. The sight which has driven me to levels of insanity that only my darling wife has had the misfortune to witness, and in so doing, damaged her own tender psyche. For there, as you may have already guessed, was my box of books, my entire collection of H.P. Lovecraft's fine works, lying helplessly in a pool of sticky yellow. The box stared at me, mocking, accusing, knowing that it was I, my very own careless self, that had caused this doom.

Of the rest, I fear even to speak, for the evil that had beset us had not yet run it's course. The damaged box was relieved of it's clean contents, then box, and horror fiction, were exiled to the garage, from whence the books have, mysteriously, vanished into some strange place between time and space, where blind, mad readers dance to blasphemous piping and drumming, amid Cyclopean structures that defy the laws of geometry, and the terrible elder gods of pre time suffer through reading some really smelly books, by which they are, nonetheless, very amused.

The box they were in, as my dear readers must now have guessed, had become the victim of my cat, who has never been known for his taste in books. In an expression of furor over being moved to a new house, he had reached across the formless void of hall, through the very gateway which I had unwittingly left open, and attacked that which I loved. Oddly enough, all the other books in the box survived unsoiled, but the entire collection of early 20th century horror fiction was ruined. By what mechanism this fiend had done this, I do not know, for it conforms to no law of physics known to man, even contradicting the laws set out by our great scientist, Albert Einstein, who proved that in a sane universe, urine runs downhill. It hints at the terrible powers of these creatures, and the awful consequences of leaving the gateway between their world and ours unchecked.

But the worst, the very worst, was the cost to myself and my dear wife. For upon seeing this discovery, and reaching that time of year in which tradition dictates that we enjoy our fondest and finest spooks and monsters, I took leave of all my senses, and in a fit of spending madness which I still reel in the wake of, I spent $5.95 on a new copy of one of the books which I had previously purchased! Yes, this was the horrible length to which I was driven, the terrible financial fate that I have pulled my whole household into.

And as for that horror, that creature known to men as the harmless "cat," he has vanished back into the nether world, that place outside of normal space-time, that place which legend says is somewhere hidden at the bottom of the sea, high in the Himalaya, or perhaps behind the couch or under the bed. There he lurks, who is more rightly known by his true name, the name from before the advent of man, the terrible and unpronounceable name, Cat-thulu! There he lurks, waiting for the stars to align in an unholy pattern, while deep in the night, I hear the tinkling of bells, and the sound of a blasphemous, hypnotic whirring.

"Old Friends 4 Sale"

That was the name of a Prince collection that was, supposedly, unreleased things from his famous vault of music. The title did a nice job of summarizing the disgust he seemed to feel at having to fulfill his contract with a company (he wanted desperately to cut ties to), by selling his "old friends." I, however, am more interested in buying some old friends.

I admit I can be a little weird and fanatical. I had a mix tape an old friend had made in high school. This old friend was the person that really got me to listen to Prince, who I had always avoided, since Prince was a pop-culture figure. All the popular rich kids were listening to Purple Rain, which made me immediately, and for years after, do everything I could to avoid all things Prince. Then this friend made me a mix tape, which included a lot of early stuff, B-sides, and a little bit of Purple Rain era stuff. If Tipper had her panties in a bunch over "Darling Nikki," she probably would have gone into shock if she'd have heard this tape.

For years, this tape was the standard by which I judged all mix tapes (then mix CDs, now playlists). The tape far outlasted the friendship, and, being one of the most expensive Maxell's you could buy, survived years of use and abuse; multiple playings per week for something like 15 years.

And then, it disappeared, leaving only an empty case with my old friend's handwritten notes on a cardboard insert.

Ah, but the cardboard insert! "More serious side," and "Dirtier side" (which are real relative things when it comes to older Prince songs!), with not only song names, but which albums each song was from. Ok, having become a pretty big fan, I know which albums the songs are from, which things are B-sides, etc. I had the list, I had the song order. The problem was, I didn't have all the songs. Well, ok, I had them. On vinyl. To truly do justice to my favorite mix tape of all time, nothing less than a full on digital assault on the problem would do.

Albums were re-released. Then a 3 CD greatest hits package, one whole disc of which was B-sides. Finally, iTunes comes along, and with it, the greatest musical invention since ever, the mighty iPod.

Being me, I am both obsessive and selectively cheap, uh, I mean, frugal. There is no way in hell I am paying $16 for a CD of something that I paid $5 for a record of. Enter, The Used CD Store.

Well, actually, stores. I wandered around on my lunch, and after visiting 2 stores, my usual one at the big T in the road, next to the dress store, and a slightly sketchier one around the corner and up the stairs, I finally have managed to do it: I have collected, on disc, every single song I need to rebuild my missing tape. Every single silly, saucy, satirical word, clearer than ever.

Someone warn Tipper, we're getting funky down here!

10 Years and Counting

Yesterday, I attended a lunch with my new boss to celebrate the 10 year anniversary of me joining the staff here at the mighty U. The lunch was good, and my boss and his other 10-year employee were good company, as were the other folks in attendance. I got a little certificate, and there's a catelog I can pick a gift from. Some of them are even kind of cool.

I really have no complaints with my employer (knock on wood). I took a below-entry-level job shuffling papers to get my foot in the door. 2 years and some learning later, I got a 28% raise (I am told, the biggest in the organization's history, %-wise), and changed jobs. I was a so-so employee for the first 2-3 years I was here. Competent, but not outstanding, and, frankly, a little too contentious. One boss and friend once said, "Some people don't suffer fools lightly. You just don't suffer them at all."

In retrospect, I was lucky that people put up with me some days. I owe them, and a string of peers that trained me on anything and everything.

I was handed some assignments that sucked. Running labs for people that were sometimes grateful, sometimes just jerks, but always under a deadline, was stressful. I also got to see some really amazing projects and talk to some of the world's leading experts in their fields. The better I got, the cooler the projects were, and the more the job was something besides just a paycheck. I actually started to do things that made my colleagues' lives easier. I got over the fear of getting attatched to people and projects, or at least, put it aside long enough to do a better job for them. I started seeing it as my job to not only suffer fools, but to protect them. Turns out that some fools are just nice people that don't know the same things as I know. Who'd have guessed?

One of my (many) mangers asked me, Where do you see yourself in a year? Five years? Ten years? I figured, it was one of those "we want to appear warm and fuzzy" things that employers do sometimes. "Probably here; published and writing and probably not here; and established as an author and anywhere but here," were what my answers boiled down to.

Well, a year later I was better at my job, five years later I was really good at what I do and enjoying it. I write, and will continue to write. Someday I may bother to try to get published, or maybe I'll just leave a DVD to my kids and tell them, "See what you can get for this when I'm dead." I may do a Masters or a Doctorate degree. I may not. Hard to say what I'll want to be when I grow up.

I can tell you for certain, though, I won't regret the ten years I spent here, or the people I spent them with.

Mooseout

The Michigan Moose posted their first shutout of the season last night. Check out the story, Mooseout, on hockeygoalie.

Latest Michigan Moose Game Info

For those interested, the latest Michigan Moose game write up is done. Check out Mooseconduct. (warning, it contains some off-color humor, and is not a good example to children!)

Image Problems

I'm not exactly a "fashion victim." You tend to see the same thing on me all the time: cargo shorts (tan or black), short sleeve shirt (t-shirt, maybe a polo), sweatshirt, ball cap, sandles. The exception, Sunday at church, is usually just about as predictable: tan, navy or black casual pants, sweater or maybe a rugby, and again, the sandles.

Believe it or not, though, I'm very conscious of my appearance, not to mention the other ways I present myself.

I remember when I was a kid, going to a school full of people that had more money (a lot more money) than me. Appearance mattered. I never had the trendy hair cut, I never had Polo shirts, I never had designer jeans. I wore the same couple of pairs of shoes to everything. When I was old enough to shop for myself, I put a lot of time and work into choosing clothes that I thought looked fashionable. I had the baggy pants, pink shirts, skinny ties, the whole thing.

And it made no difference at all. My school mates weren't having any of that. "Those aren't real Polo are they?"

Somewhere around 15, I started hanging out more with people from working-class families. Girls dressed punk or hippie, guys with long hair that idolized Ozzy and the Crue. These friends were perfectly content to sit around, noodling on the guitar, wearing ripped up jeans and t-shirts. I had one friend in particular, a girl from near Midland, MI (she'll know I mean her if she reads this), who gave out the best compliment: "That's you." When you said, did, or wore something that was just naturally in keeping with your character, instead of playing to the crowds, she'd tell you it was cool - "That's you."

My jeans got worn and ripped, I drew and wrote on them, I traded in my skinny ties and pink shirts for surf and concert shirts, my hair got long. The more I enjoyed "being me," the more conscious I became of, well, trying to be me. Sometimes I was trying way too hard.

Someone asked me once about my painted toes: "What do the guys on the hockey team think of that? They don't give you a hard time?" I shook my head. "No, they don't say much about it. They've all seen me fight."

My personal style slowly became personal statement. What I should have said was, "I pride myself on being so tough that I can do a couple of 'feminine' things and no one dares to give me shit for it."

Besides my toes, my long hair, my sandles, I've employed various types of music (rap and metal around up-tight people, classical and jazz around the rock and roll crowd), art, stories about hockey fights or sketchy friends. I once asked a ranting anti-semite how he knew I wasn't a Jew, just to see if he had the nerve to risk a fight. He didn't. A week later, when he was ranting about the "camel jockeys," I told him about my real life Assyrian grandpa. Eventually, he admitted that he just liked to run his mouth, but that he didn't really mean anything by it. Confrontation can be beautiful thing.

Some days I worry, though: am I being me, or am I playing a series of characters? After trying too hard to fit in, and failing at it, am I trying to hard to fit out? Is who I am so situational that it changes depending on who I'm trying to cajole or intimidate? If my friend saw me today, would she still say "That's you?"

meme thing from frog

My friend frog did this meme on her blog, and (as you can see) the condition of playing is that you have to post the results. The questions:

1. I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I'll pick a flavor of jello to wrestle with you in.
4. I'll try to say something that only makes sense to you and me.
5. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.
8. If I do this for you, you must post this on your journal. You MUST.

Her answers:
1. I love it that your hair's longer than mine.
2. Cold Beer and Remote Control, Indigo Girls
3. How about not? ;)
4. It couldn't be helped--we had to suck it up.
5. Early in the search, I started looking foward to the hockey analogies and knew that you'd changed me, even though I hadn't expected it.
6. Badger (I know, I know...)
7. If you had to give up one, would it be hockey or biking?

My responses to two of those:
6. Whatever could I have in common with a badger? ;-)
7. At this point? Hockey. For me, it's like choosing combat or meditation.

And lastly, and the best compliment I've had in a while, frog replied:
Badgers are quiet but fierce. Back them into a corner and all hell's going to break loose. Be kind to them and/or leave them be, and all will be well.

Religion, Hockey, and Cheaper Places to Get Sauced

I'm struggling with relationships lately, and one of them in particular is to my church.

I love my church a lot more than I thought I could love any church. LullaBelle and I were married there, we have good friends there, people have, or claim to have, a lot of the same values we do. It's a good place. Keep in mind, we each spend a couple of days besides Sunday doing things there, and I spent a year and a half on a Search Committee there recently. It's not that we don't love it there.

But, tonight, we didn't go to a big deal thing there. There were lots of reasons, but the biggest one was that I, we, just didn't feel like it. We had other things we could do, and we did them.

For the second year in a row, they decided to hold a $50 a plate dinner, an auction, and a wine "auction" to raise money for a charity we are involved in. I'm not entirely sure how and why we came to be involved in this particular charity, but it seems worthy enough. My issue is with the fundraising. This dinner has quickly become one of the big deal social things at the church besides being a fundraiser. At $50 a plate, it's not exactly a cheap dinner. The wine comes in at something like $14 a bottle, but is only available in full or half cases. Large chunks of this money goes to the charity, but large chunks don't. And, it's just damn expensive.

Last year, I told any number of people that I thought the cost was too high, and that the wine was, frankly, not worth $13-14 a bottle. It's just not that good of wine. It didn't all sell last year, prompting folks to be peddling and pushing it for a month or two after the fact. If certain generous people hadn't bought up a bunch of it, the church might have gotten stuck with a big fat bill. If we could raise $20,000 (a made up, but close number) by selling $40,000 in wine, why the hell didn't we just donnate $20,000 to the charity? Why spend the difference on a mediocre wine? (At $13 a bottle, I can easily beat this wine with things off the shelf from my local graocerie store, let alone what my wine dealers can get me for that price.) Hell, we could still throw a big party to pat ourselves on the back if we wanted to and save a lot of money.

I know there were others that felt this way, I know the issue was discussed, but, the fact is, this is a community of rich people, and they act like... well, they act like rich people act. The $50 a plate dinner was back, the wine was back, and there was even more of it this time. They have even offered "scholarships" so that people that can't afford a $50 a plate dinner can go.

How wonderful! Your church holds a huge social, fundraising thing, and you can either fork over $50 a person to attend, or you could take charity from some rich folks so you can, uh, go to the, uh, charity, thing. Hmm...

Or, you can skip it to go cover the hockey game (at which point, you realize how convenient it is to be a hockey writer). The hockey game tonight was a fundraiser too, though for a hockey related cause (which I realize is not the same sort of thing as a real charity). The tickets were about $7 each, and I spent $30 on food and beer for LullaBelle and I while we hung out with people that, frankly, don't have all these odd attitudes and expectations of us when it comes to money.

LullaBelle and I recently invited a friend to our church. She's had some bad luck and lost her job, and before that, she wasn't exactly rich. She felt a little odd about being hit up for $50 a plate dinners and cases of over-priced wine. Not exactly a great early impression. That wouldn't exactly go over with any of my non-church friends, in fact. None of them are folks that generally throw around that kind of money. Kind of odd to spend so much time on a place that doesn't present a welcoming atmosphere to people... like me... hmmm...

Last Sunday morning, LullaBelle and I walked through a steady rain to attend church. The building is too hot in the heat, too cold in the cold, and kind of damp. The woman preaching didn't play anything safe; faced with a Republican convention in town, she gave people a piece of her mind. After, the dozen or so of us that were there met in the "parish hall," that is, the little house next door, for coffee and snacks, and everyone wanted to know who we were. They insisted on taking our pictures for their scrap book. Lots of them remembered us, even though we visit about once a year, and haven't been there in a year and a half. Things, and people, didn't seem to be so taken-for-granted there.

Hmm... Gonna have to think about that...

Long Time Gone

Just rolled in from a week of vacation. First vacation I've had in a year and a half, and it was much needed. Vacation does odd things to my brain. In no particular order (importance, cronology, numerical, alphabetical, etc.)

- I don't particularly give a rats ass about the rest of the world anymore. I'm ready to get mine.
- I don't have too bad of a job if you gotta have one.
- Riding in the rain sometimes pays off with silence in the woods.
- Dark and rainy woods isn't nearly as scary as the company of most people.
- Some people need to quit smoking, or, they need to go to smoking two cartons a day and put themselves out of my misery.
- When the horse lets a big one rip, it's better to be the guy on the bike (me) than all those poor (green) people in the tour carriage.
- Horse shit still smells better than car exhaust.
- I'd rather dodge horse piles in the road than soccer moms in mini-vans.
- There's a point when you might as well take the "shirt" off, 'cause you're not leaving anything to anyone's imagination.
- We really wish you would have left more to our imaginations. A whole lot more.
- A huge crowd of drunk Republicans is a sad thing.
- A huge crowd of drunk Republicans, doing the "white man's overbite" and singing bad 70's tunes real loud is even sadder.
- A large crowd of drunk Republicans and their cash are quickly separated, and bar owners understand this. In true Republican style, none of the Democrats will let morals or politics get in the way of taking money... Especially money from drunk Republicans.
- Some "do not ride this" warnings are serious, some are not. Knowing the difference is important.
- Never trust a waiter or waitress until you know they like to drink what you drink.
- Dumas was a genius.
- I may give up being a prophet, change my handle to "Athos" and get into the "cold, calculated revenge" business.
- Or maybe just to "Porthos," and take up excessive partying.
- Chocolate chip cookies go with almost any type of beer.
- There's nothing better than a preacher with huge freakin' balls.
- It's even better when she's an unassuming older woman...
- ...Who times her visit to coincide with the Republican convention.

There's other stuff. Some of it I might relate in detail, and some of it, I might not.The bottom line? I'd pretty much trade my life here in tomorrow and head back there permanently. It's nothing against anyone here, everybody, uh, well, almost everybody, would be welcome to come and visit . Provided they bring some beer.