I would like to read Jacob Two Two and the Hooded Fang again. Also James and the Giant Peach. These books were read to me in elementary school by my teachers. One day gabrielle and I were walking and we saw some bunnies and we began talking about Bunnicula. Apparently some people doubt her when she talks about that book, but I know it well- my Grade 3 or 4 (murky memories- 4 I think) teacher read it to us. There are probably other lost gems I have completely forgotten. My Grandma was an Elementary School Librarian at Crescent Valley, so I was inculcated very early on with a love for children's books. I used to get in trouble in junior high, having one of the highest reading comprehension levels in my grade, when I would insist on going to the little kids' section during class library times rather than seeking out "more advanced" fare. Remember what Ursula LeGuin said (paraphrased): "Whenever I have a concept too complicated for adults to digest I just write it in a childrens' book."

What were your favorite books as a child?

Didn't they discover a mushroom or fungus that had a root system as big as a county once? Whatever happened to it? Was there more than one? Where was it? I have no reason for asking, other than idle curiosity.
And the Cassini spacecraft has entered Saturn's zone of influence. That should make for some interesting photos in the next little while. Maybe it will find giant mushrooms on the surface of Titan- since it has an atmosphere it is at least nominally possible it could support life.
The physics building at the U of A has a telescope on its roof, and anyone is welcome to come and look in it most nights. I went once and saw Saturn- pretty. You could see the rings.

A Nano-story

The doctor showed the x-rays to his patient. "We've found the problem- your bloodstream has been invaded by some nanotech bots which are responsible for your sore joints, nasuea and bioluminescence."
"That's horrible," said the patient. "What can I do?"
"It's not as bad as it looks. I'll just prescribe you some anti-robotics, and you'll be fine."

Happy Birthday to Lyddy! Go to her blog and wish her a fine day.

The devout acolytes of the devourer of souls delve into the depths of the underworld. Despite how deep they go, all they find is devolved demons.

This is very painful for me to say, but . . .
I'mcheeringforCalgaryintheplayoffs.

Iginles: "If I do this for you, if I let you cheer for us to win the Stanley Cup, we'll still be enemies in the morning."
King Homiam: "You're still my enemy tonight, but even enemies can show respect."


(Jarome Iginla has always been a great guy. More or less a local, too- from St. Albert. I hope he drinks from the Cup, godless Flame or not.)

Here is a non-Homie Bear poem in the vein of my Sea Serpent poem from last year. I am subtly bringing that one up again because at Shrek 2 (so good, btw) tonight there was a preview for a new Finding Nemo-like movie, which actually has some seahorse racing in it. Anyways, here is, umm, I never know what to call my poems. Van Helsingalong! No wait, that sucks. How about

The Monster Sutras

Voices whisper my name as I go out for a walk
Ghosts who are lonely and just want to talk
That's fine by me I don't mind to converse
With spirits and monsters who are under a curse
I met a zombie who said "A penny for your thoughts"
I said it costs a loonie cause I have lots and lots
Zombie said "I don't have a buck, but can I pick your brain?"
And he lunged at my head so I hit him with my cane
(That I got when a tiny vampire bit my femoral vein)
So Zombie ran away but my adventure wasn't over
I next saw a werewolf with a dogtag reading Rover
"How am I supposed to howl at the moon
When I have a sore throat and it's going down soon?"
I offered to howl for him at the next moon I saw
Grateful to me he then shook a paw
And went on his way, a genial fellow
For a werewolf he was surprisingly mellow
Not like the mummy who said he would choke
The next person who made a yo' mummy joke
So I said "Yo' mummy's so old that she dated King Tut
And she's fatter and wider than Jabba the Hutt!"
So he came after me with arms stretched out wide
Which made it easy to duck and run and go hide
It was time to go home, it had been a nice stroll
But I preferred to avoid that panhandling troll

I have an Eastern Orthodox friend over at theooze whose screen name is Seraphim after this old Russian monk named Saint Seraphim. Seraphim mentioned that Seraphim met some bears or something so I asked him about it. Turns out St Seraphim must have been a pretty decent guy because he would feed bears by hand.
However, if you feed bears by hand in Jasper or anywhere else, this makes you not a decent person in any way. Bears don't need you to feed them, they are plenty capable of cooking for themselves. So many times driving through the Park you see very foolish people feeding bears from their cars. This is dangerous to you, but more importantly, it is dangerous to the bears. They get accustomed to humans and start invading towns looking for handouts. Sometimes Wildlife officers can shoo them out of town, sometimes they have to be tranquilized and transported far away, and sometimes they wind up being destroyed, which is to say, shot and killed. So don't aid and abet in the killing of my buddies, please. Leave the bears alone. If you must feed a bear, feed me. I'm always hungry. Thank you.

The trouble with blogging is that it is a little like the geological process of subduction. Subduction is a tectonic mechanism that occurs when one plate forces another down into the mantle. Every poost I write sends another, older poost into the netherworld of my archives, to be unearthed only by googlologists searching for the most random, bizarre stuff ("never touch yellow snow morals"- how many more morals do you need? How about never eat yellow snow, either).
This poost will bury the rather important one I did on WildAid a couple of weeks ago. Most of my writing is just for fun, silly, maybe a little informative, but hardly world-shattering. But from time to time I do write more serious stuff, and the WildAid poost was an important one.
So, to keep the conservation fires stoked even a little bit, here is a recent article on rhino poaching. A quote:

"Six rhino carcasses have been found in the last two months, and more rhinos could have been slaughtered. Before the recent killings, the northern white rhino population was estimated to be only 30, despite four baby rhinos having been born in the last year. Unless urgent action is taken to combat the upsurge in poaching, conservationists say, the last wild population of northern white rhinos could be wiped out in six months. "

Once more, little cubs, what do we call poachers?

UPDATE: Just as the Wildaid poost got subducted into the poo mantle, the actual Outside article that inspired it is made available online for all to read. Call it a volcanic venting- flatulence from the mantle of poo.
My geology professors would be so proud to see how I am putting my education to use.
Anyways, here is some really cool line art and animation. The walking robot dog is especially great.

China is rattling sabers again.
I really have an immense fascination for 20th century Chinese history. It's just so bizarre. I sometimes wonder if Mao wasn't just conducting an experiment to see if he could cause 800 million people to lose their minds. In the Hundred Flowers Movement he encouraged China's intellectuals to actively criticize the Communist Party, supposedly to show what a generous and open government they were. But really he just wanted to know who his enemies were so he could send them all to labour camps.
Then there was the Great Leap Forward, in which Chairman Mao ordered the entire nation to melt down all their iron in home-made foundries, so that China could make the leap into the modern age and be on a par technologically with the West. But the scrap metal was pretty much useless, and since everyone was so busy hunting for rusty nails and such, no one was growing food, and the country plunged into a severe famine.
And of course, there was the absolute disaster that was the decade-long Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, in which hordes and hordes of bright-eyed Mao-worshipping teenaged Red Guards basically took over the country and terrorized it in the name of the Great Helmsman. Schools and universities shut down for the duration (1964-1974).

Simon Leys, a brilliant Sinologist who has a gift for wryly describing the complexities and alienness of Maoist China, on navigating the minefield of being a communist cadre in the Mao Dynasty:

Judge for yourself. One should avoid leftism, neither should one fall into rightism (sometimes, as in the case of Lin Biao, leftism is a rightist error), but between these two pitfalls, the cadre will seek in vain for the "middle way"- this being a feudal-Confucian notion. Since the right, the left and the center are equally fraught with danger, the cadre may be tempted to shut his eyes and follow the successive and contradictory instructions of the Great Leader without a murmur. Another error! "To obey blindly" is a poisonous error invented by Liu Shaoqi in pursuit of his unmentionable project of capitalist restoration. In such a situation, the downcast and fearful cadre has his courage renewed by daring new watchwords: one must dare "to swim against the current"; "not be afraid of being in the minority"; "not be afraid of disgrace, even of exclusion from the (Communist) party." However, before jumping in the water to swim against the current, the cadre cannot but recall that "the current of history is irresistable" and the Communist Party that embodies it is "grandiose and infallible." His resolve weakens; then he is reminded that "rebellion is legitimate." Ready to act now, he gets another cold shower: "in all circumstances, strict Party discipline should be maintained." Whom to believe? "Truth is quite often the position of the minority." This helps, but its value is reduced by another basic axiom: "the minority must always submit to the decisions of the majority."

(From Chinese Shadows, by Simon Leys. I love the absurdity of the following quote, the context of which is too convoluted to get into: "In [Lin Biao] is manifested the true nature of an apparently-leftist-deviation-which-is-in-fact-rightist-sabotage.")

"This Lebowski, he called himself the Dude. Now, "Dude", that's a name no one would self-apply where I come from." (Sam Elliot in The Big Lebowski)
I called myself "clever" over at Lyddy's blog the other day, and she responded by saying I was one of the few people who could get away with calling myself that. But in truth, I am only going on the testimony of numerous Chinese people. Many times in China I would try out a new Chinese phrase I had just learned (or made up, even) and they would look at me in wonder and say, "You are very clever!"
Now, "Homie Bear", that's a name no one would self-apply where I come from, either. But that's just how it is.

Speaking of monsters and undercover cops, I have been really getting into the Sopranos lately, thanks to gabrielle bringing home recorded episodes on video. I never really got a chance to before, not having HBO (what does that stand for anyway?). It's a little confusing, since I jumped in in season 5, went back and rented season 2 volume 1 DVD (they didn't have season 1) and then accidentally rented volume 2 of season 3, not realizing I had done so. So I have been watching the episodes in this order: seasons 5,2,3,2,5. The nice thing is I know not to get too attached to any characters I don't recognize from the newest episodes.
I think I am starting to get a handle on it now, though- basically, Tony Soprano is a mob boss. And you really don't want to fuck with him.

Some Kind of Monster!
Metallica shows their monstrous human side.
(It's a documentary exploring the rather turbulent period they went through while recording St. Anger, with Jason leaving and James going into rehab and all that).

Do you ever wonder if maybe you are actually an undercover cop, but you got so deep-seated into your fake identity that you just forgot who you really are? I sometimes do. But then I remember that I am a bear, and there is never much need for an undercover bear.
There was a meeting of undercover cops at the coffee shop where I work yesterday. Seriously! My manager pointed them out to me. Some were wearing Secret Service style earpieces. And the uniformed cops who frequent the shop were being all buddy with them. Our policy is that cops in uniform get free coffee, so I asked the manager if that extends to them. It doesn't, because we want to preserve their cover. I'm honestly not making this up.

Today is Jonny Smelter's 30th birthday. I think that deserves a special tributary poost or something. I mean, 30 is a big deal. It kind of alarms me that I have friends I have known since before I could read who are turning 30, and that I am approaching that dread number myself all too soon, and yet my gut reaction to Jon's 30th is one of joy. No moping- I'm happy for him, and I hope he's happy for himself. I hope he's reading this and is having a great day. I will eat a donut in his honor today.
This reminds me of the great Larry Gowan's words, "Here we're living in a golden age!" I hope the 30s are your golden age, selfsoulfriend.

rustyangel has won my coveted last gmail invite, by virtue of the following haikus:

wherever they are--
snow, jungle, mountain river
a bear's gotta poo

would a fish know prose
or match vamps in poetry?
the bear is most wise

A few months ago gabrielle and I were watching the trailers to Van Helsing and exploring the official site, and our findings were somewhat . . . grim. It kind of looked like the movie would be really, really terrible. Still, we had to see it because of David Wenham, the vampire connection, and just for the helluvit. And you know what? It was really terrible! But not really, really terrible, and so I was pleasantly suprised and even able to enjoy myself. Richard Roxburgh as Dracula has some pretty great lines and David Wenham is fantastic as a completely non-Faramirish monk friar. Yeah, they went way overboard on the CGI, much of the movie is incoherent nonsense and I will leave it to my esteemed undead colleague to decide whether it is even worth getting into the whole vampire spawn thing, but it was still better than LXG.
Let's just hope they don't call the sequel VH2.

This is the conclusion to the robot story- scroll down to the previous poost to read the first part.

All kinds of ideas were swirling through my mind as I caught up with the robot. There had to be a way to beat the devil at his own game. Some kind of robot virus that would mutate the soul, so that Satan wouldn't be able to recognize it; or maybe he used nanocyte ink that would disappear or even alter the contract to make it null and void. There had to be a way.
"The devil tricked you! You already have a soul!" I said, without even a greeting.
"How is that possible?" Reading robot expressions was hard, but he didn't seem to be alarmed, just curious.
"Well, I heard a fable once when I was a kid- about a lion who was concerned that he didn't have a soul. So he asked a wise man how he could know whether he had one or not, and the wise man told him, 'The fact that you are concerned that you have a soul is proof of its existence.' Maybe it's something like that. You grew your own soul from wanting one so bad!"
"I still haven't chosen a name. Can you help me?"
"What the hell are you talking about? Who cares about your name? We have to figure out a way to get your soul back from the devil!"
"I think something from Egyptian mythology might be cool. What was the name of the creature who would eat your soul if it weighed less then the golden feather? Ammit, wasn't it? I think I will be named Ammit from now on."
"Dammit Ammit! This is serious! Focus, we have to save your soul here!" I felt like screaming. I did scream. "Gaaaaarrrgghhhhh!!!" But "Ammit" just kept blathering on as if he didn't even hear me.
"Yes, Ammit. The devourer of souls. I like it. It's much better than Robby the Robot. I'm glad you and the devil wouldn't let me be Robby. Of course, I was so sure my name was going to be Robby that I'm afraid I signed Lucifer's little contract under that name."
I was still screaming so it took a second or two for that statement to sink in. "Wha . .? You mean . . ."
"I must confess that I sold Robby the Robot's soul to the devil. I hope he doesn't mind. Since he is an inanimate object collecting dust in a studio warehouse somewhere I think I can safely assume he won't. The devil will probably be angry, but he'll have to take it up with Robby."
I never kissed a robot before, and I wouldn't recommend it since they are cold and metallic, but it was definitely appropriate on this occasion. Then we danced- the Robot, of course.

A robot of my acquaintance sold his soul to the devil. The deal was, Old Nick would provide my robot friend with a soul, and in return the robot would sell that soul back to him. I tried to talk him out of it- I mean, I hardly ever use my soul, so what did he need one for- but he was pretty determined. You know how hard it can be trying to talk a robot out of something once he has made up his mind. All the same, I figured I better go with him to meet the Prince of Darkness.
Satan was a lot like I imagined he would be- a class act, but indescribably evil at the same time. He wasn't actually doing anything evil, exactly, but you could just feel those vibes emanating from his Versace suit. We met in an uppercrust retro-20s jazz club uptown. I introduced myself as the robot's attorney. It was a lie, of course, and the devil knew it, but that just meant I had earned his respect.
The robot wanted to get straight down to business, but I steered the conversation back to small talk. Shooting the breeze with the devil is surprisingly easy. If you ask just the right questions, he will tell you some of the most amazing stories you'll ever hear. Just don't be ingratiating- he hates that. And it probably goes without saying that you shouldn't talk religion with him. Politics, though- he's all over that. Anyways, after a few drinks (I had beer, hellboy drank highballs and the robot is a teetotaller) we were ready to discuss terms.
"My client wishes, against my advice, to obtain a soul from you. In return, he will pledge that soul back to you. Upon his demise the soul shall revert back to your ownership."
"Agreed," said the devil. He produced a contract from his inside pocket, signed it and handed it to the robot to sign. Then I witnessed it and it was official. Done. Robot had a soul and, well, so did the devil.
"Now that I have a soul I can give myself a name!" said the robot. "I think I will be . . . Robby."
"No," I said. Satan agreed.
"Why not? I like the sound of it."
"Trust me, you don't want to be Robby the Robot. Pick another name."
The devil said, "I'll sell you a name." I shushed him. Not everyday you can do that to the Evil One.
"What would you suggest?" he asked me.
"Ah man, I don't know. Choose something that has meaning for you. Maybe you should try and 'find' yourself first, now that you have a soul and all."
So he got up and left without even saying good-bye. Protocol wasn't his primary function, apparently.
I turned back to Satan. "So what's your scam?"
"No scam. I always honor my deals."
"If you could just make souls out of thin air then you could have as many souls as you wanted and wouldn't need to make deals for them."
"I like the challenge of obtaining them this way. I am an afficionado."
"I still don't buy it. I think you're lying."
"I encourage that vice in others, but find little need for it myself."
I raised my eyebrow at him, and stared him in the eye. A dangerous gambit, but I sensed the devil kind of liked me so I risked it.
"Fine," he grinned. "You are correct- I can not manufacture a soul from nothing. But your friend does indeed possess one- I did not lie about that. It is not my fault if he was ignorant of this fact before he came to me. I merely gave him the necessary impetus to be able to believe. Call it the Dumbo Effect, if you will."
"And all you charged for this service was his eternal soul."
"Yes."
I was angry, and I had to get away to think. The wheels in my head were spinning, but not nearly as fast as a robot's would. I needed to find "Robby" or whatever the hell he was calling himself. We needed to figure a way out of this contract. I excused myself.
"Let me get the check," said Lucifer. "It's the least I can do. And here's my card- call me if you ever want to sell your soul."

Anyone want a gmail account? I can invite one more person to join. Digital bribes in the form of love poetry to bears and other artistic expressions can be sent to nwaddell (at) gmail dot com.
And the oneploughwoman is having a bloggiversary contest, if you still have some creative energy left.

Ah, bootleg VCDs. I miss China.
"Pls Take Note that will be only english move Previews and there will be not chinese Previews because of some reason AND Pls do not tell other about this site or forward this site to other."
This is an excuse I encourage you all to use at work tomorrow. "Sorry boss, I will be unable to do what you asked me to because of some reason. Have a nice day!"
And, uh, I'll see what I can do about not telling anyone about the site.

Worng's Story pt. 1
(I put all the previous pixie stuff in one poost over at the Cave, as well.)

Worng emerged from his Faery Circle on a barren, snowswept island. There were mountains and glaciers everywhere. And it was cold- so cold that Worng's feelings of guilt and despair were overshadowed by the more immediate thought of survival. He had to figure out where he was, exactly. He found a sign half-buried in the snow that said that the nearby mountain was Breidablik Peak.
Worng's heartsunk even further. Breidablik was the name of Baldr's castle back in Asgard. Surely it was no coincidence that he had landed here of all places. It was obviously a message from the god of light who must still be mad about that little mistletoe prank worng played on him. All Worng wanted was to steal a kiss from Baldr's beautiful wife Nanna- how was he to know that mistletoe was the only thing Baldr was vulnerable to and that it was prophesied that he would die from it one day?
Worng's practical jokes were getting into the unwelcome habit of coming back to haunt him. Worng had once been haunted by such a bad infestation of Duendes (refugees from Mexico) that he had been forced to move out of his house. Well, no more. Baldr was not about to get the best of him. Nor King Krindr. Time to leave.
Taking to the air, Worng started scanning the sea for a ship or something. Soon he found a medium-sized icefloe, so he flew out to it and landed- only a valkyrie or maybe Thor could have flown all the way to the mainland from wherever he was.
A very large polar bear curiously poked his head up from a nearby seal-hole and decided to come over and investigate. Worng was glad for the company. "So where's this icefloe headed, Sir Bear?" he asked.
The polar bear didn't reply, which Worng thought kind of rude, but he was an uninvited guest after all. Undaunted, Worng continued. "Well, I hope we hit the mainland soon- I have to find my friends Frettnir and Yggir. We've been banished here, and it's sort of my fault. Except, I have no idea how I am ever going to find two lonely pixies who could be anywhere in the world. Do you have any ideas?"
The bear made a sort of grunty snort sound.
"Me neither. I'm really worried about Yggir- she's so naive sometimes. Frettnir can handle himself I'm sure, but Yggir- I just dunno. I should never have gotten her into this."
The bear seemed to decide that Worng was uninteresting as both a conversationalist and as a meal so he wandered back to the seal hole to wait for something more exciting. As it happened, just then a selkie appeared.

In case you miss winter, now that it's nice and summery out there, here's a snowflake maker. Funny thing is, I really don't. Miss winter, I mean. Now, miss Winters, that would be a different story. Luckily I have my BoB DVD's to stave off that.

Happy Birthday to mi hermana Nadine! I bet it's a beautiful day down in Mexico and she is hopefully enjoying her Sunday, maybe at el playa, or la ciudad de Veracruz. Anyways, whatever she's doing I hope she's having a great time. Or as they say in Mexico, rochos los ochos mochos. Something like that, anyways.

I have some bad news to share with you- Bruce my fish is dead. Actually I don't know for sure but I am forced to surmise this due to a number of facts I will share herewith:
a) When I went over to the House of Poo the other day to transport Bruce, he was not in his aquarium.
b) Bruce is unable to survive outside of his aquarium.

Thus, I must conclude that he has passed away. Sigh- I use this detached clinical language to hide my sadness, which is profound. Anyways, I gave the tank and other gear to my friend Sherry, who will hopefully have better luck with fish than I have had.

Ode to Bruce

You were an electric blue cichlid
You had a mini-castle where you hid
You ate all the suckerfish that cleaned up your tank
So I stopped buying them and your home got all rank
You had sharp little teeth and were very vicious
You didn't play very nice with the other fishes
I named you Bruce like Lee and Wayne
I hope your death didn't cause you pain
But maybe you didn't die you escaped
A fish vigilante like Batman, caped
Fighting some crime living in a cave
Bad guys don't scare you since you are so brave
Yeah, it's good to know that you're still out there
Watching out for innocents everywhere
So here's to you, my old friend Bruce
Have fun living your life on the loose