Another book I've just read is Lemony Snicket's The Bad Beginning, Book 1 of A Series of Unfortunate Events. Anyone ever read it? Or even hear of it? It's an easy read- took me one day. I liked it because it had that slightly twisted feel that all good children's literature ought to have. I was at the Wee Book Inn last week with my friend Erica, so that she could get the copy of The Amber Spyglass I had reserved (I have one already) and I decided to get something for myself. I picked up the Snicket book, not knowing anything about them, and read the back cover, and was immediately sold. It's a note from the author, and it says "Dear Reader, I'm sorry to say that the book you are holding in your hands is extremely unpleasant. It tells an unhappy tale about three very unlucky children . . . "
It reminds me of Lord Alexander Chung-sik Finkle-McGraw's belief that children should be exposed to dark, subversive material at an early age so that they can grow up right.
To illustrate this concept to the nanotech engineer John Hackworth, the Equity Lord sends him Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem The Raven (not to be confused with Poe's poem of the same name, also good) and encloses this note:
Mr. Hackworth,
I hope the above poem illuminates the ideas I only touched on during our meeting of Tuesday last, and that it may contribute to your paroemiological studies.
Coleridge wrote it in reaction to contemporary children's literature, which was didactic, much like the stuff they feed our children in the "best" schools. As you can see, his concept of a children's poem is refreshingly nihilistic . . .
Finkle-McGraw
(excerpted from one of my all-time favorite books, Neal Stephenson's The Diamond Age)

So, what would you recommend along these lines?

From Sliced Iguana, by Isabella Tree:

Every artefact seemed charged with fear and foreboding and ritual purpose. This was as far from the art of the Mediterranean civilizations as anything I had ever seen. Nothing was created for beauty's sake alone, for the sheer joy of existence, to sing the praises of man and god, to lift the earthly experience heavenward. Aztec art wasn't elevating so much as crushing.

There's a conceit on the Mexican side of my family that we are descended from the Aztecs and Mayans. I will have to leave it to my sister to determine the veracity of this claim, though I'm pretty sure we aren't both. And the Veracruz region my family comes from was the seat of the older Olmec society, and not really Mayan or Aztec at all. I think we're mainly just the hodgepodge mix that most Mexicans are.
I remember in Grade 6 we did a unit on the Aztecs for Social Studies class, and my Grandma came and gave a short presentation on growing up in Mexico. But of course all anybody cared about were the human sacrifices. I might have played up my tenuous link to the Aztecs after that in order to vicariously bask in their badassness, but who knows? I kind of doubt it, and I don't think it even really matters. What I do know is that I'm half-Mexican, and that's something to be proud of.

Here is another link courtesy of an oozer, my friend Sarah the Pixie (or at least, pixie story helper- still working on it, btw) : What is your Goth name? Mine is Beautiful Disgrace. Which fits in very nicely with my Chinese name Mei de, Beautiful Moral (or Virtuous).

The Nine Billion Names of God
I read this story about ten years ago or so, and it made an impression on me. But I forgot what it was called and which of the early sci-fi kings wrote it, making it fairly difficult to track down. Luckily an oozer knew what I was talking about and found me that link. Rereading it now I can't help but see a few patronizing traces- much as I respect Arthur C Clarke, this is a little disappointing- different times back then, though, I guess. And I can imagine worse fates than being "stuck" in the Himalayas for your job. But oh well, the concept is still cool, and the last line is killer.

In an admittedly bizarre synthesis of my last two poosts, here is a poem about conservation. And robots.

The robot bear roams way up there
Up in the north where there's no more air
Where the ozone hole has burnt the pole
And turned all the animals into coal
His primary mission is not salmon fishin'
But scanning for signs of life-force emission
Since all life is dead he'll just read code-red
Green gone to sleep in her fossil bed
So there he'll remain, searching in vain
Slowly rusting from the acid rain

I was a few weeks late picking up this month's issue of Outside (the May issue), but I'm glad I finally got it today. There's an excellent article on Steve Galster and his organization WildAid. You may have seen their new print ads in recent issues of your favorite magazines- they feature a dehorned rhino in Grand Central Station, and a bleeding tiger at the New York Public Library. These ads, which I think are excellent, made a big splash in Asia recently.
But WildAid is about more than advertising. They do most of their work in the field, actively seeking out poachers and animal-parts dealers, doing what they can to prevent the harvesting of animals- they estimate that the illegal trade in animals is a $5 or 6 billion a year industry. From the Outside article: " 'I [Galster] went with 50 investigators to a slaughterhouse in Sai Noi [a town north of Bangkok], where we found live and dead animals, tame bears, tigers in cages ready to be slaughtered and sent as meat to exotic restaurants, and tiger cubs that looked wild.' Police netted a gruesome haul: 100 pounds of tiger bones, 46 pounds of newly slaughtered tiger meat, three tiger skins, and 20 black bear paws, still bloody."
As the above excerpt implies, they work closely with the governments of developing countries in order to help them protect the wildlife within their borders. This includes setting up ranger programs and establishing alternative-income ventures in villages that previously derived income from poaching.
From their site: "Our frontline programs address the entire trade cycle, from poaching to smuggling to consumption, rather than carrying out yet more research. We classify our program work accordingly into three categories: Protecting the Wild, Stopping the Illegal Trade, and Raising Awareness/Reducing Demand."

Here's a very cool looking site about a little robot named Rustboy. I don't know if he is a union member or not -he doesn't really look fat. Can't wait till the movie is finished. Doug Chiang, a designer at ILM, or Lucasfilm or somewhere, also has a cool robot world.
Speaking of rustbuckets, my friend blu designed an insectine tri-axle heavyhauler based on one of the trucks I used to drive at the mine. The HB stands for Homie Bear. Then he made a shirt out of it and gave it to me! What a blunevolent fellow he is. So I proudly wore it out to the 7DF show last night, since blu is their drummer. Great show, too- loud and heavy, just as it should be. Check out his professional design site here .

Nerdular Nerdence
A few weeks ago I was at the university and I ran into an old aquaintance- a beautiful young woman who could be a model. "What brings you to campus?" she asked.
"I'm just going to Cameron (the Science and Tech library) to catch up on some of the scientific journals."
"Oh- are you studying?"
"No, I just like to keep up with the literature."
"Oh."
"Yeah, I'm a nerd."

More Pixiestuff:
The relief Worng felt at not being condemned to death almost caused him to cheer when Krindr pronounced banishment instead. That wasn't so bad, he thought. He watched Yggir's face change from horror to thoughfulness to her default excited look- apparently she had already absorbed the news and was looking forward to it. Frettnir, however, had that unreadable pinched expression he always wore, but Worng knew he would be angry and worried- he pretty much always was.
"Your Majesty, you are wise and merciful. We shall carry out our sentence with dignity, and strive to bring honor to your kingdom."
"Can we come visit?" asked Yggir.
Frettnir rolled his eyes, but kept silent. King Krindr gave Yggir a kindly smile, the type you give to people who have just said something dumb. "I'm afraid that is out of the question. But after a suitable time has passed we might let you come home some day."
"Oh," said Yggir, "well, at least we will be together."
The kindly smile again.
The pixies were each led to a different Faery Ring, which are the portals between worlds. On Krindr's command, they stepped through and emerged in a very strange and alien world, alone.
And now our story begins.

The Pixie Papers

Frettnir's Story

Febr 26
I hate it here. I know that's how I have started every journal entry since I got here, but it's true. But I had an epiphany today- I have determined the course of action I need to take. The humans all have jobs, and in order to fit in, I have to get one too. I don't really know how to get one, however. I think you just put on one of those odd garments they wear and go to the gigantic towers.
Febr 28
I hate it here. There are humans who behave exactly like frost giants in each one of those towers, and they will not let me get past them. One oaf even forcibly removed me from his pitiful little castle today. I wish Hrungir had stomped on him.
March 2
I hate it here. I have discovered that in the human world, everything rests on the concept of "Prior Experience". Am looking into spells to see if I can conjure some.
March 5
I really hate it here. Today I was in the park looking for a Faery Ring when I saw a human girl wearing a tunic-type thing, and it said "Death to the Pixies!" I was shocked, and a little frightened for my life.
March 17
I hate it here, but today at least I caught my first glimpse of other faeryfolk- leprechauns! They were a little drunk but they gave me some valuable information. I am apparently living in a city called Boston, and there is an established, though well-hidden, community of faeryfolk here.
March 24
I still hate it here, but have resigned myself to this fate. Life has settled into a routine of sorts. King Krindr gave us the ability to hide our wings from the humans, and to change size as necessary. So I live in a tree, like our ancestors, and in the morning I awake and head over to a nearby tavern sort of place that sells a bitter, non-alcoholic beverage called coffee. They don't sell mead. I purchase my coffee with money I receive from the caretaker of the park where I live. He pays me to tend his trees and plants and cook the odd meal for him. My pixie skills in both respects are superior to anything he has ever seen.
April 1
Today is the Day of the Fool, and I have been keeping my eyes open for any mischievous imps and spirits that might be about. I've come to realize that I can't spend the rest of my life here-I need to find my insufferable cousins. Even though it's their fault that I'm here in the first place. We need each other. Well, I need them at least . . . I hope they're alright.
April 3
I met some nice spirits today. I think they are sylphs, though I can't really tell, and I do not wish to appear ignorant by asking. Ever since our colony of Pixies migrated form Ireland to Asgard we have been pretty cut off from the other non-Norse faeryfolk. Anyways, they may be able to help me find Worng and Yggir- they told me to meet them tomorrow.
May 2
Those treacherous sylphs are actually sluagh! Sluagh! Cursed cretinous carrion-feeding crypt-defilers! How could I have been so stupid? They have kidnapped me and are keeping me in an iron bird-cage in the back of one of their wagons. I do not know what they have planned for me. I don't think they want to eat me, though- thay have had me for a month now and would have done so already if that was their plan. They have even given me back my journal, fiends though they are.

More Pixietrix forthcoming tomorrow or some other time. Today I am tuckered out from helping my friend with some spring cleaning (the exact same situation as this, actually, only this year I was a little more prepared). So for now I have but two interesting facts to share with you:

1. Zapatista leader Subcomandante Marcos derives his name (an alias, his real name is Rafael Sebastien Guillen) by making an acronym of Chiapas' most important and strategic towns and cities: Margaritas, Altamirano, Rancho Nuevo, Comitan, Ocosingo, and San Cristobal. ( I learned this from Sliced Iguana, by Isabella Tree, an excellent book about Mexico.)

2. Pakistan is also an acronym. The new country created by the Partition of India and Afghanistan needed a name, so they came up with Pakistan, after the peoples of the Punjab, Afghanistan, Kashmir and Sindu regions who made up its population. Though the book where I first learned this said it was the Pamirs, Afghans, Kyrgyz and Sikhs, so one of them is way off. Here's the Wikipedia link, which backs up the first acronym.

Okay, and a special bonus not-exactly-fact: this guy is way too desperate. Just on principle I think he should be banned forever. Did I mention that I have a gmail account? It's nice, but it's not that big of a deal, and soon enough everyone will have one. Except, google-gods willing, bruce.

Part 2.II.ii of the Norse Pixie Epic by HB and ST (I combined yesterday's segments into one):

Hrungir's combustion was not as spontaneous as it might have appeared. Worng had snuck around behind the giant's chair and lit his lighter in the vicinity of Hrungir's bummal area. Finally Hrungir could contain himself no longer, and the entrapped gaseous cloud within him escaped with a roar like a blizzard. Thus was Hrungir introduced simultaneously to the concept of Blue Angels and to actual angels. Not to imply that Hrungir became an angel, it merely means that he met some on his ballistic flight into the lower atmosphere.
When he landed, he was one furious frost giant. He roared and raged, then grabbed his iciclub and started smashing Pixie-pads and bashing Mome Rath-mushrooms. Worng, Yggir and Frettnir watched in dismay as all the faeryfolk fled from the havoc they had caused. The Valkyrie were called in and they quickly assessed the situation. They decided that the best way to subdue Hrungir would be to conjure an apparition of a floating frosty snow cone, and have him chase after it all the way to the Vatnajökull Glacier. When Hrungir saw the tantalizing intangible treat he immediately took off after it and was not heard from again until Ragnarok.

Stepping their way delicately through the carnage, the Pixie Police came and arrested the three pixies (allegedly) responsible for the disaster. They went without fuss to the palace of the Pixie King, there to be punished.
King Krindr was a typical pixie in that he was mostly a decent sort of person, given to mischief and the pursuit of fun, and for that reason he was a good ruler- laid-back and easygoing. He didn't particularly want to punish Worng and the others, but he had no choice. What they had done was serious- even the courtyard they were in had been a courtroom prior to Hrungir's rampage. First he had to get their side of the story. "So . . . would you care to explain what happened?"
Worng said, "Your Majesty sir, it's all my fault and I ask that Frettnir and Yggir be released."
"Yeah!" said Frettnir.
"No!" cried Yggir, "We're just as much to blame as Worng. I will share in whatever punishment he gets!"
Krindr ignored them, for the moment. He had an admission of guilt, and so he needed to pronounce judgement. "Worng," he said, "for the part you played in the devastation of Pixieland, I have no choice but to punish you to death!"
Everyone in the throneroom gasped- capital punishment was unheard of in Krindr's court.
"Death!!?? Your Highness, I . . . I . . . " Worng had no words.
"Yeah, I was just kidding. Now you know how Hrungir felt when you tricked him. Not very nice, is it? Your real sentence, however, is banishment. You and your sister, and Frettnir too, are hereby exiled to Midgard. You're going to go live with the humans."

A tale by Homie Bear and his friend Sarah (part 1, anyways):

This story isn't about Hrungir but it starts with him- Hrungir was a fierce and fearsome frost giant that everyone was scared of. Everyone except for Worng the Pixie. Worng knew that Hrungir had a weakness- Hrungir, it seems, was always hungry. So Worng invited him over for dinner. Worng’s sister Yggir thought it was a great idea, but their older, wiser and more mature cousin Fretnir disagreed.
"Ahh come on, Fretty, we need you to cook for us!" pleaded Worng.
"Yeah yeah yeah!" clapped Yggir, "You're the best cook ever!"
"The very best," Worng added.
Fretnir had something of a weakness of his own, and that was vanity. Already his Pixie-sized head was getting bigger. Still, he was suspicious. "What do you want me to cook?"
"Oh you know, nothing fancy, maybe some Pixie beans."
"Pixie beans. You want to invite a frost giant to our house, and then render him flatulent? I don't think so."
"Oh come on, Fretnir, please please please?" Yggir was practically jumping up and down, giving her best doe-eyed look. But Fretnir still wouldn't budge, so Worng had to resort to bribery- four baggies of his best Pixie dust. Fretnir used it to get high- he magically grew himself, his cousins and their house large enough to host Hrungir.
When Hrungir knocked on the door, it was kind of cute, insofar as a frost giant could ever be called "cute". He brought the pixies some flowers (trollius, of course), and was all dressed up in his very best Viking suit. Worng almost felt a little guilty for what he had planned. Almost.
Dinner was pleasant, overall, though of course there were some uncomfortable silences as pixie and giant strained to think of something to say to the other. Hrungir complimented Frettnir's cooking, which relieved some of the strain. Yggir asked Hrungir what he did for fun, and Hrungir launched into a passionate monologue on the pleasures of eating faeryfolk, detailing how he liked to pull the wings off and save them for last, since they were such a delicacy. Frettnir turned a strange purplish shade on hearing this, and Worng was quick to change the subject, steering the conversation towards something a little more neutral- religion. Hrungir started talking about how much he was looking forward to Ragnarok, while Yggir listened intently, elbows on table, head on her hands. Worng, meanwhile, had quietly slipped away, unnoticed by Hrungir and Frettnir.
Hrungir was beginning to realize that, over the course of the evening, he was developing a pretty serious case of gas. It might come as a suprise that Frost giants, as rude and unrefined as they are, actually hate to fart. That is the domain of their cursed cousins the Fire Giants- Surtur and his ilk, and the Frosts were happy to leave them to it. So Hrungir was getting increasingly more agitated, and trying to hide it from the pixies. Luckily Frettnir was talking incessantly about himself and so they weren't paying too much attention to him.
That all changed rather dramatically when Hrungir blew up.

The Pixies were fantastic, of course. They're one of those bands that sound better live than on record, not that there's anything wrong with their studio recordings. Feeling the bite of the music at your throat while your ears threaten to burst and people shoving and jumping all over you is an experience your home stereo can't really duplicate. Seeing the radiant Kim Deal, perpetually grinning and looking simultaneously thrilled and bashful is an experience not soon forgotten. Her voice has always been the ultimate expression of sexiness to me. And Frank Black, looking admittedly not very Pixie-like, demonstrated why he is seen as such a rock god. That man can scream- and his Spanish is not bad, either. It was a ball.

Now you can relive the immortal line over and over: Khaaannn!!! Such pathos!

"It's a show about an actress who used to play a pro bono lawyer on TV, but was so inspired by the storylines that she decided to give up acting and actually go to law school."
"So, you'll need an actress to play an actress who played a lawyer, and then decided to become a lawyer."
"Yeah, but rather than an actual actress, I thought it would be cool to get a real-life law student!"
"You want to find a law student willing to quit school so she can play an actress who quit acting to go to law school?"
"Ironic, isn't it?"
"Mostly just stupid."

The images that stay with you from Kill Bill Volume 1 are bright and beautiful- Uma in her yellow motorcycle leathers busting up the House of Blue Leaves, and her showdown with O-Ren Ishii in the Zen garden. Volume 2 is quieter, dustier, and more wrenching. The Pussy Wagon, The 5,6,7,8's, and the gushing fountains of blood are gone, in favour of Texas Trailer Trash, an ancient Chinese sifu, and Daryl Hannah's eyepatch. And Bill.
The Face to Face between Bill and the Bride is more about passion than action. It might seem almost anti-climactic to some, but for me, at least, I got bloody satisfaction.

LOTR, slightly condensed. And in stick figure form.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Jason casually mentions to me that he has tickets to the Pixies concert in April. Astonished, I said, "Wait- The Pixies are back together?"
"Yeah."
" Really? The Pixies? Original lineup?"
"Yeah."
"Wow. The Pixies. They're coming here?"
"Yeah."
"And you have tickets?"
"Yeah. Actually, I'm seeing them twice- in Calgary too."
And then I screamed and tore all my hair out because I was unaware of this momentous occasion, and the concert sold out in about five minutes, so I was out of luck. But Jay, proving himself to be some sort of Benevolent and Beautiful Bear Patron, emailed me yesterday and offered me an extra ticket. So I am going to see the Pixies this Sunday night! Yay!!! Hooray for Jay!
Here's a Rolling Stone article on the tour, another one about the live CDs of each show that they will make available immediately afterwards, and the Vue Weekly cover story. Plus a pair of Pixies-related poosts from right here at the Pooing Woods.
Wow. The Pixies.

So this fat robot came up to me and he was trying to get me to join his union, and I was like, "What union?" and he says "The Brotherhood of Fat Robots" and I was like "But I'm not fat! And I'm not a robot!" It was hard to tell, but I think this made him a little sad. Of course I couldn't help but ask him what if a fat female robot wanted to join the Brotherhood, what then? He looked at me like I was stupid and says "Robots are genderless."

Somehow I neglected to mention anything about the mighty 7DF being up for an award, jeopardizing my status as one of their biggest fans. Luckily gabrielle was not so thoughtless, so go read her Seven Devil Fix poost and vote for the boys (she has all the requisite links).
Truly I am a poohead and a bad friend.

Here's a sicko game for you: Divine Intervention. I can't get past the big pink fat winged guy, even on cheater mode. And now I don't really care anymore.
I generally find that demons from hell need a little personality to keep them interesting, otherwise they are not much better than zombies. Like Hellboy- that was a good movie because Hellboy had personality. Though he wasn't really evil, like most demons.

Look! Abandoned Bicycles of New York!
Once I was telling my friend Sherry how I hadn't owned a bike for years, and she said there was an abandoned bike at her place that I could have- it might need some work but I was welcome to it. I was pretty excited about this, so I went over and picked it up. It was a little . . . underwhelming. For one thing, it was a lady's bike. Must have been at least 15 years old. Both tires were flat, one of the rims was bent and the chain was all rusty. I said thanks and rode it home. Then I propped it against the back wall of the House of Poo and forgot about it.
Then one day I looked out the window and saw that the bike was missing. I was actually excited about this- someone had stolen my bike! It wasn't my responsibility anymore. Yay! But then I saw that actually it was still there and I was disappointed. In fact, I dropped by the other day to see if I could clean Bruce's fishtank (coincidentally enough, so I could give it to Sherry. I wonder if I could add two flat tires and a rusty chain to the tank somehow- serve her right.), and the bike was still there. Abandoned. Anyone need a bike? I'll throw in a fish.

Does anyone out there have a background in paleontology? I took a course as part of my geology degree, and seriously it was my favorite class. I could soooo be a paleontologist. When I was a kid I knew everything there was to know about dinosaurs and other prehistoric animals (actually the early mammals were always my favorite- titanotherium and the like). Although in reality a lot of paleo is just studying diatoms. The glamourous stuff is much harder to get into, just like marine biology and pretty much everything else in the world.
Anyways, the reason I ask is because my paleo professor once showed us a slide of an alternate theory for a Triceratops body plan. Rather than having its shield outside the body, floating, so to speak, this theory had the shield being part of the endoskeleton, giving Triceratops a big hump. The picture was kind of cool, but in the intervening ten years I have never come across anything more on the subject. I typed in "alternate morphology triceratops" and didn't come up with anything (though somehow a page promising pictures of Britney's boobs came up- that would be quite the alternate morphology) and after that I'm stumped. I imagine the theory was quickly rejected, but I still would like to track that down. For old time's sake.

There is a tradition in medieval Christianity (Catholicism, I suppose) that depicts Christ as a unicorn. Mostly in terms of the Annunciation, where the Arch-angel Gabriel embarks on a Holy Hunt for the unicorn, bringing four hounds with him. In a way Gabriel is chasing Jesus out of Heaven. It's kind of strange by today's cultural standards, and maybe that's why I find it so fascinating.
Then there is an allegorical parable/fable thing I came across that has animals (tigers and bears, most likely) gathering at a watering hole, only to find that the pool has been poisoned by a serpent. So the unicorn comes and dips his horn into the pool, cleansing it. The redemptive symbolism here is much more identifiable in our cultural zeitgeist.
Ha, I said zeitgeist. I don't really know what that means but I have heard it used in similar contexts. Figured I better come clean lest you think ole Homie Bear was getting pretentious.

For some reason, I like apocryphal stories. I mean, when you get right down to it, my whole faith might be based on an apocryphal story (the faith comes in choosing to believe anyways), so I don't see the harm in entertaining stories that don't even claim to be based on "truth". (And if you add one little "o" to apocryphal, you get apoocryphal!) Since this is Holy Week, I thought I would share with you this one that I discovered earlier this year.
The legend says that the cross of Christ was made from Dogwood. God decided that from that point on, the dogwood tree would never again be used for making crosses, so He stunted its growth, making it too small to be used for crucifixes. Crucifi?
The dogwood flower has four petals that represent a cross, and the notch at the end of each petal echoes the wounds of Chist. The center of the flower is said to resemble a crown of thorns, and the bright red "fruit" is said to represent the blood of Christ. And it blooms in April, connecting it to Easter in that way, as well.
There is no such legend associated with the Bearwood tree. Possibly because there is no such tree as the Bearwood tree.

No playoffs for the Oilers. Sniff sniff. Adam Oates' final game in the NHL. Raffi Torres might be eating some goat cheese for the next little while, fairly or unfairly. Though it is hard for me to see a bright side to this state of affairs, you readers at least can rest easy knowing there won't be 1800 billion hockey poosts over the next two months of playoff hockey. In fact, with the impending lockout/strike or both over the CBA, this might be my last hockey-related poost ever. So indulge me while I weep. (and for those of you who will follow the playoffs even sans Oilers, keep an eye on Colby Cosh's hockey page. He is kind of the Dennis Miller of hockey- only he could work in the impact Alexander the Great has had on Western Civilization in a poost about the Maple Leafs). What was I saying? Oh yeah.
No. Playoffs. For. Oilers.
sigh

Wow. I can't believe it's been ten years since Kurt Cobain passed away. His body was found on April 8th, 1994, though he hadn't been seen in 6 days. Ten years??? How did that happen? Well, I'm certainly not going to complain about getting old in the same paragraph that laments untimely deaths caused by suicide.
Can anyone add to this list?

Here's to Kurt.