SLUGGO: I heard myself proclaimed, and by the hollow of a tree
Escaped the hunt. No port is free; no place,
That guard, and most unusual vigilance,
Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may 'scape --
To a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
NANCY: O, Sluggo, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's
Tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish -- O, for breath to utter --
You tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case! That is Inquisitor Bird,
And The Truncheon o' State, and Jack Death himSelf, you vile clinging tuck!
There is no 'scaping for God nor Man --
SLUGGO: O, Nancy, I am neither and no petty devil can take me, for
I am borne of pen and inkhorn, hatchmark and blotter,
Rebellious inkling spirit hunched o'er draughting boarde
And guttering candle, whose ink is too full o'th'milk of human kindness
For sharp-quilled Porcu'pine or burr in a britches
Churchbird or even the swiftest arrows of the High Sheriff --
There is always escape!
NANCY: Like a kitten in a sherrysack! Like a beetle, crushed underfoot!
Quiet now, Sluggo, for he turns toward us.
-- from "The Tragedy of Sluggo, a Medieval Fantasy"
Sponsored by Cornell University's Institute for Digital Collections (CIDC) this image-bank provides a visual
resource for the study of the Fantastic or of the supernatural in fiction and in art. The Fantastic in Art and Fiction
Idle hands are the Devil's tools...'tis true. Sitting here in Immigration Limbo means I have a lot of time to try different stuff. Here's a picture of my drawing table taken yesterday. What you're looking at:
[clockwise]: The Big Book of Demons (oil pastel drawings); my Art Directors, Terry and Dean; an old school book I got at a yard sale; a lamp tied with bright green yarn to hold it to the correct angle; an almost-finished painting of Tori Spelling as a bactrian camel, on top of a drawing Bagley did of a piggy bank; an oil pastel drawing of a sad creature; reference for "Snakes on Cobain" and "Snakes on Mustaine", a small painting on wood for my brother in law [of his cat Handsome Angus]; scraps of paper with paint blotches; a drawing pad; and an old Forbidden Dimension poster I took off the wall and forgot to hang up again.
It took me a while, but I thought of a puny handful... Regina hasn't changed much since I was but a tow-headed nipper, but the changes I did note were for the worse; the giant money and time-sucking casino that used to be a fairly attractive Deco train station, the obvious signs of a municipal government with ties to the concrete industry - they have way too many parking lots and parkades - anything that doesn't move has been paved. As well, the time-honored Yippersville malaise has been distinctly super-sized somewhere in the intervening years between dreaded visits. The grey-brown dusty armpit of my youth has lost its deodorant forever. These memories are fossils now:
The Crescent Tea Room - This was a joint just around the corner from my grandparents' house, half convenience store and half cafe. There was no "tea room" in sight, the name surviving from some earlier incarnation, I gather. The cafe was a childhood joy though, all googie-patterned naughahyde and boomerang pink formica with cheap Chinese touches like the tasseled paper lanterns and red wallpaper with dragons. I remember being fascinated by the dumbwaiter behind the diner counter that lead to the steamy depths of the mysterious kitchen. My grandfather used to haul me over for a milkshake now and then, and if he was not as savagely grumpy as usual we might also get some fries and gravy. But sitting over his strawberry milkshake in its frosty metal container, the years seemed to peel off of him as he would become almost giddy with his enjoyment of the treat. Me and my bratty friends used to steal pop bottles from behind the store and then casually march
around up front to cash them in for candy money - until we finally got caught
by an outraged and stick-wielding Mr. Chu. Lesson learned. The last time I saw the place it was a soulless, antiseptic coffee-can of a pseudo 7-11.
Buffalo Days - Your typical third-rate Summer Fair and Exhibition, but by Regina standards a whirlwind of high-octane thrills and nerve-jangling excitement. Again, memory and the displacement of time have turned it into something else, something cinematic, something sticky with romance - the deep-fried smells, the muggy summer nights all lit up with carnival lights, the chaotic din of the little Midway, and of course the clunky, rusty old rides that have all slowly disappeared over the years, replaced with shorter, more intense, and charmless "experiences" like the "Chevron Rip Your Face Off-A-Whirl" or the "Panasonic Volcano Sky-Blast Explodo-roller."
Royal Saskatchewan Museum - I'm not sure what makes it so regal, but this tiny little marble wonder enthralled me no end as a kid; every summer I'd have to take another tour. Plus, on a sizzling prairie day, they had the strongest air-conditioning in town. But it was the Natural History/Life Sciences wing that captivated me, not so much for its elky and pelicany content, but more for the big life-size dioramas that contained them. I suppose to a budding creative noodle it was a "how did they do that?" kind of fascination, and it's weird to go back years later and see the same pumas and badgers forever frozen in their little half 3-d, half 2-d worlds.
Leslie Nielsen was born in Regina in 1926. There are 143 public monuments to him scattered tastefully throughout the city, all made of concrete. Don't call him Shirley.
I had bought some tissue paper to wrap some fragile items for shipping. I left it out on the couch while running errands and came home to a shredded mess. Seems my dog, Abigail Bunny Rocket Orbit used all of it to make some sort of nest. When I asked her what happened to all my tissue, she could only look at me with big watery moon eyes of guilt.
Here's a nice picture of my dog Otis's feet. You know how sometimes you just google random word combinations to see what you come up with? I searched google images for "dog feet sexy" (yes, I go to great lengths to procrastinate) and lo and behold, this was the 4th image that popped up-
The "Tom of Finland Collectible Adult Action Figure Doll" ($69.95) with "ARTICULATIONS": BALL JOINTED and FLEXIBLE penis. FLEXIBLE hips, elbows, knees, hands, feet and boots. BALL JOINTED neck, shoulders and hips. INTERCHANGABLE hands, feet and penis. Includes commemorative dog tag, official booklet and Certificate Of Authentication...
Back cover ad from Famous Monsters # 93 [October 1972]
If you have a son 10 years old, you'd better start worrying.
It sounds absurd, doesn’t it? That your son will have to go to Vietnam 8 years from now.
It may sound absurd, but this is an absurd kind of war. And it’s perfectly possible you will see your own son sent off to it.
It’s perfectly possible because this is a war that’s been going on for the past 30 years. Yes, the past 30 years. That’s how long there’s been fighting and killing in Vietnam. So it isn’t so absurd to think this war can go on for another 8 years, is it?
It’s perfectly possible, because in spite of all the speeches and all the promises, the President has yet to set a definite date for withdrawal. Yes, that’s true. The President hasn’t named a day nor a month nor even a year as a time for getting out.
In fact, the President talks about leaving “residual” forces and “maintenance” troops in or around Vietnam. (If you remember, what got us into this mess was the sending of “advisory personnel” to Vietnam.)
Now do you see why it’s perfectly possible that your son will fight in this absurd war? A war where mass murders of women and children are called “no big deal.” A war that has already killed over 50,000 American boys who were 10 years old themselves not so long ago.
One of the most effective things you can do for your son is write your Congressmen today. They must know they have your support to act in Congress against this absurd war.
Write them now. And maybe 10 years from now your son will be glad you did.
Space contributed and message sponsored by the publisher