The Hyperion Empire

Old Lang Syne

2011-12-31T16:44:00.001-05:00

Before you head out to your party, check out this After Dark story about another New Years Eve. (mature audiences only) - Old Lang Syne

Christmas Presence

2011-12-24T23:21:00.003-05:00

You thought Santa had come and gone, but that's because you forgot to open all your gifts. Reach into that stocking and pull out your Christmas Presence.

(AfterDark Tale: for mature audiences only)

20 Dames named Carol

2011-12-22T05:55:00.000-05:00

THE TOP TWENTY RELIGIOUS CHRISTMAS CAROLS

#20 God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen – The one editorial change I made was to take out Go Tell it on the Mountain to put this song in, and only because it shows up in Blackadder’s Christmas Carol, and I have to give props to my boys. (It’s a better song, too. The only reason we missed it is I believe extreme fatigue.)

#19 It Came Upon the Midnight Clear – I think more people should speak poetically like this. I’ll call you upon a three o’clock cloudy. Well, maybe best left to the professionals.

#18 Do You Hear What I Hear? – Never a good conversation to have with a schizophrenic. Good song, though.

#17 Little Drummer Boy – This video has to be the most bizarre music combo of all time. But you know what? IT WORKS!!!! (The chitchat at the beginning is utterly priceless.)

#16 Sweet Little Jesus Boy – The first time I heard this song, I thought the singer just had bad grammar. (The lyrics go, “Sweet Little Jesus Boy, we didn’t know who you was.”) Once I educated myself, this became one of my very favorites. It doesn’t get the credit it deserves because so many people can’t sing it.

#15 The First Noël – A B C D E F G H I J K M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z (Get it?)

#14 We Three Kings of Orient Are – If you do nothing else today, make sure you watch this video. It’s from Claymation Christmas, one of the greatest specials. Not for nothing, but nowhere in the Bible does it say there were three kings. Or that they were kings. Just sayin’.

#13 What Child is This? – Dude, Greensleves (the full song), is one of the best pieces of music ever. If it doesn’t get forever associated with the carol I think it’s as revered as Für Elise.

#12 O Little Town of Bethlehem – Do you know what’s going on in Bethlehem right now? Sad sad sad. Luckily, you have me.

#11 Away in a Manger – How well would this hymn be remembered if it was called “Away in a Trough”? The rest of the year, every time you hear “manger” you’ll think “trough” and have a hard time not laughing.

#10 O Come All Ye Faithful – There is a Twisted Sister version of this song. It took all my power not to paste that. Instead, you get hot Irish girls, so it ain’t all bad.

#9 Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly – Great song, but for me, forever associated with CHRISTMAS STORY.

#8 Hark! The Herald Angels Sing – If you haven’t yet, make sure you read the column where I talk about playing “Hark” in the Church Christmas play in 3^rd grade. Inspiring stuff.

#7 We Wish You A Merry Christmas – Along with #9, not very religious, huh? Still, if it’s good enough for Wikipedia, it’s good enough for me.

#6 O come, O come, Emmanuel – this one is hard to sing, but is one of my very favorites to hear, if it’s done right.

#5 Joy to the World – All morning I’ve tried to come up with a good Jeremiah the bullfrog joke here, but I have struck out. Sniff sniff. This is probably my #2. (IYI: I found this picture under "Joy to the World." I have no idea what it's supposed to mean.)

#4 Carol of the Bells – this video is also from Claymation Christmas, and under penalty of death IS NOT TO BE MISSED! The look on their faces when they get hit with the mallets is priceless. I think this is a tad over-ranked, but that woman would have put it higher if she could.

#3 Angels We Have Heard on High – I think this has to be the most fun Christmas song to sing, if only because you get to really belt out those “Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oria, In Excelcius Deo….”

#2 O Holy Night – Another one that’s just impossible to sing, but absolutely gorgeous if done right. I tried with all my might to find a beautiful version for you, but when it’s all said and done I couldn’t deprive you of Cartman getting shocked with a cattle prod. (Note: I spent 40 freakin' minutes looking for the clip, but I can't find video. However, this is the audio, so just ignore the anime and listen. Hilarious.)

and the number 1 religious Christmas Carol......

#1 Silent Night – Every Hundred years or so the Germans get something right.

Honorable Mention: While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks; Mary's Boy Child; Ding Dong Merrily on High; Angels, From the Realms of Glory; O Tannenbaum (O Christmas Tree); Rise Up, Shepherd, and Follow; I Wonder as I Wander; Here We Come A-Wassailing; The Holly and the Ivy; I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day; I Saw Three Ships (Come Sailing In); Good Friends, Rejoice; Go Tell it on the Mountain; Good King Wenceslas; Fum, Fum, Fum!; Christ Is Born in Bethlehem; Il est né, le divin Enfant!; Christmas is Coming

[Check out the original post on Rank Everything, from 2007.]

My favorite Carol is Carole Mackereth

Christmas Yammering

2011-12-22T04:44:00.000-05:00

The Top Twenty Christmas Songs (non-religious)

#20 It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas – I think because of the subject matter, this is always the first song I really look for

#19 I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus – No lie: as a 12 year old, I dressed up like a little kid to sing this song for my mother’s Christmas party. But did I get any of the party treats? Nope.

#18 An Evening in December – This is a fantastic “romantic” fireplace type of Christmas song that no one seems to know. All the videos I could find sucked, but you can listen to it here.

#17 Frosty the Snowman – You did read my version of it over on Tracy’s site, right? Even more than the crappy animated special, that will be the defining moment of the legend. (By the way: my mother is obsessed with snowman; has over 2700 in the house, but not one of them is Frosty. Weird, huh?)

#16 Jingle Bell Rock – We need more “_____Rock” songs. Think of “Arbor Day Rock,” or “Halloween Rock” or even “Black History Month Rock.” Now THAT would be sweet.

#15 Santa Baby – No lie: last year I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to write lyrics for an ill-fated “Santa Pirate.” I got hung up when everyone said that “So shiver up me timbers tonight.” What’s dirty about that???

#14 Another Old Lang Syne – Not all Christmas songs have to be happy, you know! Sometimes it’s okay to be bittersweet as well.

#13 I’ll Be Home For Christmas – is there a better version of this than Karen Carpenter’s? I say no.

#12 Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas – if only because this is the only major song where the “Fates” get to decide what happens. I like that. I think this should come up more often. “The Super Bowl will be Feb. 2, if the Fates allow.” Who’s with me?

#11 Last Christmas – So, sue me. I like Wham, and I like this song! By the way, proof the song rocks: I HATE the Chipmunks, yet they totally rock doing their best Wham impression. (Ashley Tisdale: You got owned!)

#10 Let It Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow! – This song also applies to weddings.

#9 Walking in a Winter Wonderland – the best of the Snow-themed songs.

#8 All I Want for Christmas is You – My brother claims the Mariah Carey version is the best, but I like one in Love Actually. However, since Carey is credited with writing the song, we'll let the clip be hers.

#7 Sleigh Ride – I like this song particularly because it has so many potential sound effects. One of them is a whip, which makes is Schrodinger’s favorite song (if you know what we mean).

#6 Santa Claus is Coming to Town – I wrote an entire column dissecting this song, but I still love it love it love it.

#5 Christmas Time is Here – Otherwise known as “The Charlie Brown Christmas Song.” You know, that slow jazzy one. I don’t know why I love this one so much, and I admit I probably have it way over-ranked, but it just gets to me, you know? Another one of those more melancholy songs with a hint of sadness.

#4 Jingle Bells – Did you know this was originally a Thanksgiving song? Sing it in your head right now, and you’ll see there’s nary a mention of Christmas. I know! I think Jingle Bells gets extra points for the much loved “Jingle Bells, Batman Smells, Robin laid an egg; Batmobile lost a wheel and Joker got away!” I read over that now and cannot figure out why it was so funny, but trust me: this KILLED in third grade.

#3 Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer – Another beloved song to actually sing, with the extra add-ons like the echoes. (Although: I always grew up singing the other Reindeer games as “like football,” but recently heard my sister sing it as “like Monopoly.” I think we need to settle this debate. In fact, I just set it up over on Monkey Barn if you are to weigh in.) Rudolph also inspired a very vulgar parody (Randolph the Three-Legged Cowboy), and possibly the worst Christmas movie (at least until CHRISTMAS WITH THE KRANKS) came out: OLIVE, THE OTHER REINDEER. I shudder just thinking about it.

#2 The Christmas Song (Merry Christmas to You) – Perhaps the best Christmas song ever. It’s just so perfect. There are chestnuts roasting on the open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose, and so forth. The song is slow and sultry, romantic in that “fireside” kind of way, and just a perfect song to listen to while relaxing in front of the tree with some cocoa.

And the number 1 non-religious Christmas Song….

#1 White Christmas – What can we say? There’s a reason you’re the best-selling song of all time. Irving Berlin wrote it in 1940, staying at a hotel in Arizona. He stayed up all night, and the next day told his secretary, “Grab your pen and take down this song. I just wrote the best song I’ve ever written – hell, I just wrote the best song that anybody’s ever written!” Modesty aside, Mr. Berlin is quite possibly right. (You owe it to yourself to read the short history of the song on Wikipedia. Look at all the groups who have recorded it, from Otis Redding to Bette Midler to Stiff Little Fingers to New Kids on the Block. Amazing.) The clip above isn't the best rendition ever (it's from the movie), but I include it for two reasons: You haven't lived until you see that chick's waist. I know! Also, remember that Danny Kaye was the most well known gay actor of the time (at least in Hollywood; it was still a secret to America). See if that doesn't change how you view the clip.

Honorable Mention: It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year; Do They Know It's Christmas?; Feliz Navidad; Let There Be Peace on Earth; Mele Kalikimaka; Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree; Up On the House Top; We Need a Little Christmas; (There's No Place Like) Home for the Holidays; Here Comes Santa Claus (Right Down Santa Claus Lane); (It Must've Been Ol') Santa Claus; The Christmas Waltz; Toyland; Silver Bells: Jolly Old Saint Nicholas; Blue Christmas: A Holly Jolly Christmas

Also, I found two awesome songs I never even heard before! If I do the list next year, they probably make it. Have you heard of “Santa Claus is Back in Town”? Here is a video of Elvis singing it. Then I found “Sleep Well, Little Children,” a Christmas lullaby to die for. Here is Karen Carpenter’s version. (It’s about 90 seconds in, and worth it. Trust me.) Tell me you won’t sing that next year to your kids.

You can see the Original List (with all the explanations for how I ranked the songs) by clicking here.

Love that Charlie Brown Song

Christmas Movies

2011-12-21T08:21:00.000-05:00

THE TOP TWELVE CHRISTMAS MOVIES

Honorable Mention - SANTA CLAUS CONQUERS THE MARTIANS - One of the best bad movies ever made. Your whole family will have a blast watching this--especially if you get the Mystery Science Theater 3000 version. It's good to see Santa has other skills.

#12 BAD SANTA - Speaking of other skillz....BAD SANTA is hilarious. Billy Bob Thornton plays a department store Santa who only gets the job to rob them. He's rude, crude, given up on life, and I've never laughed so hard in my life. Not for kids, but every adult with a sense of humor will be howling.

#11 DIE HARD - Okay, not your traditional Yule fare, but hey, it's Christmas Eve at the Nakatomi building, and John McClane is needed. One of the greatest actions movies of all time, and the Christmas time period allows me to proudly put it on my list.

#10 THE REF - A darkly funny movie. Denis Leary plays a thief who stumbles into the house of the most messed up family imaginable. He definitely got more than he bargained for. Kevin Spacey and Judy Davis are a riot, and Leary is in fine form. Great Anti-Christmas caper, but still with a warm fuzzy ending.

#9 NATIONAL LAMPOON'S CHRISTMAS VACATION - My favorite of the Vacation movies (and that's saying something, since the first two feature nudity). Highlights definitely include Randy Quaid, the dog and that cat. The poor cat.....

#8 Irving Berlin's HOLIDAY INN and WHITE CHRISTMAS - I include these both because they are basically the same movie, even though they came twelve years apart. Despite what most people think, it's actually HOLIDAY INN that comes first, and where the song "White Christmas" was first sang. Supposedly INN is the better movie, but my uncle and I like WHITE CHRISTMAS better for two reasons: plenty of jokes about Danny Kaye's sexuality (which the audience wouldn't have gotten back then but today is hilarious), and this chick with a waist so small you can literally---and I mean literally--put your hands around it.

#7 A CHRISTMAS CAROL - I'm including every version here. I personally like the 1938 Alistir Sim version best, just ahead of the 1976 George C. Scott one, but I like them all, including 1951, the screwy American Christmas Carol (featuring Fonzy!), the Mr. Magoo one, and the Muppet one, which I recently saw and is classic.

#6 THE FAMILY MAN - I have loved this movie since the moment I first saw it. Sort of a twist on the George Bailey set up, Nicolas Cage's character gets a "glimpse" of what his life would have been like if he'd married the girl instead of going for the big bucks. Great great film. Can't recommend it enough. You know how I feel about kids, but the daughter in the movie is simply adorable.

#5 HOME ALONE - What more can I say about this? Kevin is great, the robbers hysterical, and in every way a superior family film. Never gets old, either.

#4 LOVE ACTUALLY - One of the real gems of the past couple of years. Set in Britain the four weeks before Christmas, LOVE ACTUALLY shows us the lives and loves of many (perhaps a couple too many) interlocking characters. The films is R (for some pointless nudity, although is any nudity ever pointless?), but even my mom was won over. Everyone will have their favorite story lines. Mine involves the kid in the band and the Portuguese woman...of course.

#3 A CHRISTMAS STORY - TBS usually runs this movie 24 hours straight, and I can't wait. Perhaps the best narrated movie ever, and does anyone else feel like THE WONDER YEARS ripped off their concept? How many classics do we have from here? The leg lamp, Fa Ra Ra Ra Ra, the tongue on the pole, the dream sequences, the secret decoder, and of course, shooting your eye out.

#2 MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET - Warm, heartrending, a wiz-bang of a court scene, just a little scary, a cute kid (you know how I love cute girls), the best beard ever, and anything else you can think of. This film works so well they remade it, in a fine version, but Hyperion says: when a movie is perfect, why remake it? Just stick with the original. You too.

And the number one Christmas movie ever.....

#1 IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE - Like there was ever a doubt.

(List originally written 12/05 on Rank Everything)

I have never not cried at the ending of IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE.

TV Christmas!!!

2011-12-21T04:14:00.000-05:00

THE TOP FIVE TV CHRISTMAS SPECIALS

#5 A Garfield Christmas - Just goofy enough to work. Highlights include several of the songs, and "Grandma," especially when she talks about how all they used to have were "wood-burning cats." What the heck are those?

#4 Claymation Christmas - This is one of my family's all-time favorites. The two dinosaur hosts talk about Christmas carols and their meanings. Well, one of them does. Herb mostly tries to find food. The announcers are also on the search for the meaning of Here we come a WASSAILING....The California Raisins end the show, but the funniest songs are actually We Three Kings (where the Wise Men are super-serious and the Camels all jazzy on the chorus), and Carol of the Bells, in which a bell choir features bells hitting themselves on the correct note. I can't explain it here, but it's hilarious.

#3 How the Grinch Stole Christmas - Just watched this yesterday to refresh; it really is lovely. Boris Karloff adds a great touch with his voice, and I love Max the dog. One question, though, what on earth are those Whos saying at the beginning of their song?

#2 Blackadder's Christmas Carol - Not very well known on this side of the pond, but those who do cherish it. My brother got it for me one year, and it's a hard-core family tradition. Blackadder, for those who don't know, is played by the incomparable Rowan Atkinson, in several specials down throughout history. He's usually a moron. In this version Blackadder is the nicest man in all of England, and the Ghost (played by Hagrid), shows him how all his ancestors were rotten, and if only Blackadder were rotten, his descendents would rule the world. The humor is very British, but I still don't see how anyone wouldn't laugh themselves sick.

#1 A Charlie Brown Christmas - I'm a recent convert to the magic of Charlie Brown. I was never that into it, but last year I got this book at the library; releasing all the old material with commentary and whatnot. Seeing the evolution of Charlie Brown made me appreciate the genius a little more. I never found Charlie Brown that funny, but I came to understand it's not supposed to be. It's the melancholy aspects to his character that make it so brilliant. When I rewatched the special the other day I realized how amazing this Christmas special was. (And for me to rank it ahead of Blackadder is saying something). I love the dance scene (Especially this one random kid in the middle who just jukes his head from side to side while dancing in place. Look for him.) I am blown away by Charlie's sadness as he searches for reason to find meaning in such a crassly commercial holiday (something I can relate to). I like at the end when they all are "oohing" Hark the Herald Angels, and their mouths all make the "OOOO" shape. Actually, the music might be the best part. The dance song number is classic, and the kind of sad one (Christmas Time is Here) is one of the best Christmas songs ever. It makes me so sad to listen to it, but in a good way. So, there you go.

HONORABLE MENTION - Santa Claus is Coming to Town and Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer (both stop-action animation); Smufs Christmas

(List originally written 12/05 on Rank Everything)

"You wouldn't happen to have anything a
wee bit more...medicinal, would you?"

Life Lessons from Holiday Movies

2011-12-21T01:58:00.000-05:00

#70 Life Lessons From Holiday Movies

I was looking at the calendar the other day, and suddenly it hit me: it’s almost Festivus Season! I also happened to notice Christmas coming up, which I gather is another holiday this month. In an effort to provide a service to my loyal readers, I have been watching Christmas shows. I have discovered some life lessons that we all can use. Reflect on these here, and go out and watch your holiday favorites. You may just find your soul is lifted.

First on my list is the classic “Miracle on 34^th Street.” And by the way, let me say something here: When we’re dealing with classic movies, stick with the original. I can’t stand it when people want to tamper with perfection (this also includes colorizing black and white movies, Ted Turner, you goat-kissing trolloc). Anyway, so you remember when Santa was on trial? The little girl was worried about what would happen to Santa, and her mother told her “Faith means believing even when it doesn’t make sense.” And she was right: Santa was saved. Remember that: Sometimes we have to believe even when it doesn’t add up.

Next up is the Dickens tale “A Christmas Carol” (there are several great renditions of this, but the 1951 version with Alister Sim is the definitive one). We all remember the story of Ebenezer Scrooge and his miserly ways, and how four ghosts visit him in the night. Scrooge sees his past, his present, and what his future could hold, and he wakes up in the morning a changed man; determined to make amends for all the wrongs he caused. The lesson here is that it is never too late to change your ways, no matter how old you are or what sins you have committed.

“A Christmas Story” shows us that if we’re not careful we can shoot our eyes out. No, seriously, despite the humorous tone and all the misadventures the kid gets into, at the end of the day, no matter how much trouble our family causes us or we cause them, our family is where we come home to, literally. We’d be wise to remember they are not our enemy.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention two wonderful Christmas cartoons. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” shows us that presents aren’t the most important thing. But greater than that, we learn that it is the size of our heart that matters the most. “A Charlie Brown Christmas” is another heart-warming tale that reminds us that before there were Santa and presents, Christmas had another meaning.

Lastly, and most importantly, is the granddaddy of Christmas movies, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” George Bailey is the everyman who is always doing for others and can never catch a break. When a family member’s mistake can cost George his business and send him to jail, George is despondent and wishes he were never born. A guardian angel shows George what life would be like without him in it, and George begins to see the vast impact he’s had on his town, and even the whole country. George regains his joy for life and is once again happy to be alive with great family and friends. The message here is clear: your life matters. No matter how insignificant you feel, you do have an affect on those around you. You touch lives, many of which you will never know about. Don’t despair, for you are important. Don’t ever forget it.

Hyperion
November 25, 2001

People who hate It's a Wonderful Life are Monsters

Homeless for the Holidays

2011-12-20T01:29:00.000-05:00

The Hyperion Chronicles

#330 Homeless for the Holidays

His eyes glaze over and he looks up at…what…I don’t know. His expression is…not lost…but traveling. In his mind I could see him taking a journey back…to places I’d never been, things I’d never seen. He stays there for some time, and then he opens his mouth and begins to speak.
-December 25, 2002

I first decided to do this about a week before. I was home alone for the month, and much like now having a lot of trouble walking. Getting to my immediate family was a luxury that wasn’t going to happen, and while there was extended family not far way who would have been more than happy to come get me, instead I isolated myself. Go figure.

I knew a little about the periphery of my neighborhood homeless population. I’d take long walks—when I could walk properly—late into the night and often run into several old mainstays. I was extremely curious about these guys and decided to spend Christmas with a few of them, hoping to see the world through their eyes and what made them tick.

The day started off a little bit after 7. I had a small tape recorder with me, and my pen and notebook. I left my wallet at home. It’s not like that would have made a difference money-wise, but I didn’t want any identity today.

I found Jesse in the same place I always found him, up against an abandoned building. Jess was a black man once, although now his skin was sallow and yellowed. Jesse had short thick hair and a coarse beard, both shot through with white and grey. Jesse wore Army fatigues—from the ‘70s, it looked like—and he was missing the small finger on his right hand.

Jesse smiled a lot, although I wouldn’t necessarily call him a happy person. The smile was more wolfish than anything else. Jesse would talk your ear off about anything and made just enough sense for you to realize there was an extremely intelligent man buried inside him. For the most part Jesse liked conspiracy theories and talking about how things used to be. (In some ways this sounds like every old person you’ve met, and in some ways it was, but the crazy homeless version)

Jesse and I knew each other by name. One of the things I liked about him was that he knew all about the origin of my name, and would frequently lecture me on it. Once, when Jesse was really drunk, he came close to saying he’d been around back with the Titans of Greek Mythology, but I could never get him to repeat it.

With Jesse were two guys I had only seen before: Jim and Black Jim. Jim was at least as old if not older than Jesse (I’m guessing mid-sixties, although the years are hard on those guys so it was hard to tell). Jim was extremely dark and he wore all dark clothes so that—and I don’t mean this flippantly—sitting in the shadows he could almost literally disappear. Jim never spoke. I knew this because Jesse told me, in his running commentary on anything and everything.

Black Jim was a white guy. When I heard his name I vowed to get to the bottom of it before the day was over. Black Jim wore a blue jean jacket and white painter’s coveralls. They were the dirtiest shade of white you have ever seen. In fact: I wouldn’t have known they were white if Jesse hadn’t mentioned it. Black Jim was quite a bit younger than the others, no more than early 30s. He was a big guy with greasy brown hair and talked slowly. At first I thought he was a bit retarded, but later I found out he’d been hit in the head by his brother-in-law on Christmas several year ago.

So there we were. Jesse knew I was coming, and took it all in stride. Black Jim seemed uncomfortable at first, but warmed to me once he ascertained I wasn’t there to hurt him. Jim said nothing, but as I mentioned earlier, this was not an out-of-character response.

At first I tried to ask questions. Did they have anywhere to go? Why were they here? How long had they been there? Things like that. Jesse answered readily, as did Black Jim when he got used to me, but after a couple of hours I soured on this approach. I felt like I was a journalist, come down to Skid Row to interview the bums for a human interest story. I wanted to—as much as possible—immerse myself in what it meant to be homeless on this day, so after awhile I gave up the interrogatory questions.

I did learn stuff, though. Jesse had been in the army. At least, I think he had. The thing with Jesse was, he had two or three versions of every event, and sometimes you had to sift through. This part seemed legit, though. Jesse told me he’d won the Purple Heart in Vietnam on account of his finger getting blown off by a grenade. I asked to see the Purple Heart but Jesse said he’d long since sold it.

I gave it to a girl,” he said, “when I couldn’t pay her.” Jesse gave his wolfish grin. “A few days later I discovered that she too had not been forthcoming about her situation. I felt like I should have gotten the Purple Dick.”

Jesse cackles at this and Black Jim laughs too (That was the way he talked, both the sophisticated vernacular and the vulgarity.) The line had the air of one he’d used many times before and I’m not sure it’s true, but it was funny and I joined in the laughter.

Black Jim’s story is more muddled. He was living with his sister and her family. Something happened with a daughter. I can’t figure out if it was just an accusation or something real. I don’t think Black Jim knows either. He was on a lot of drugs at the time, he tells me. Anyway, the husband beat him pretty good, and threw him out on the street.

Black Jim tells me he tried to clean up several times, but could never knock the habit, and finally just gave up. He sounds sad, but distant-sad, like you might feel for a tragedy you see on the news. You shake your head and wonder how these things can happen, but you don’t lose sleep over it. That’s how Black Jim is about his own life.

I asked Jesse why never tried to get a regular job and live like the others. He’s scornful, He doesn’t mind work, he tells me, but in a white job you have a paper trail, and that’s how the government finds and controls you. I’ve lived with a lot of paranoia in my day, but Jesse has me beat hands down. Either that or he just thinks it sounds good. Sometimes when Jesse says something, I get the feeling it’s new to him too and he’s trying it on for size to see if he likes it.

About 10:00 we amble over to one of the hotels that surrounds us. Jesse explains to me that this is when the hotels throw out their breakfast food, and that often the food is still hot and fresh. I knew just a little bit about this life, enough to know I know nothing.

But Jesse does. He takes me to the spot, quiet now; cautious. After a bit of Recon Jesse says it’s safe and we move quickly. He pulls open the lid and there are bags of food. It actually smells good, which I never thought I’d say about dumpster fare. The food is obviously excess from breakfast, and hasn’t been touched. We take back bacon, sausage, biscuits, some eggs and pancakes. To be honest: it’s better than I’ve eaten in nearly a month.

When we get back Jesse divides the food between the four of us. Jesse very seriously tells me that if you know what you’re doing around here, you can eat well most days. Sometimes, he says, it’s not the excess, but the scraps, but on those days it’s better to go hungry.

“To eat this food here is clean and good. They just made too much. But you don’t want to eat other people’s garbage.”

It sounds funny seeing as how we pulled this food out of the dumpster, but I understand what he was saying. This food we had was wrapped up and tossed, but other than the location we found it in, it’s wonderful. I couldn’t afford to go inside and eat it.

I ask the other guys if they ever have gotten so hungry they eat the scraps. Black Jim says, “You don’t want to do that. This way, it’s like we’re scamming them. Otherwise you’ll lose your self-respect. If I’m that hungry I’d rather eat at the soup-kitchen.”

Ah, the soup-kitchen. This is a subject of much animated debate amongst the guys, and it seems like we talk about little else for the next two hours. At one point another couple of guys came by and they started talking about it too.

The general consensus is that the guys don’t think much of those places. For one, the people there treat the guys like they are bums. I know that sounds strange, but you have to understand, in their own way, these guys are fiercely proud. It is pride more than anything that makes them believe they can survive out here. (Well, pride and alcohol.)

The way Jesse and this other guy I never got the name of explain it, it’s not that they don’t appreciate the meal. “It’s just, they never let you forget who you are and who they are.” The guy says. “It’s like you’re getting a meal because they’re so damn wonderful.”

The guys seem especially caustic towards Thanksgiving and Christmas, when, Jesse says, “All these rich white kids come down from on high to do their good deed for the year.” I squirm, as I have helped with meals on the last few Thanksgivings and a couple of Christmases. (I also should explain that these guys use “White” to mean regular people with money and jobs. Half of these guys are white or Latino, but “White” is almost a class designation.)

Nonetheless, the guys all decide to go to a local place to get a Christmas meal. I kid them a bit, after hours of them trashing it, but they want to see the “Christmas Hos.” This is their term for the girls who only work there on holidays. Plus, Black Jim claims, the Christmas meal is actually pretty good.

I was a bit nervous about fitting in at the soup-kitchen. I’d gone out of my way to wear old clothes and leave my watch at home, but I still figured I’d be called out as a fraud. Jesse tells me not to worry: “The guys are too busy eating to care about you, and the workers don’t really look at you. You’re just another mouth to feed.”

We get to the place and I can see what the guys mean about the Christmas Hos. Some youth group is here, and most of the girls are gussied up like they’re going to a dance. I have never wanted to slap a group of women so hard.

The guys, for their part, are acting like it’s a peep show, openly ogling the girls, in their well-filled-out Christmas sweaters and blouses. The girls whisper to each other and act repulsed, but from my perspective, most of them seem to enjoy the attention. The youth group boys seem happy too because by comparison they now look like prime catches.

The whole meal thing creeps me out. Not only do we have the circus that is these high school girls, but the meal is really good. I mean, REALLY good. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not this. All the times I’ve helped I never ate the food. I told myself it was because the food was for the homeless people, but I think part of it was that I felt the food was beneath me. I feel ashamed about that now.

Afterward we head back. The others have gone separate ways and it’s just Jesse and Jim and me. Black Jim has disappeared, and when I ask Jesse about it he just grins knowingly. This is when I learn the origin of “Black Jim,” but it’s not something I can share here.

We return to the same perch as Jesse starts talking about all the Christmas Hos, and which one looked the best. I try to be congenial, but I’m still disturbed by the whole thing. Black Jim shows up a while later, with two bottles of Wild Turkey and a huge smile. I can’t help but shudder.

It begins to grow dark, and with the twilight comes more somber conversation. Part of it is the cold, and part of it is the some things are only talked about in the light of day, and some are only whispered about under cover of night.

Black Jim finishes an entire fifth of whiskey in under 20 minutes. Even for a hard-core alcoholic that’s enough to get anyone stoned. He starts bellowing a little bit but soon quits talking and just stares at nothing. Jesse and Jim share the other fifth more judiciously, knowing it has to last the whole night.

It occurs to me I haven’t given you the full picture of just how big a part alcohol plays. Every single guy I ran into was either drinking, drunk, or I could smell alcohol on them. When I showed up that morning Jesse and Black Jim were downing some Bartles and James wine coolers and Jim was sipping on some Boone’s. It’s like that everywhere.

Anyway, As the night grows around us Jesse starts talking wistfully about childhood. Best I can tell, he came from a huge family, and there was never enough. Still, for the first time all day, Jesse doesn’t seem bitter, more fond of the old days. I feel like I should share too, but I don’t have any street cred here. I mean, what do I say? “I didn’t get the hydrofoil one year. I have suffered.”

Finally I start telling them about Dorsey Christmas, which is my mom’s side of the family. It’s a great story (one I’ve been banned from telling here), full of colorful characters and warm memories. Jesse is howling and Black Jim comes out of his reverie to laugh a bit too. Even Jim shows some emotion, and stirs. Jesse looks over at Jim, surprised.

His eyes glaze over and he looks up at…what…I don’t know. His expression is…not lost…but traveling. In his mind I could see him taking a journey back…to places I’d never been, things I’d never seen. He stays there for some time, and then he opens his mouth and begins to speak.

“I was born in Mississippi,” Jim begins. His voice is soft, cracked from age and disuse. He pauses to cough and take another sip. Finally, Jim begins again. “We lived in the backroom of the feed store.”

Jim pauses again, takes another long drink. While this happens, a cop car rolls by. Instinctively all the guys tense up, watchful eyes and the verge of movement everywhere. Even when it’s long past they sit still, waiting to see if their night will change. By the time they calm a bit Jim is back to the stoicism he’s displayed all day, and I gather that’s all I’ll get.

I’m frustrated, because it seems like there is a well of emotion waiting to come out. However, Jesse is impressed we got this much, and tells me to be grateful. I guess I am. It seems like much meaning was conveyed, even though Jim didn’t really say anything. I guess you had to be there.

It’s getting time for me to leave. I don’t really want to, but at the same time I do. I get up, and realize that I’d forgotten what pain was. I dance around like an Indian trying to restore feeling in my leg while Jesse laughs like a hyena.

I thank the guys and take off back home. Reflecting, I realize I learned a lot and I learned very little. I still have no idea what it really means to be homeless, and why these guys chose it, or had it chosen for them. I came close several times to grasping some sort of truth, only to have it slip through my fingers.

I guess I can say I spent a day amongst them, for what it is worth. I don’t feel like I should get a badge or anything, and I don’t feel like I accomplished much, but then again, I don’t think those guys ever feel like they accomplish anything either.

I guess I fit right in.

Hyperion
December 24, 2004

Is Santa Evil?

2011-12-19T04:44:00.000-05:00

#426 Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Friends, I don't mean to alarm you, but there is danger all around us, lurking in the most innocent-seeming circumstances. The media bombards us with it daily, and it is up to us to be ever vigilant if we have any hope of stopping the menace.

Today's threat to our Values?

Christmas carols.

They’re fun, festive, all about love, peace and joy, and sung with gusto by young and old alike every December, one of the layers of the holidays everyone seems to enjoy. (Well, not the ACLU, but that’s another story.)

However, it is in exactly these situations that we must be on our guard, for who would suspect malicious coded messages in something as innocent as a carol?

Yes.

Previously I've exposed the infiltration of Bolsheviks in "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," which not only sly endorses Communism, but has the temerity to suggest that Football is a Reindeer Game, when anyone knows that if football is played by any animals, it is played by clydesdale horses.

And who can forget my award-nominated examination into how the United Nations tried to destroy America by removing it from the Gold Standard through that most anti-captilistic of carols, "Silver Bells" ?

But today friends, today we turn an even darker corner. Today we look at a carol perniciously malignant, aimed at our very future itself: our children. Look closer, friends, and see what evil lurks in the hearts of men.

In this case, a fat avuncular trespasser, a one man moral majority who makes the Patriot Act look like purring kitten. Through sophisticated scholarly analysis I will prove to you that "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" poses the gravest threat yet to our continued existance.

The evidence:

SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN

Oh, you better not shout, you better not cry
You better not pout, I’m telling you why….
Santa Claus is coming to town

He’s making a list, and checking it twice
Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice
Santa Claus is coming to Town

He sees you when you’re sleeping
He knows when you’re awake
He knows if you’ve been bad or good
So be good for goodness’ sake!

Oh, you better not shout, you better not cry
You better not pout, I’m telling you why….
Santa Claus is coming to town

Take a look at those lyrics, friends! The Terrorist Surveillance Program (or Domestic Spy Program, depending on which side of the donkey you like to lick) has nothing on this dude. But before we even get to the spygames there is the troubling first verse. Let’s look at it in detail together:

Oh, you better not shout, you better not cry
You better not pout, I’m telling you why….
Santa Claus is coming to town

Right from the beginning we are threatening children, trying to force our repressed anglo-saxon codes of conduct on them. Hear the menace in the first line? You better not shout, you better not cry, you better not pout….

There’s a big stick behind that threat, and what is that stick? The arrival of one Santa Claus. Who is this figure, what kind of unholy influence does he wield that he can dictate behavior just with the rumor of his appearance in town?

Even more disturbing are the socio-economic implications, but we’ll get back to that later. Let’s move to the second verse:

He’s making a list, and checking it twice
Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice
Santa Claus is coming to Town

Here we find that Santa is “making a list.” Sounds disturbingly like Nazi Germany, or at the very least neo-McCarthyism, holiday-style.

Not only is Santa making this so-called list, but he’s checking it twice. What does this tell us? Why, that Santa has OCD, of course.

Moving on to the dagger of the piece, we see that Santa is Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice. The term “gonna find out” has an inevitability to it. What the song is saying is that no matter what you do, Santa is going to find out. In other words, “You can’t fight Big Brother, so don’t try.”

Secondly, there’s the whole “naughty” vs. “nice” angle. Taken with the first verse, we now see a clear pattern emerging: “Think as we think, act as we say, or no presents for you on Christmas day.” As we will soon see, this kind of thinking leads us off a cliff, but first: the third verse:

He sees you when you’re sleeping
He knows when you’re awake
He knows if you’ve been bad or good
So be good for goodness’ sake!

Think about this for a moment: Presumably Santa, moral arbiter for all behavior, has no need to watch you while you sleep. I mean, what possible misdeeds are you committing while deep in slumber? (Unless we’re now being judged on our dreams, a truly frightening prospect.)

No, it’s clear to me that watching people while they sleep serves no purpose. Well, no legitmate purpose.

People, I’m not trying to throw a wet blanket on your holiday fun, but I think it’s abundantly clear what's going on. Suddenly that “bowl full of jelly” is not so jolly, is it?

I know you feel ill, but we must press on and finish this verse:

He knows if you’ve been bad or good
So be good for goodness’ sake!

At this point we’re basically assigning Santa god-like powers. I mean, depending on how Calvanistic your leanings are, what’s the point of even trying to behave if Santa knows what you’re up to before you get there?

However, there is hope, of a sort, as we are cautioned to “be good for goodness’ sake.” But even here we encounter at the very least a paradox, and possibly massive hypocrisy in action.

Here we have the whole song imploring us to be good, to think good, to act good, even while unconscious, all with the unnamed threat of “no presents.” Now at the very end we’re told that our right behavior should take place for no other reason than its own sake. How disengenuous can you get? They want us to believe that after threats, intimidation, and scare tactics that enter realms thus far prohibited by Geneva Conventions (unless you’re going to claim that pajamas aren’t an Army “uniform”), the song suddenly does a 180 and implores to behave than for no other reason than the sake of all that is good. It’s a little late to throw Nicomachean Ethics on us, Santa lovers!

The last verse repeats the first, which gives me an opportunity to talk about the carol's overall implications. Fairly explicitly throughout we’re told of Santa’s impending visit, and the need to therefore behave. Never actually mentioned (and perhaps all the more effective because of it), is the reason why we should live our lives in manner pleasing to Arctic Perverts: presents.

Since most Christmas rants deal at least tengentially on the crass consumerism (and it’s underlying cause: self-absorbed hedonism) of Christmas, we will skip over that for now and return to the sociological quandries this song brings up.

I think that any clear-text reading of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” lends an interpretation that good behavior is necessary to rake in those presents. Or, to look at the matter conversely, morally “bad” behavior will have the effect of bringing no presents to the child in question.

Yet look at this world we live in. For whatever reason, poorer disadvantaged kids do not get nearly the presents that well-off children receive.

Are you (or Santa, or anyone, for that matter) going to sit there with a straight face and tell me that poor kids (which just so happens to include a much larger percentage of African-American and Latino children, you raging bigot) are simply “bad,” while their richer (ahem, whiter) counterparts are “good”???

Have you the gall?

No, friends, as much of a stretch it might be, I think that powerful logical analysis must eventually afford the conclusion that the number and quality of a child’s presents is directly proportional to the economic status of those providing for that child. (Or in some cases, proportional to the access those providers have to credit cards.)

I have taken the liberty of constucting a pictoral representation of what we are talking about (removing the higher-level math that might scare off those of you educated in the public school system).

where W is Wealth
P is parents (or Providers)
Q1 is Quantity of Presents
Q2 is Quality of Presents

Having sufficiently proven that it is Socioeconomic status which accounts the most for Presents (a position that anyone who has ever spent any time around a spoiled rich kid can attest to), and that the moral behavior argument doesn’t hold up, and adding to that the empirically true observation that disadvantaged children have a higher percentage of non-whites among them, we are led inescapably to the conclusion that “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” is undeniably racist, and seeks to make us so as well.

Fight that temptation like the very devil itself! Do not let “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” prejudice your thoughts and actions. Furthermore, teach your children that presents are not the product of morally good behavior, but rather a function of buying power.

And of course by that I refer to parents trying to buy their children’s love, but that’s a column for another day.

Vowing to only watch people sleep who are OVER 18, I remain forever,

Hyperion
December 23, 2006

I may act good, bu it won't be for Goodness' sake!

A Child With No Name

2011-12-18T04:44:00.000-05:00

"και αποκριθεις ο βασιλευς ερει αυτοις αμην λεγω υμιν εφ οσον εποιησατε ενι τουτων των αδελφων μου των ελαχιστων εμοι εποιησατε"

The Hyperion Chronicles

“Holding out hope someone will donate…or at least send me some Myrrh”

#374 Child with no Name

It started as a piece of dinner conversation.

“What would a child be like who had no name?”

For whatever reason—the parents were protesting hippies; psychologists looking at children as one big experiment; there was a huge custody dispute tied up in the courts—the end result the same.

The child—a boy, if that matters—on his birth certificate, under name:__________.

Nothing written. Nothing ever written. Just left blank.

What would this child be like? We talked long into the night, arguing the merits pro and con, debating the likelihood of each.

Someone posited that giving a name bestowed personhood and humanity, and that withholding it tantamount to neglect and child abuse. Another theory pointed out that dogs and boats and paintings had names and none of them acted like people (except some poodles).

Another went three steps further, claiming the act of naming robbed the thing of power, made it owned, categorized and labeled it forever, and to be sans name was to retain mystique, an aura, if you will.

And that was the end of it. I told a few friends, got their takes, forgot about it. Then one day, a few months later, I was out on a date with a nurse. I told her stories I’d seen covering the news. She was regaling me with hospital lore. She told me about a case from about ten years back, before her time, a baby who had been born in her hospital. According to the nurse, the mother was a very peculiar woman, claims she didn’t have the right to name her baby. And the mother refused to.

“What about the father?” I asked.

“There wasn’t a father.”

She was desperately poor, the nurse told me, and had obviously traveled a huge distance when she stumbled into the hospital. She said and did all sorts of strange things, “You should have heard some of the claims she made.” My companion said conspiratorially. “They had to call in Psych.”

“What was the end result?” I asked.

“I don’t know. They made her leave the hospital after a few days. Took her baby with her. I guess the government will force a name on the child, for identification purposes.”

I never went out with the woman again, but my curiosity was piqued by the story. I had a friend on the force who owed me a favor, and I had him check around. He found where the woman went, but by the time I got there the mother was long gone, child in tow. I put out feelers, tracked down every lead, but they all proved fruitless.

I kept up my efforts, and few months later they paid off. I ran into the story again, a child with no name. This time I was on a date with a teacher, and she related how this mother had come to the school with her boy, about ten or eleven, trying to register him for school for the first time. The school wasn’t going to let the boy in, because he had no name, but the mother squawked about discrimination and lawyers, and eventually they let him in.

“What do they call him?” I asked her.

“They don’t. Or at least, his teacher doesn’t. I walk around the track with her sometimes at lunch and she told me she just ignores him. All the other kids call him all sorts of things.” I could imagine.

It seemed pretty incredible that I would run into this mother and child twice in just a few months. I mean, what are the odds? (Although, if you date as much as I do….) I felt connected to the story, and as such it was my duty to make contact.

I asked the woman if she would ask the boy’s teacher if I could drop by the classroom to observe. I mentioned something about getting her name in the paper. That did it, and soon enough I had my request.

The teacher was clearly on her best behavior, but even then she didn’t call the boy anything. Not even pronouns. When she spoke to him it was directly and to the point. The boy answered her questions in a quiet but clear voice. He didn’t seem put off by how she addressed him. Nor did he pay attention to the kids whispering about him.

At lunch he sat by himself at a table in the corner. I wanted to observe with the least intrusion possible, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to talk to the boy alone.

“Mind if I sit here?” I asked, my own lunch tray in hand. He shrugged. I sat. We ate in silence for a time, and the itch came over me. I started asking questions.

“You always eat alone?” That was dumb. I’m not trying to embarrass him. But the boy nodded without emotion. Between bites he said, “The lunch lady tried to make kids sit with me, but she quit after awhile.”

I had so many questions, I didn’t know where to start. “What do they call you, you don’t mind me asking?”

“They don’t. One kid calls me ‘nigger’ and ‘faggot,’ but I think he just heard someone else say those words; I don’t think he knows what they mean.”

“What does your mother call you?” I probed.

“She doesn’t. Half the time she treats me like I’m her master, and the rest of the time she’s afraid of me like some monster. But she never says my name.”

“Does that bother you?”

“It did, but I got used to it.”

The next question is tentative, almost gentle. “Your dad ever give you a name?”

“Never met him. My mom says….” He looks lost for a moment. “I never met him.”

***

Recess was an appalling affair. The kids had a game: they’d run by the boy as fast as they could and try to spit on him. Harder than it looks on a dead run, and many missed, but some learned to alter their trajectory to compensate for wind and speed. The result was gobs of spit all over him. It broke my heart and I so wanted to get involved, but I was here to observe the boy, not take action. I didn’t want to become part of the story.

The recess monitor actively ignored the situation. The boy really was persona non grata out here. However, one little girl tried to help. After all the kids had grown tired and moved on she approached the boy. She didn’t have a napkin, but she used the sleeve of her sweatshirt to get up what she could. He accepted with wordless thanks, and she ran off, fearful to be seen around him.

I left then, not wanting to see any more. I struggled for a few weeks, trying to come up with a story, but no angle presented itself. I kept tabs on the boy, dropping in on him from time to time. We had lunch a few times. Once I even took him to a ball game. He remained polite, self-possessed, detached. I guess you can’t engage with a world that’s going to treat you like such a outcast.

A couple years later the mother moved him away, and I lost him again. I finally found where they were living, but there was no phone. I thought of writing a letter, but how to address it? I even thought of driving to see him, but it was a long trip, and I had my own life, you know?

It was a few years later when I ran into the boy again, now a young man. My cop buddy gave me the heads-up. The boy had said some things, apparently incited crowds, and they locked him up as a psycho. I got permission to visit. He looked mostly the same, except much more tired, the kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but years of carrying a burden. He also looked kind of proud, but so tired.

He remembered me. He never asked why I didn’t visit him, but I felt the sting of shame anyway. I asked about his mother.

“She left two years ago, on my sixteenth birthday. Couldn’t take it, I guess. The last year she couldn’t even look at me. Couldn’t afford me either.”

“She had a job?”

“Couldn’t keep one. She was just too unstable. Whatever happened to her before I was born…it changed her forever.” He swallowed. “Without a name, the state wouldn’t help out, so there was no assistance. I’ve been working since I was twelve, but money was always beyond tight. It’s better this way.” There was no conviction in his voice.

“You’re 18 now, I said.” You can name yourself. It would certainly help you as an adult. You kind of have to, right?” He shrugged again, and looked out the window at a sparrow hopping around on a limb of a tree.

“I’ve come this far….might as well finish it.” There was a finality by his words, which left me with nothing to say. I left soon after. It was the last time I saw him alive.

I read about him in the obituaries. I just happened to catch the headline: NO NAME MAN KILLED IN MELEE. The details were sketchy. I rang up my contact once again, now a Lieutenant. He didn’t have much more.

“We couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He was talking on the streets like a crazy person for days. We’d arrested him twice already. He said something that night, don’t know what, but a fight started. 30 different versions, but bottom line; he’s dead and nobody’s responsible.

“They couldn’t find his mother—with no name where would you look?” My buddy continued, “So they are burying him in a public plot for the homeless and indigent.”

I went to the burial—I felt like our few encounters made me almost family. It was a cold and terrible day, the kind of day that makes you just want to stay inside, but I went anyway.

The chaplain read his piece quickly and got out of there. Then there was just me. I stood there for a bit and saw a man approach. He was older, in his 60s, distinguished, in a dark suit of old-fashioned cut. He had a bouquet of pinkish white flowers—what I found out later were hibiscus syriacus. The man placed the flowers next to the cardboard placard. There was nothing written on the surface. It seemed so empty and barren. We stood in silence for some time. Finally he spoke.

“Were you a friend?”

“No, not really. We ran into each other from time to time. You?”

“I knew him.” The words were simply spoken, but seemed to have great meaning. I felt the need to speak.

“To be honest, I heard about his birth several years after the fact. I was interested in the circumstances and so I tracked him down.”

“What circumstances were those?” The man asked me, looking at me for the first time.

“You know; no name. I met with him a few times, with the idea of writing a story about him, but none ever came to me.”

The man looked at me silently, for long moments, and then offered, “He had a name.”

“He did?” I said in surprise. “Well, what was it?”

Instead of answering the man reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a permanent marker. He bent down in the rain and wrote on the placard words in an unfamiliar language. I asked the man what the words were and he spoke. I still didn’t recognize it and told him so.

The man looked at me again, really looked at me, and down at the flowers, beaten by the rain. He looked back up at me, straight in the eye, and I felt weighed and measured, and left wanting.
He said to me, “His name means ‘Least of these.’”

Hyperion
December 23, 2005

© 2005 The Hyperion Institute. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

...in case you were a bit slow on the uptake.

For Christ's Sake

2011-12-18T03:33:00.000-05:00

The Hyperion Chronicles

“Once more into the breach, dear friends”

#86 For Christ’s Sake

I wonder what it took to be great; image-making, shake-the-earth-to-its-core great. I’ve made a study of the people who have achieved this, the people whom history books laud, biographies lavish, and young and old acknowledge as humankind’s greatest examples. What I have found, though, is that these great people who tread the hallways of history and lore were not so great at home to their families and the people close to them. In fact, you could make the case that to achieve greatness out in the world is to sacrifice at home. To have great ideas that move the world means to have great confidence, and to have steadfastness in purpose, but this can also translate into great arrogance and a harsh spirit. In other words, many of these great men, these Generals, these Explorers, these Statesmen, these Thinkers, and even these Peacemakers, were quite simply pricks to everyone around them. This goes for any century up to and including the last one, where the great non-violent resister was brutal on his own family, and the man who told us we should be judged on the content of our character serially cheated on his wife.

I wonder, if there is an afterlife, how the pecking order will go. I wonder if the people that history remember only as heroic will be seen as such in any cosmic heaven. I don’t know exactly how these things will work themselves out, but I’d be willing to bet that up there They don’t see things and cherish things quite the same way we do down here. I wonder if it’s the man who didn’t make it big, but took care of his family, perhaps will have a greater place in line.

And while I’m thinking along these lines, I wonder what Jesus would do if he were here today. I wonder where Jesus would be and what he’d be doing if he were here right now. Having not gotten a return email from Jesus, I can’t speak for him at the moment, but I wonder if the things we see as so important would phase Jesus in the least. I bet Jesus wouldn’t hang out in churches and with church folk all the time. No, I take that back. I know Jesus wouldn’t hang out in churches or with church folk very often. For the most part, church people don’t associate much with those who would need him.

I bet Jesus would be in the bars and brothels, and not think twice about it. I bet Jesus wouldn’t even blink at someone smoking a cigarette, sipping a beer, or using foul language, and I bet it wouldn’t dissuade him from hanging with those “types” of people. I bet Jesus would spend time talking to the Homeless, the Hookers, the Hoods. I bet Jesus would go visit the Felons, the Freaks, and the Faggots. I bet Jesus wouldn’t pay any attention to these labels we give people, whether they roll off our tongues, or just slide through our heads, unspoken, but there all the same. If Jesus were here today I bet we would be collectively shocked to find out what Jesus thinks, what he would say, where he would go, and what he would do.

So, on this holiday that bears Jesus’s name; in this season that commemorates his birth, his life, his message, his meaning, and his purpose; what do you think? What do you say? Where are you? And what are you doing?

Hyperion
December 13, 2002

Credits
Thanks to Kimbo for brainstorming help
Thanks to Koz for graphics, editing, the title, and anything else offensive

Motto Explanation
This comes from Henry V; Act 3, Scene 1 Line 1. It is the beginning of a speech with King Henry urging his men on at the scene of Harfleur. I meant it as an acknowledgement that some of my Christmas columns had been majorly controversial in the past (you’re lucky I didn’t resend #22), and that I was voluntarily jumping back into the fray.

Answer the Question

Evergreen Village

2011-12-17T11:07:00.000-05:00

The Hyperion Chronicles
“Refusing to give up my belief in Santa Pirate”

#373 Evergreen Village

All across the land thumps the heartbeat of culture, the building blocks of civilization: the small town. Common folk-- decent folk-- have come from all over. They live together, more-or-less in peace. Every small town is different, yet they’re the same.

What makes them similar is a strong sense of community: folks pulling together to help one another out. What makes them unique is that each town has a story to tell. My name is Johnny Rockinghorse, and I want to tell you one such story about my small town: Evergreen Village.

Our town is special for a couple of reasons. One is that we don’t exist all year ‘round. I believe the term is “Winter Community,” but Evergreen Village is even more unique: the town gets together for only three weeks a year. The other reason is the giant cat-monster, Shandy, but I’ll get to that later.

The Rockinghorse clan have been here for as long as anyone can remember. My great-grandfather, William Tecumseh Rockinghorse told me we were Native Evergreen Villagians. There are other old families, as well, who have been gathering for generations.

There is the Breadman family. Ginger and I grew up together, life-long friends(Sometimes I might wish for more, but in a small town like ours it gets hard to do anything unnoticed).

Then there is my best friend Jimmy Crackcorn. His family doesn’t have the best reputation, but I like Jimmy Crackcorn and I don’t care what anyone thinks.

Speaking of unsavory reps, you should hear what folks say about Bambi Bubblelight. She’s been here longer than I have, and you should see the outfits she wears. It’s as if she’s trying to compete with Kandy Kane, Evergreen Village’s other notorious citizen.

Each year here in Evergreen Village we have newcomers. I remember the year Ma and Pa Snomin showed up, in bad shape, obviously refugees from something terrible. They didn’t say much, but they were kind and hard-working, and Ma Snomin made the best pies, so the town took them in.

Another year Jangle Bill and Popsicle Stick Elf (everyone called him Li'l Poppy) showed up. Rolf Nutcracker and Worthington “Tinker” Bell tried to stir up trouble, saying these two were criminals, but Mayor Tanenbaum stepped in and said as long as they did their part and kept their noses clean Evergreen Village welcomed them.

Part of the reason Rolf and Tinker made waves is that Jangle Bill and Li'l Poppy showed up next to them. This brings up another tradition in Evergreen Village. We don’t have the same neighbors every year. When the town sets up, folks will call around, looking for friends.

One year Snow Giraffe is right next to the Bows (Derrick and Didley), and the next she’s sharing a fence with that forever-hippie Jenna “Acid” Reindeer.

This also can be the saddest time for us. When we’re calling around, seeing where everyone is, there are always one or two of us unaccounted for. I remember the year when Toe broke her leg. (She was one of the Mistle Sisters, and there wasn’t an ugly one in the bunch.) I helped her tend to it, and she kissed me! I was so excited to see her again the next year (and maybe get another kiss!), but she was nowhere to be found.

For the most part life is good, but we do have our challenges. With the Great War still going we have to cut the lights almost every night, which isn’t so bad as we younger folk can sneak around easier.

Speaking of lights, like most towns, we have our problems, and a while back it was the lights. For so long we’d only had white lights in Evergreen Village. Then one year some colored lights showed up. Some didn’t want the colored lights, but there they were. Others said the colored lights could stay, but those folk had to all live at the lowest end of the town.

The fight was pretty intense and almost split the town in two. However, the next year Rock Starr never showed up. He’d lived up at the very top of the town, and folks would often look to him for advice. In his place was the most beautiful woman anyone ever saw. Sugar Plumferi started calling her the “Angel,” and the name stuck.

For several days the Angel said nothing. The townsfolk went back to fighting over the lights. Then one day the Angel said that all the town should live as one, with both white and colored lights. Folks immediately came to their senses and adopted that policy, as the Angel could do no wrong.

For the most part life is peaceful here, but we do have some adventures. Sometimes at night there are storms, and we see these long strands of silver and gold lightning flashing in the trees. The lower half of the village also has to keep in constant vigilance for Shandy.

For those of you lucky to never live in a small town assailed by a giant cat-monster, I can tell you this: it ain’t fun. Shandy can wreak havoc all over the lower part of the village with her gargantuan paws. She seems to get excited by the flickering lights, and really anything that moves. Yes, fighting off Shandy can be a real pickle.

The biggest day, though, is about two weeks after everyone gets to town. There’s lot of small earthquakes and folks all get jostled a good bit, but we’re all so full of cheer by then that no one seems to mind.

So, there’s some sadness, adventure and even peril, but it’s these times that make us realize how precious the good stuff really is. Evergreen Village really is a swell place to be. I live for those three weeks every year. I love my friends and neighbors, and cherish every moment I get to spend with them. After all, that’s what small town values are all about. Making the most of your “quality time.” Enjoying each other, even with our faults. Gazing upon that beautiful Angel.

And of course avoiding giant cat-monsters.

Hyperion
December 20, 2005

Giant Cat Monster would make such a great band name

#486 It Starts With Snow

2011-12-16T04:44:00.000-05:00

the Hyperion Chronicles
"Thumpety Thump Thump, Thumpety Thump Thump...."

#486 It Starts With Snow

It starts with snow.

After the kids have been put to bed, but before they are really asleep the snow cometh. The air is heavy and sharp, and everywhere is silence, as if the world stopped what it was doing to watch the winter ballet.

The kids in bed somehow sense what is happening, and sneak to windows, pressing little noses to panes. The glass is frozen, but they don’t mind, taking in the wonder, hearts filled with joy.

The snowfall continues unabated. This is not some fly-by-night snow, but the real deal, and all but the youngest of kids realize what that means.

They snuggle back into beds, excited and dreaming of tomorrow. For the first time in a long time they will not dread getting up, getting ready, putting on pants and sweatshirts and coats and mittens and boots for that interminable four-house walk to the bus stop, to stand miserable for at least three days until the bus comes and trudges them off to school.

No, tomorrow will be different. Though they have heard no weather report, and could not tell a barometer from a chronometer, they know what the silent snow means.

No school tomorrow.

While all around the city commuters are waking to a winter hell with frozen car locks and even more frozen windshields, missing scrapers and icy roads, the children will be at play. For them tomorrow will not be misery but a little holiday that belongs just to them.

The day breaks cold and hard, crisp and chill, but not the dreaded winds that wreak havoc on play. Breakfasts are devoured and clothes thrown on with abandon, like some sort of Axe Effect in Reverse. Parents wryly comment how their children cannot get this excited about getting dressed for school but their hearts are not in it. Their only real rancor is a spot of jealousy, recognizing a joy they no longer can summon.

Outside truly is a Winter Wonderland, as the entire street—no, the entire world!—is covered with snow. The glorious white velvet is great for packing, and soon a dozen snowball fights are ongoing, friends and enemies being forged for life, plans for castle assaults and frozen moats being drawn with birch sticks in the snow. Norman Rockwell would die of happiness, and even the most jaded would be hard-pressed not to crack a smile.

Lunchtime comes (tomato soup, grilled cheese and hot chocolate with marshmallows, or should that be marshmallows with hot chocolate?), and back out on the fields of white some boys have taken up the cause of a snowman.

Not to be outdone (and mostly ‘cause the boys wouldn’t let them help), the girls have begun their own sculpture for the ages. The girls possess considerably more artistic talent than the boys, and in short order their snow-woman has taken on a curvy outline, with hips to make a belly-dancer proud and—dare we say it?—a bodacious rack.

(Special note: the rack in question was not so much an artistic choice by the girls or some revelation of a Barbie-values-culture gone wild, but rather a determination that all passers-by be able to tell that this particular creation was a snow-woman. Believe me when I say their mission was a success, as even Google Earth would have no trouble figuring out whose snow-door to hold open.)

The boys found wonderful accoutrements for the eyes, nose and mouth, leaving the girls scrambling. Their eyes were two small black rocks, but this was accentuated by a pair of glasses little Shirley donated. They were unable to come up with nose and mouth (someone suggested using more rocks, but they were already pushing it), but then one of the girls got the bright idea to use a black ski-mask/scarf one of the girls (Shirley again) had. (Before you worry about her little ears and throat, Shirley hated the thing. It certainly kept her warm, but messed up her pretty red hair when she tried to take it off.)

The head covering sparked a creative boom in the girls, and soon they had the snow-woman covered head to toe in all black. (It was slimming, one of the girls said, not quite understanding what she meant.) In fact, when they were done, the only things that were visible on the snow-woman were the eyes peering out from underneath the glasses.

The boys had become jealous when they saw how spectacular the girls’ snow-woman was, but some of their swagger returned when they found an old silk hat on the ground. They placed it on their snowman and stood back in pride.

The girls seemed trumped, until one of them (guess who) noticed a red curly wig (also on the ground). “Hey!” Shirley said, “We could put this wig on our snow-woman up underneath the mask, with some of the red hair sticking out!”

The other girls thought this was a wonderful idea, and they were just about to step back and admire their own creation when the boys started hollering up a storm about how their snowman had come to life!

This was surely the most incredible thing the girls had ever heard of, and it immediately captivated them. One does not ordinarily see a snowman begin to dance around, and understandably, all the girls’ and boys’ attention was on the delightful creature. Because of this, they did not notice the other creation begin to stir…..

The Evil Snow-Ninja gained consciousness slowly, as if waking from a dream. She had a banger of a headache, made worse by what sounded like 700 children screaming. Looking around, she saw these kids (it turned out to be only 30 or so, but they sounded like 700) cavorting around another snow creature. The Evil Snow-Ninja recognized him: his name was Lick Renard, and he was a poofter. She would settle for him soon enough.

Casting about for a weapon the Evil Snow-Ninja spied a shovel. It had a long handle, and the edges were sharp; primed for mayhem. The E.S.N. laughed to herself, as she realized that the shovel looked like a giant spoon.

The Evil Snow-Ninja, was a fairy tale they say,

She was made of snow but the children know

How she came to life one day.

And slaughtered the children where they stood.

And gave Lick Renard what-for

You wouldn’t have wanted to see it

She cut the kids and Lick’s heads clean off with her giant spoon

And they went sailing down the street

(Bet little Shirley wishes she had her scarf/mask back now, huh?)

Thumpety Thump Thump
Thumpety Thump Thump….

The Evil Snow-Ninja stood happily, her headache slowly abating in the silent snow. Then a door opened a few houses away and a high-pitched yell. “Shirrrrrrrrrrleeeeeeeeeey. Come in for dinnnnnnnnnerrrrrrrr!”

Somebody needed a tit-punching!

The Evil Snow-Ninja hefted her giant spoon and started off.

Thumpety Thump Thump
Thumpety Thump Thump….

Hyperion
(originally published December 13, 2007)

There isn't a single question you'll get this month that

wouldn't be better answered with "Evil Snow Ninja."

Tanenbaum goes the Dynamite

2011-12-15T01:01:00.000-05:00

The Hyperion Chronicles
"I swear one year we had our tree up ‘till March”

#85 Christmas Tree Memories

My college roommate “Ricky” was a peculiar fellow, a True Believer some might call him. For example, Ricky loved this band called Blues Traveler—before any of you had ever heard of them—but when Blues Traveler appeared on Letterman and started to make it big, Ricky smashed all his Blues CDs. Like I said, a True Believer.

Now, Ricky and I lived on the same wing as our dorm’s Resident Director and his wife, and come December they put up a Christmas tree. Only, it wasn’t a genuine cut-down-in-the-forest real live Christmas tree, but one of those designer imposters, and Ricky was having none of it.

Ricky just stopped associating with the Director and his wife, and wouldn’t even return a hello when passing them in the hall. As Ricky is revered on campus and loved by all, the Director and his wife do everything they can to make peace, including baking Christmas cookies that I didn’t get to eat out of solidarity (to this day, the single greatest political sacrifice I’ve ever made).

Finally, while studying for finals at an all night restaurant, I see a chance to mediate. Out in the foyer of the restaurant is a Christmas tree with empty boxes around it gift wrapped for decoration. I talk Ricky into “procuring” a few of these presents, and we solemnly give them to the Director and his wife with the instruction not to open them until Christmas day. This redresses the scales in Ricky’s eyes, and the Christmas Crisis is averted.

***

When I was younger, decorating the tree was a family affair, and one we all got involved in. Dad would stand on his head to get all the lights put up while mom told him what he was doing wrong. Early on I noticed that other people’s trees had stars or angels on top, while we just had a white light; one of the regular string. When queried, my mother explained to me the tradition.

I guess back in the day, before my mother and her sisters were born (the 1600s), my grandparents didn’t have much money. Accordingly, it was all they could do each year to put up a tree (usually donated); a fancy ornament on top was out of the question. My grandfather, clever man that he was, didn’t want his young wife to feel bad, so he put one of the white lights on top, and told my grandmother that this was the way to do it, for it represented Jesus, the light of the world. (Which just goes to show women will believe anything if they love the guy)

Anyway, several years later times had gotten a wee bit better, and my grandfather told my grandmother they could get a star or angel or whatever she would like. By now, though, it was Tradition, and she insisted they keep the white light, as all of her progeny do to this day.

***

Another fun thing we would do to our tree was hanging our own ornaments. My mother had a ball for each of the years her four children were born, and my brother Achmed and I also had personal ornaments, these really cool rocking horses we had been given (and let me just say my rocking horse was way cooler than Achmed’s). We would have sort of a contest every year as to who could “hide” their ornament in the most unusual place, which often entailed disappearing into the tree to hang the ornament inside. Good times.

***

Speaking of Achmed, one year, the first Christmas I could drive, my parents got very busy and didn’t have time to get the tree. Being the helpful loving sons that we were, Achmed and I volunteered to secure the family’s tree, at a U-Cut-Em place just outside of town. Now, this was out in the wild, and each tree had painful thorn bushes surrounding it. I, being older and stronger, had the tougher job of sawing the tree down with our flimsy little saw. (The kind that made a crappy little oval-like rectangle. You remember them, right?)

All Achmed had to do was hold the branches out of my way so that I could see what I was doing. Easy, huh? Well, you’ve never heard such complaining. Good lord did that boy bellyache. Worse, he continually let the branches go, causing them to fly at a high rate of speed into my hands and arms, which not only impeded my sawing progress to the point of distraction, but also cut and scratched me like a gal at a shoe sale at Macy’s. I offered several times to switch roles, but Achmed couldn’t get the speed up to saw the tree down.

Finally, battered and bleeding, we got a beautiful 8-½ foot tree cut and ready to roll. Being older and stronger, I told Achmed I’d carry the tree to the car, and he could go pay the owner lady for our haul. Unfortunately, Achmed was a bit of a late bloomer, socially speaking, and the thought of conducting a financial transaction—with a woman nonetheless—terrified him. Taking pity on the poor boy, I graciously offered to pay for the purchase, if he would take the tree to the car, and I’d secure it in the trunk when I finished. Upon returning to the car, I found poor little Achmed struggling mightily to lift the tree, and of course I helped him the rest of the way. I was proud that despite the adversity, we had made it.

Then came the treachery.

At home that evening putting up our statuesque tree, I was detained by a phone call. In my absence Achmed told the story of the afternoon. However, instead of the heroic journey it was, my brother—my own flesh-and-blood—betrayed me with the most scurrilous lies ever heard this side of a Clinton deposition. In Achmed’s version, I had the sissy job of sawing, while he tamed the savage thorn bush/dinosaur hybrid that fought in his grasp. Then, I forced the lad to tote the massive evergreen half a mile (in reality it was about 100 yards) through mud and rocks and possibly man-eating dingoes to the car, while I lounged about flirting with the proprietress. What’s worse, my family believed these innuendos and half-truths—nay, these Damnable Lies!—out of whole cloth, and completely endorsed my brothers hallucinations. Not only that, but at any public gathering for some time they allowed him to retell his 30 pieces of silver while I withstood abuse and chastisement. Truthfully, I think he did it because I had a cooler rocking horse ornament than he.

***

Finally, I have another story of heroism, that doesn’t quite fit with my Christmas tree theme, but I can’t for the life of me figure out when I’ll get another chance to share it. In third grade, both our school and our church put on Christmas plays, and my friend Josh Ingalls and I each had the leads in both performances. In church, I was the title character, Hark, the Herald Angel (you can laugh; it’s not blasphemous), while Josh was Gabriel. At school, I was Santa Claus while Josh was Alfie, the Elf with an attitude (I think the play was something stupid called “Christmas Around the World”).

The performances were back to back on a Sunday and Monday, and memorizing the lines and keeping them separate took a good deal of compartmentalizing. I tell you the truth; it was the greatest injustice since the imprisonment of the A-Team that we didn’t sweep the Tony nominations that year.

The first play went pretty well, the lines coming off without a hitch, until we were done and out in the foyer during the offertory. Josh, not realizing his mike was hooked up, told me (and the whole audience) that Cory, the girl he loved, had been watching us. Despite that, though, we managed to survive, and accolades and huzzahs came pouring in from all concerned.

The second night was a bit tougher. After weeks of nightly back-to-back rehearsals, this was the last performance; our energy was shot and our nerves where frayed. What’s more, I had approximately 137 pounds of padding, including a pillow with Taco Bell on its mind, because it kept making a run for a border.

It’s pretty hard to visit every country in the world next to a Coppelia-like doll (our co-star, and my secret crush, the lovely Kendra) and an elf with a chip on his shoulder while continually re-stuffing a pillow up your suit. Why child welfare wasn’t called I’ll never know.

It seemed like we were going to make it, though, as we hit the home stretch with just a few more lines to wrap it up. Kendra was supposed to try to kiss Josh, who was supposed to back off and offer to shake hands (this passing for grade school avant garde humor in those days). Unfortunately, his timing was a bit off, and she kissed him, and not on the cheek, but on the mouth! You have to understand, Kendra was not only the most beautiful girl in the school, but Josh and I were in 3rd grade and she was a 4th grader! I’ll let that sink in.

Well, my buddy Josh starts to lose his composure a bit, and it didn’t help any that he knew I’d been lovesick for the girl since rehearsals began. His flustered state looked real (which it was), and would have gone over well with the audience if he could just play it off. I tied to step in with some ad-lib smooth-overs, some “Ho ho hos” and the like, but that seemed to freak Josh out even more. Suddenly he started talking, but it wasn’t Alfie’s “respect all cultures’ speech, it was Gabriel’s “For to you a son is born, for to you a son is given” monologue from the night before! The whole play teetered on the edge, threatening to turn into disaster. Thinking faster than ever before, I stepped up and said, “A doll who can make an elf find religion. I’ve finally created the perfect toy.”

Of course, this brought the house down, and we sailed through our last little song, heroes once again. It was perhaps the finest moment in Thespian history, and I’m glad I could share it with you.

Yuletide Wishes,

Hyperion
December 24, 2002

Greatest Santa Ever

Christmas Anagrams

2011-12-14T04:44:00.000-05:00

The Top Ten Anagrams of "Christmas"

#10 CHARM SITS

#9 MATCH SIRS

#8 SCRAM SHIT

#7 SMITH CARS

#6 CHRIS'S TAM

#5 SCRIM HATS

#4 CHASM STIR

#3 ARCH MISTS

#2 ART SCHISM

#1 SCAM SHIRT

"Ember Spy Tunes"
(It's an Anagram for you to figure out)

Happy Birthday

2011-12-13T04:44:00.000-05:00

What Child is this who, laid to rest
On Mary’s lap is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King,
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
Haste, haste, to bring Him laud,
The Babe, the Son of Mary.
-William C. Dix, from "The Manger Throne"

#22 Happy Birthday

He was born a Bastard. His mother was a whore. His father was…well, no one knew who His father was. Some soldier passing through, maybe. His mother’s husband was a cuckold; too crazy or stupid to understand what had happened; making up lame stories to protect his young wife.

He had no formal education. He knew a bit, but when he tried to talk to the learned men of His town, all they could see was a boy who never went to school. He never was a financial success. He never owned a home. He did not have a business to pass on to his children. He did not even have children, or a wife for that matter. In fact, He never dated anyone at all. Not one Friday night out.

It is not that He did not love people. He loved more people than anyone I ever met; any ten people. But most of them did not return that love. The spurned Him, rejected, Him, kicked Him to the curb.

He was a philosopher, but He never wrote anything Himself. He was a public speaker, but He never collected appearance fees. He was well known in his country, but he never garnered an endorsement deal. For all of His work, He made no money at all; instead relying on the charity of others. In many ways, He was little more than a beggar. And it showed. He hung around with the lowest of the low: bums, prostitutes, peasants, the diseased and the destitute.

His friends were not much better. Most of them seemed embarrassed to know Him, and when the chips were down, they did not rush in to His aid. In fact, they betrayed Him right and left.

He ultimately made some important people very angry. He was beaten horribly. It is too graphic for me to go into details, but the description would put any “Faces of Death” video to shame. He was condemned to die for insurrection and rebellion: claiming to be a leader, a King no less, where he had no right to claim anything. He was executed as thousands jeered Him, but he died alone. More alone than anyone has ever been. He died with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and responsible for more evil than the worst villains in history.

By all earthly standards of His time, He was a miserable, miserable failure. And yet…

At the time of his death, there was a bill before the Roman Senate about Him. Rome, which then controlled over 60% of the world’s people, was considering declaring Him a god. The reason: He had healed hundreds, and thousands more had seen Him perform miracles. Rome was impressed, and several key Senators hoped to curry favor with Him by declaring Him such. His ideas impressed those who had listened to Him every day. They went out, took His message, and knocked over the world. Not nine pins down hoping to pick up the spare, but strike after strike after strike.

The Hindu religion, which boasts over 650 million followers, holds officially that He is the most evolved person ever, the highest order of creation. There is more written about Him in the Hindu cannon than in all western literature, and all of it is laudatory. Islam, home to over 840 million, calls him the greatest Teacher, and the greatest human to ever live. Several other major religions hold Him in high esteem, too.

If the saying “It’s not what you have, but whom you know” is correct, He has that covered too. He hangs around with the most influential people. It turns out He has a dad. Forget E.F. Hutton. When His dad speaks, EVERYBODY listens.

He has been written about, more than any other person has. In fact, if you took the number of books from #2-#153 and added them all up, they still would not equal the tomes about Him. There have been songs written about Him, too. You could sing for 80 years and not finish all of them. And while some did reject Him, more people have loved Him and do love Him than anyone else in History.

He has followers, enough to make any rock star or general green with envy. He is admired, respected, and cherished by billions the world over.

By any of today’s standards you want to use, He is a spectacular, phenomenal success.

I guess it is all how you look at it.

Hyperion
December 24, 2000

11 years later, and I still smile thinking

about how many people were mad....

'Tis the Season

2011-12-13T02:44:00.000-05:00

#19 Tis the Season

Quieta movere magna merces videbatur"
"Just to stir things up seemed great reward in itself." –Sallust

Billy is six years old. His family is comfortably middle class. Billy is excited because Christmas is almost here, and that means Santa Claus is coming. Billy has seen pictures of Santa, but Billy has never personally seen Santa. Billy has heard Santa’s voice in movies and commercials, but Billy has never personally heard Santa. In fact, he would not be sure that Santa existed at all if it were not for one thing: Billy’s parents are the ones that told Billy about Santa.

Billy’s parents would never lie to Billy. Every Christmas Eve, Billy’s mom helps Billy write a letter to Santa. Billy usually always gets most of what he asks for from Santa.

The next day, Santa comes through. Christmas day is a bonanza of gifts for Billy to open. Star Wars figures, Leggos, inline skates; even a scooter and once a puppy. Christmas is easily the best day of the year for Billy. Another great day is the day back to school; telling all his friends what he got, and seeing what they got. Billy notices that Juan and Mark never get very much, and Tony never gets anything at all. In the back of his mind, this bothers Billy. Everybody knows that Santa Claus gives gifts to those who are “nice”, and skips those who are “naughty”. Billy has no real reason to think that Juan, Mark, and Tony are bad kids (although one time Mark did hit Billy, but that was in Kindergarten, ages ago), and his friends never getting much vaguely trouble Billy. Nevertheless, Billy is six, and like most six year olds, mostly thinks about himself. Bottom line, Billy gets presents every year, and that is as far as Billy’s thinking goes.

Skip forward five years. Billy is now 11. He heard his friend Chris talking about Santa Claus, and saying some pretty mean things. Billy almost got in a fight with Chris, defending Santa Claus. How could anyone say anything against Santa? However, the thought takes hold in Billy’s mind, and he cannot let it go. Billy says nothing in the days leading up to Christmas, and he is still overjoyed to get many of the things he asked for from Santa. It is not quite as good, though, now that doubt about Santa has crept up. Billy asks him mom and dad about it, and they assure Billy that Santa Claus is as real as he is.

This is comforting for a while, but eventually the thought returns. Billy thinks about it increasingly, finally realizing what Chris said must be true. Living at the North Pole, working with “elves”, traveling around the world in one night: Billy feels stupid now, believing what could not possibly be real. The wonder that he felt before is only matched now by the bitterness and disappointment. Worst of all: Billy’s parents lied to him. They had never done that before. Or had they? Billy starts to wonder about everything that his parents had told him. Were there other things they lied about?

Billy is six years old. His family is comfortably middle class. Billy is excited because tomorrow is Sunday, and that means going to church, where Jesus lives. Well, Jesus also lives in Billy’s heart. At least that is how his mom explained it…

Hyperion
December 15, 2000

Billy has a lot of growing up to do...

Slip Loose The Shackles

2011-11-27T11:21:00.000-05:00

Slip loose the shackles,
Pry open the cage door;
Cross the threshold of your prison -
Free forevermore.
You Like
You Love
You Lust
You Loathe
You light the life you live.
You live your life to light the night:
How much more can you give?

Control the panic
That rises in your throat,
Stitch together threads of courage -
Wear them like a coat.
You Fly
You Flail
You Fling
You Flare
You fight the fear you feel.
You feel the fear you're fighting:
How much of life is real?

Ascend the ramparts,
Climb over castle wall;
Unsheathe your sword from scabbard -
The Enemy must fall.
You Clash
You Claw
You Cling
You Cry
You cut the cure you crave.
You crave the cure of cutting:
How many can you save?

Set free the captives,
Ignite the tar and pitch;
Burn the castle to the ground -
Kill that sonofabitch!
You Sling
You Slay
You Slip
You Sluff
You sell your soul for spite.
You spite your soul's new dwelling,
Will e'er again be right?

Allow the embers
To slowly become cold,
Drifting thoughts of yesterday:
Back when you were Bold.
You Aim
You Arch
You Ache
You Ail
You always ask around.
Will any be affected
When you're in the ground?

Accept the future,
That grips you like a vise;
Your life is just a wager -
Tossed with loaded dice.
You Dare
You Dig
You Dash
You Drag
You damn the dreams that die.
You die for dreams' unspoken screams;
Will anyone ask why?

Slip loose the shackles,
Pry open the cage door;
The archway opens only once -
What are you waiting for?

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Silver and Smoke

2011-11-20T21:39:00.000-05:00

Deep in the well of savage salvation
Clinging to strands of silver and smoke
Scraping the stone without degredation
Swallowing life, and starting to choke

Far-away land, ephemeral glory
Carving out rock, for marble and slate
Step to the stage; deep allegory
Breathing out fire, acquiring hate

Trilling the notes, alluring incitement
Call for the soldiers' echoing song
Blind to the strike, a sweeping indictment
Knowing the words, but singing them wrong

Leading the Chorus in sonorous splendor
Beating back Gravity's pull to the ground
Silver-laced shadow hides the surrender
Ashes to ashes, Stone falleth down

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Crave

2011-11-14T16:44:00.003-05:00

Crave,
within your soul,
what you never
thought you'd miss

Linger,
on the taste,
of your lips
so sweetly kissed

Shiver,
at the memory,
of your skin
so soft caressed

Forever
be embraced,
as you are
divinely blessed

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31 Days of Poetry (2011)

2011-09-27T23:59:00.000-04:00

31 DAYS OF POETRY

(2011)

Day 31 - Sing the Song of Night

Day 30 - Seething Passion, Purest Felt

Day 26 - Lasting Impression

Day 28 - I Like 'em (Tribute for Breast Cancer Awareness)

Day 25 - On the first day after the world ended

Day 27 - soft love, spoken in shadow

Day 29 - Spider Rage Chronicles

Day 24 - Pain descends on demons' dark wings

Day 23 - On Cave Wall

Day 22 - One More Shattered Dream

Day 21 - Sit Silent in the Tall Grass

Day 20 - Stopping by her on a hungry evening

Day 19 - Give me peace this night

Day 18 - Halfway up the mountain trail

Day 17 - Julie Andrews is a Punk

Day 16 - Blueprint

Day 15 - carry away

Day 14 - Broken Window

Day 13 - Does He

Day 12 - Coraleiya tavandar

Day 11 - Sifting over Memory and Bone

Day 10 - The Castle in My Heart

Day 9 - The Hardest Part

Day 8 - Thin Ice

Day 7 - Call out to the Stars

Day 6 - Go down to the great flowing river

Day 5 - Ignoramasaurus

Day 4 - Clouded Vision

Day 3 - The Ballad of Rennratt

Day 2 - Carving

Day 1 - Death of a Small Town

Other recent Empire posts:

UNITED 93
(Review of the of the most underrated and important movies of the last decade)

Citizen Hurricane
(Who SHOULD be naming Hurricanes)

Wave the Red Flag

(After Dark Tale: Adults only)

Ignoramasuarus

(After Dark Tale: Adults only)

See the 2010 version of 31 DAYS OF POETRY

Sing the Song of Night

2011-09-27T20:47:00.001-04:00

[Day 31 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Sing the Song of Night.
Let the music of radiant Moon kiss light and life
upon Sparkle and Shadow, their ethereal dance
playful yet responsive to Night's dark rhythms.
The drums of Night are Deep Magic, their
percussive power a memory of an Earth who still Remembers.

Sing the Song of Night,
canvass cover of Night's silent circus,
sweet and searing symphony of salvation and sin.
Stars appear by permission only, crowded into
cosmic amphitheatre, eager to hear those
first faint Night Notes, after the crimson crush of
Day's departure slides slowly off the stage, and
the new deep purple darkness concert commence.

Sing the Song of Night,
swollen swarm hangs heavy in the air,
a buzz seeps into bone, and thought,
and brings the tiniest trickle,
the echo of memory of the Deep Magic.
They say Memory lives in the blood,
but nowhere will it even cast a shadow
other than within the Night Song,
when chords of pure light and pure darkness
blend into infinity,and add themselves
to the music of forever.

Sing the Song of Night,
voices of the Chorus
rising in rhapsody,
blending their life, lust and lies
into perfect concomitance,
harmony to honor gods,
and gods of gods,
and those who remember
when Song and Breath
were not separate words.
Crystalline spotlight shines down
Silver on Center Stage,
awaiting Aria,
and Illumination,
of the way back,
of the way forward,
of the way out,
and the way in.

Sing the Song of Night, and Remember, and Believe.

And Begin.

[Note: I have written poetry about Night before, many times in fact. (Who hasn't? Without the Night the only people writing poetry would be Optimists, and screw them.) The two that come to mind as perhaps most on point with this one are The Night Sits Softly in the Early Morning Sky (sort of the opposite - about Night turning into Day), and Echo of Light (about an eclipse, and only "poetry" on the sense that it sure ain't prose.) Check them out if you're interested.]

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Seething Passion || Purest felt

2011-09-12T23:32:00.013-04:00

[Day 30 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

[Author's pre-poem Note: Like songs, an essential part of poetry is to hear it, not just read it. Otherwise a huge component is missing. I would read them all to you if I could. At least read it to yourself quietly: I beg you. The || is something I made up as a visual cue to tell the ~~reader~~ reciter that there is a measured pause in the middle of each line. If you read it without those pauses the whole meaning gets jammed and you'll make Hypey cry.]

Seething Passion || Purest felt
Hearts can mend || Souls may melt
Essence of || Angelic grace
Vicious Violent || Darkness laced
Desperate Need || Ascending Lust
Reigning Ash || return to dust
Fluttered nerves || Reddened blush
Acid burn || and somber hush
Passion's trails || clinging smoke
Shivered fear || Desire woke
Shouted bark || or whispered plea
Longing floats || in Ether Sea
Joy and suff'ring || never tame
Bound as one || in Passion's flame

[Painting: "Venus, supported by Iris, complaining to Mars" by George Hayter. c 1820]

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Lasting Impression

2011-09-11T16:44:00.003-04:00

[Day 26 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

"I stood by the river and watched the water float by implacably, unaware of my power to bend its course to my will. I stepped into the waters and I stood in the river, a monolith, as I bathed in Heaven's pure light while the waves broke upon my body, the water forced to find a new path. I laughed deep, the sound cleansing my lungs and throat as the water washed over my soul. I stepped back on land and looked down in pity at the river, still floating by, still unaware of the lasting impression I had made."

[Painting: "River Telfi" by Mark Cox. See his Gallery here.]

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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I Like 'em (Tribute Poem for Breast Cancer Awareness)

2011-09-09T00:05:00.002-04:00

[Day 28 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

When I was first asked by the good people of RSVP Erotica to write a poem to fight Beast Cancer I was admittedly confused. This was much like when I shaved my hair, which at the time was all the way down my back - and I was asked to donate the hair to fight cancer. How could my hair fight cancer? I wondered, but hey, if it's for Science....Similarly, if my writing a poem will defeat Breast Cancer....I'm on it.

I tried for a few days to write this elegant poem that conveyed all my deeply held feelings about breasts (of which there are many), but I couldn't get the right feel for the situation. I kept pinching and pulling my words, tweaking them, massaging them, sometimes chewing on them in vain hopes of getting it just right. It was so hard! I got those words to stand up at attention, like little top hats, but no matter how much I molded, I couldn't get it the way I wanted.

In a text conversation with my friend Jacquelin I jokingly dashed off a few lines, and she wrote back, "This is good! You should use this!." Yeah, I countered, but it's not epic. It's not the Peer Gynt of Pecs I was hoping for. "It's just like you say in the poem," Jacquelin argued. "When it comes to boobies, lots of different types will work just fine." Yeah, I guess she's right. So, without further ado, I present my first (and hopefully not last) poem to fight Breast Cancer. I'm not sure if you're supposed to just slather this poem directly on them or what....but I'm sure it can't hurt. -Hyperion

I Like 'em

I like 'em big, I like 'em bouncy,
I like 'em small (around six-ouncy).
I like 'em firm, I like 'em floppy,
I like 'em neat, I like 'em sloppy.
I like 'em peach-pink, I like 'em dark-cola,
I like 'em covered with areolae.
I like 'em pushed up, or swinging easy,
I like 'em curved sharp, or big as Weezy.
I like 'em tear-shaped, or nicely rounded,
I like 'em delicate, or when they're pounded.
I like 'em on virgins, I like 'em on whores,
I like every pair, but mostly yours!

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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On the first day after the world ended

2011-09-06T07:06:00.001-04:00

[Day 25 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

On the first day after the world ended Corver Telic arose at 6:18 am,
the same time he had every day for the past 23 years.
Corver slowly stretched his arms and legs while sitting on the side of the queen-sized bed,
reaching for Maggie Magoo by feel rather than sight when he heard the soft jingle of her collar,
as Corver tried not to fully open his soft hazel eyes
(everyone remarked upon them; no reason we should not as well)
before he had to.

Maggie Magoo was Corver's pure-bred Alsatian,
in case your mind wandered far on that one,
which is commonly known as a German Shepherd,
but Corver did not prefer it for an animal he regarded as royalty among the upper echelon of finer dog breeds,
and insisted on the more weighty description.
Perhaps this was to counterbalance the Alsatian's unfortunate appellation,
though Cover had to admit that "Maggie Magoo" fit that dog like a favorite pair of jeans,
comfortable,
unpretentious,
welcome at any occasion.

Maggie Magoo led Corver down the stairs of of his two-story three-and-a-half bath Tudor home,
and though Corver still had not opened his eyes,
and Maggie Magoo was close to legally blind
(you wondered if that's where her name came from, didn't you?),
neither bumped into the wall or tripped over a briefcase.
They'd been doing this same walk every day for almost 13 years,
and both knew the way
(literally in Cover's case),
in their sleep.

Normally the first six o'clock hour does not attract many curious eyes on Harford Street,
but this day was any day but ordinary.
After all,
this was the first day after the world ended,
which we mentioned at the beginning,
but it is worth saying again,
as you very well may have been distracted in the meantime by Maggie Magoo,
and who could blame you?

Eyes were everywhere,
peering out behind drawn curtains and fully verticalized blinds.
Normally these people would still be asleep,
or getting ready for work,
or pouring processed marshmallow nutrition into milk for feckless four-year-olds,
but not this morning.

If any had slept it had been fitfully,
and most had been up all night,
pacing,
or checking ph levels and electrical charges on basement water tanks and generators,
tension pulled taut as a wire through the long still night,
but now it was morning,
and Lord knew what was going to happen,
but whatever it was,
it was going to happen now,
or soon,
right?

And there was Corver Telic and Maggie Magoo,
walking north on the eastern side of Harford,
crossing over where Poplar Lane intersected,
and traversing back south,
this time on the western half of Harford's contribution to suburban sprawl.

People knew Corver Telic.
Never married - there was talk, you know -
but most respected him,
and who didn't love Maggie Magoo?

Cover was an engineer of some kind over at Bigelow,
which manufactured electrical track for light-rail back East.
Folks knew Corver could be counted on to buy band candy and raffle tickets for the endless parade of community-subsidized high school extra-curriculars,
and it was known that as long as courtesy was kept Corver would not narrow a baleful eye come Halloween to those Trick-or-Treaters who long since should have graduated to fidgety dry-ice-bedazzled mixer parties where the ever-hanging threat of making out
(or not making out: which could be worse?)
kept all but the most clear-skinned and letterman-jacketed in a perpetual state of dry-mouthed near-terror.

And who didn't love Maggie Magoo?

Now the residents of Harford Street watched Corver Telic and Maggie Magoo take their walk,
complete their accustomed morning circuit,
and know Not what to make of it the residents did.
There were no telephone calls back and forth,
east and west along Harford's tree-lined early-morning seeming placidity -
how could there be?

Likewise,
there were no texts,
emails,
Waves,
Buzzes,
IMs,
DMs,
AMs,
FMs
or Status Updates,
and not once were the words
"just saw Corver Telic and his Alsatian Maggie Magoo outside taking their walk!"
RT'd
with added WTF?s for emphasis.

But people saw,
and people who didn't see found out,
in that inexplicable way we have of collectively just knowing something we could not possibly,
and without any discussion,
argument
or an army of support-augmenting Likes,
people reached the same conclusion.

Corver Telic was taking a stand.

Corver and Maggie Magoo arrived back home at 6:47,
Corver having managed to keep his eyes virtually shut the entire time he'd been awake.
Corver Telic was not an unobservant man -
engineering is all about the details -
but whatever powers of paranoia,
er, perception
Corver possessed were dulled by the fog of and haze of sleep still hanging over him like a low marshland in late winter.

It would not be until almost eleven minutes later, when on his second burning-hot segment of
Ice-cold/hot/lukewarm/hot/ice-cold shower he took every morning,
that Corver's eyes suddenly opened so wide,
that one might be forgiven for thinking Corver Telic was
practicing for a Marty Feldman Impersonation Contest down at the local Odeon.

It was at that moment that Corver Telic suddenly remembered what no one would possibly have forgotten,
and therefore what so many had ascribed lofty motives to him for "taking a stand,"
as it would be universally
(well, townaversally)
known in the days to come.

Corver Telic realized it was the first day after the world ended,
and there was no job to hurry to be on time for,
to make his lunch for,
to get dressed for,
to shower for.

Corver omitted the last ice-cold cycle of his routine,
and stepped onto the bathmat in front of the fogged-over mirror,
temporarily unusable for reflection,
which suited Corver just fine.

Drying off with a
lemon-yellow
big fluffy-cloud,
bed-bath-and-way-beyond-necessary

towel

(one of the few indulgences he permitted himself),
Corver wondered if there was anyway he could break his routine and fall back asleep.

It may not have been the Tienanmen Square stuff-of-legend
for which he was currently accredited,
but you have to start somewhere.

At 7:06 am,
Corver Telic climbed back into bed for the first time since....ever,
and took his stand,
lying down.

(No word on what position,
if any,
was taken,
or held,
by Maggie Magoo.)

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

See the 2010 edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Spider Rage Chronicles

2011-08-29T07:00:00.002-04:00

[Day 29 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

[The Following happened early Monday morning. I went on a Twitter rampage about it, and later, thought it was pretty funny. Is it a stretch to use it as a poem? Well.....Would I use it if I wasn't so far behind schedule? Well......The point is, it's awesome. The reason it looks a bit scraggly is because I cut and paste each individual post so that you could read it from top down rather than from bottom up. I know, I know - Hamanitarian. Enjoy.]

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Citizen Hurricane

2011-08-27T06:59:00.000-04:00

Before I get to my awesome idea, a hurricane related item that has bugged me for years:

I am tired of political correctness - All Hurricanes should be named for women. If you don't understand why, you never will.

I mean, c'mon, people. Not to be roll-your-eyes, punny, but they are Hurricanes, not Himicanes.

Okay, here's my idea:

"Cyclone" by Elizabeth Lisy Figueroa

The National Hurricane Center (hereafter known as "Science Weasels") should NOT get to name Hurricanes. I found this great Wikipedia article that explains all the names of Hurricanes for the next few years in all the different Regions, and the contingency plans in case they have more storms than names, and it's all neat and alphabetized and blah blah blah.

It's a perfectly fine efficient system, but I can improve it 843,000% in one fell swoop WHILE AT THE SAME TIME raising money to help people devastated by weather run amok.

The Science Weasels should not get to control such an awesome force, something that affects so many people. We all know they pick the names trying to impress some waitress they met at Hooters they want to sleep with, or possibly to punish an Ex. Whatever. We can do so much better.

Seeing as how a destructive Hurricane is a local, state, national and international event, we should all get a chance to decide what the Hurricane names are.

We should get to vote on it.

While we could keep the alphabet plan, there's no intrinsic need to do so, and there is an inherent unfairness to people with popular-letter names (like J) over, say, I, which has maybe 8 names total. What I would do is let people vote on the names they want to see (hopefully all women, but I would even relent on that if it got people on board).

Voting would be done on the Internet and would require a donation to a meticulously above-board charity either set up (or already in existence) whose mission is to help people devastated by Hurricanes and tropical cyclones.

Every dollar donated would give you One Vote - with a minimum of $5 but no maximum. $8 would get you eight votes - $28 would net you twenty-eight votes, and $2032 would mean two-thousand thirty-two votes toward whatever name you wanted to champion.

When you vote you specify whether you want your name in the North Atlantic or the Pacific, although to keep it fair all the money donated would go into one central charity charged with helping people affected globally.

Looking at the stats, there are very rarely over twenty Tropical Storms (with a potential to be a Hurricane ) in any year, so that's probably a good target number. (The first year there could be alternates and then in subsequent years if there were more than twenty storms than names from previous years that didn't get used would fill in.)

Okay, so the voting itself would be awesome. There would be YouTube videos explaining why you should vote for Team Rutledge (it was her grandfather's name and he died in a tropical storm after saving an orphanage of Albino Autistic Albanians), and Facebook pages would crop up exhorting you to support Team Homer or Team Spongebob.

Some companies would try to get in on the act for marketing purposes - Hurricane Popeye, anyone? We all know Stephen Colbert would go to the Mattresses to secure his storm, and ye gods - don't even get me started on Bieber Nation.

(Did I mention that last names would now be okay? Why not, right? I'm sure a few sensible rules and guidelines could be established to make sure nothing Vulgar, insensitive or otherwise inappropriate slipped through.Yes, this would cover Team Buttafuoco.)

Results would be updated hourly on the Internet during the Voting period to encourage more Voting, and thus more money donated to the Rebuilding Life fund, or whatever we call it. I'm sure some rich nerd would come in last-minute to champion Team Francine in an attempt to win over that Starbucks Barista he's never had the courage to talk to. (If only he'd known that, contrary the line of crap that Collective Womendom is always trying to sell us about "sense of humor" and "kindness" topping their lists - it turns out many women are very open-minded about the idea of marrying a rich guy.)

Once the voting is over we have our 20 winners - and here's where a wrinkle comes in. Because we're no longer tied to the alphabet there is no reason to list the people in any particular order. On the contrary, the first few storms of the season usually don't amount to anything memorable. The solution is to allow the top vote-getting name to pick what slot they get. There's no guarantee of Hurricane-ness but this would lead to tons of research and science (and voodoo) trying to pick the most likely spot.

A cursory look at this data year by year (which only lists the strongest storm from each year, but is still something) points quite a few C, E and H names topping the years, which would mean the 3rd, 5th and 8th spots might be prime. Who knows?

Another wrinkle I just thought of - any Name who didn't like their slot (or maybe they had inside info on a big Hurricane season in the future) could "roll over" 50% of their votes to the following year. This would encourage even more charitable giving the next year plus it would encourage all the Names who weren't going to make it to the Top 20 but were close to keep giving - since they could get in as an alternate.

(You might be sitting there thinking, "Who gets to decide the spot in the Hurricane Lineup, or whether to roll-over the votes?" Good question. We could let the top Donor make that call, but very likely the problem would solve itself. To get these names through the crucible of voting would require organization - Facebook Pages, Twitter Accounts, Bloggers, etc, and I'm sure there would be some sort of ad-hoc group spring up - or maybe they could even be official groups registered with the charity to make sure everything was on the up-and-up. My point is: it won't be an issue.)

One final note: right now, names are rotated through every six years or so, and if the Storm ever amounts to anything (like a Katrina), it is retired. I think we could modify that some, and allow a Name to be re-used (if it got the Votes again) every other year, provided it's namesake storm was relatively uneventful, and in the case where there was a Hurricane the name could be out-of-commission for 10-20 years (depending), instead of forever.

So there's my plan. It would allow people all over the world to have a say over the severe weather that affects them, while raising tons and tons of cash to help the people who inevitably will pay the price of a Hurricane's fury. It would also get people interested in other parts of the world, since the Atlantic Hurricane Lineup would be so hard to crack that I'm sure enterprising people from Team Streisand or Team Carrot-Top might try their luck in the South Indian Ocean. It will ALSO get people more interested in meteorology and Science in general, since it will be in Pop Culture and because of the various speculation about slotting the Names.

This is a totally brilliant idea overflowing with what soon-to-be-a-Hurricane Charlie Sheen would call "Winning" - in fact, it's a virtually perfect idea. This probably means it's doomed, but you never know. Send this to everyone you know, and maybe one day we can all evacuate for Hurricane Hypey.

Hyperion
August 27, 2011
4:44 am
(typed but not read)

soft love, spoken in shadow

2011-08-27T00:21:00.017-04:00

[Day 27 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

I love you
like no one
else has ever
loved you, like
no one else
will ever love
you, with the
window to my
soul open for
you and only
you to see
the darkness within.

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Pain descends on demons' dark wings

2011-08-24T20:26:00.005-04:00

[Day 24 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Pain descends on demons' dark wings,
soft and silent save for a faint ripple in the air.

It alights on the shoulders with an embrace;
enveloping the body like a warm winter cloak.

There is no attempt to shrug it off; this is the
touch of an old lover, and they greet one another

with the familiar intimacy that only those who have
shared union can know. The ritual of seduction,

seemingly grotesque, is actually a comfort; a moment
of calm and clarity before the night that is to come.

This is not a coupling the quarry would choose,
and in a few hours there will be impassioned imprecations

and beseeching bargaining for the cessation of ravishment,
all to no avail. Pain takes what it wants, when it wants,

as much as it wants, and there is no safe word that
beats back the shadows' sting. This is their world:

there is no reality but the two of them, together,
and the gasping hunger that must be satisfied.

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On Cave Wall

2011-08-23T23:09:00.029-04:00

[Day 23 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

[it will make a lot more sense if you say it (out loud or in your head) to the tune of "Frère Jacques" Here is the music to help out:]

Dancing Shadows.........(dancing shadows)
On Cave Wall................(on cave wall)
Flick-er-ing-be-fore-me
Showing-me-re-al-i-ty
Turn Away.............(turn away)

Mocking Shadows.............(mocking shadows)
On Cave Wall................(on cave wall)
They-won't-tell-us-what-it's-like
Once-we-get-up-outside
Turn Away.............(turn away)

Casting Shadows.............(casting shadows)
On Cave Wall................(on cave wall)
Even-though-I'm-frightened
I-have-to-see-what's-out-there
Turn Away.............(turn away)

Finally Made It.............(finally made it)
Out of Cave................(out of cave)
The-light-is-hot-and-blinding
Every-thing-is-diff-erent
Turn Away.............(turn away)

Silly Shadows.............(silly shadows)
On Cave Wall................(on cave wall)
How-could-I-have-thought-that
You-were-ever-real-life?
Turn Away.............(Never Stay)

Notes
Apologies to Plato's Republic (Book VII, Chapter IX)
(And while I'm at it, Apologies to Thumbkin)

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One More Shattered Dream

2011-08-22T09:34:00.001-04:00

[Day 22 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

I dreamed an epic fantasy novel, or at least the beginning of one. It was so
complete: the names, the action, even the high-prose (in a Tolkien-esque way),
that in my dream I knew immediately that the novel was real and that I was

simply dreaming it in word-for-word detail. Though this might seem strange,
it really should not be. Presumably, if I have read something, it is in my brain
and available for complete recall, if only in the relaxed Theta-wave state.

It was only at the end, the lucid part, the rise to waking, when you start to know
you are dreaming and have even a small measure of control but still are dreaming,
that I realized the novel was one I had never heard, and I was creating as I went.

Frantically, within the dream, I tried to write it down, preserve any way I could,
going so far as to use mnemonics to remember names and trying to sear the words
of the magical story into the ground so that I might recall them upon waking, all the

while knowing how desperately useless it was. As soon as I woke I would (and did)
start to lose the details immediately; the crisp prose and poetic high chant crumbled
before me, the note-perfect names jumbling into random morpheme syllables of pure

sound, like listening to two people speak a language you do not know. Even the
narrative details, so tightly constructed and self-contained, suddenly became loose
threads of cliche and confusion. Like a sandcastle facing the tide I lost the story,

first the beauty of the moments, their shape and form, then the very substance of
creation, until it was indistinguishable with the surrounding land, and I am left only
the hollow pit in my stomach, the tightness in my chest, and the keen burn of loss

at the back of my eyes, the only comfort the numbness that comes with adding its
weight to the chamber of failures in my heart that is already overflowing, but can
always accommodate one more shattered dream.

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Sit Silent in the Tall Grass

2011-08-21T04:16:00.009-04:00

[Day 21 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

The lurking leopard lies in wait, hungry to the point of weakness for his next meal, but ever patient, watchful, ready.

The leopard does not go out chasing his prey. He could. The leopard could launch off the ground with powerful leg muscles into the air in the blink of an eye.

The leopard can hunt down his prey and jump its hindquarters, dragging down a wildebeest, impala, or even a young foal zebra.

In an instant the leopard would be on top of the creature while it was still reeling from the pain of the claw marks scratched into the its haunches.

The animal begins to thrash wildly, desperate to hold on to control, to life. But it is not to be, as the leopard takes the creature by the throat.

You might think the large predator would rip out his victim's throat with his razor-sharp fangs, but instead the leopard suffocates his victim.

It may thrash about, but soon comes submission, and the prey spends its last few moments with its conqueror almost intimately, in a slow ride from this plain into shadow.

So that's one way.

Even with powerful, controlled strides, excellent closing speed, and a viciously perfected killing technique, the leopard prefers to watch his victims first, without being seen, drawing ever closer. Leopards are master stalkers, and when inclined love to glide through the brush and slide over rocks, blending in so completely they simply disappear.

The leopard can creep right up to his victims unawares until the creature can literally feel hot hungry breath on its neck.

Given the choice, the leopard would rather risk losing a kill than to forgo the seduction of stalking, the dance of death that fulfills a need within the predator as deep as the sustenance that sustains him.

So that's another way.

But the third way the leopard has of taking his victims is by far his favorite, though it is very rare indeed. A leopard loves nothing more than to sit silent in the tall grass and wait.

Perfectly still, mastering his carnal urges to kill and feed, the leopard will lie in ambush, allowing his prey to walk right up to him, never realizing the peril.

Only when the prey is literally within the leopard's grasp does he spring, and take what is his, what he waited so long to devour.

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Stopping by Her on a Hungry Evening

2011-08-20T21:15:00.002-04:00

[Day 20 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Seeing you across the square
Cannot help but stop and stare
Heart begins to skip a beat
Electric current in the air

Appearing good enough to eat
Delectable and tartly sweet
You can feel my growing need
Flushing red and rising heat

Reaching you with desperate speed
Paying consequence no heed
You will be my greatest sin
On your body I will feed

You are ready to begin
Liquid fire from within
Taste the night upon your skin
Taste the night upon your skin

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Give me peace this night

2011-08-19T23:58:00.004-04:00

[Day 19 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Give me peace this night,

that I might face the morning light
with some small measure of courage.
The days have been brutal, not likely to change,
pinned down in a trench between Enemies and Expectations,
not enough bullets to make a charge or withstand the next assault.
But that's life, you're always in over your head. I can handle it, or at least I could.

If I could ever relax.

I need time spent
where I'm not dwelling on the turmoil
of what happened that day, the pressure of what
will happen the next. I need meals where I can enjoy the food,
savor the taste and not have my chest turn to fire the rest of the night.
Mostly, I need sleep. I need to turn off my brain from the unending onslaught
of worry, fear, and scathing self-loathing. I need tension to pour out of my body,
so I can give in to exhaustion and have a few precious hours without thought or care.

Tomorrow will burst on the scene soon enough,
filled with calamities and untold horrors. I don't know how
I can stand against the tide, but I will do it anyway, just as I have
always done, and will always continue to do, until I'm at last swept away.
But I need strength. I need some small core of grace, a reserve to hang onto.

So, please, give me peace this night.

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Halfway up the mountain trail

2011-08-18T12:50:00.010-04:00

[Day 18 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Halfway up the mountain trail,
Bent over at the waist,
Trying to catch my breath.
You look impatient and annoyed,
Not bothering to hide contempt.
You know little about life,
And even less about me,
But that does not mater
When only one of us
Has the energy to speak.
"Are you coming?" you ask,
Bouncing lightly on your toes.
It's all I can do
To stand back up straight.
My side is on fire.
My breaths are tortured gasps.
I want to keep up,
But know how this ends.
"You go on without me."

Note
I'm more and more convinced that the sounds of words and how they fit together are even more important than the words' meanings, especially in poetry. Counter-intuitively, then, I decided to try to write something with five words in each line, which is arbitrary and ignores rhythm, the foundation of poetry. It was just an experiment, to see if there was something to it. It worked okay, surprising me. Without any effort I found that I could "think" in these five word lines, with only one exception. It may seem like I split up the sentences to achieve that effect, but imagine them being voiced by the narrator. He has no breath, so even his inner thoughts are truncated. If you imagine the end of each line as him taking a huge breath, I think it will make more sense. (And in case you were wondering, I had to take the word "I" out of the second-to-last line to keep it consistent. Everything else came out right without counting words.)

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Julie Andrews is a Punk

2011-08-17T15:01:00.004-04:00

[Day 17 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Raindrops on Tin Roofs and Thanksgiving Turkey
NFL Playoffs and lots of beef jerky
Very bad girls who beg for their spankings
These are a few of my favorite things

Five-Dollar Foot-Longs and Grilled Stuft Burritos
Sun Chips and Pringles and Nacho Doritos
Totinos Pizzas with Chocolate Puddings
These are a few of my favorite things

Fifty-inch Plasmas and Unrated Blu-Rays
Girls in short dresses with black lace lingerie
Legs that she covers with white silk stockings
These are a few of my favorite things

When my team chokes
When my pee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad!

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Blueprint

2011-08-16T23:59:00.002-04:00

[Day 16 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Elusively
Fearfully
Unobtrusively
Carefully
Narrowly
Objectively
Thoroughly
Effectively

Silently
Sequentially
Violently
Eventually
Hurriedly
Aggressively
Luridly
Transgressively

Demandingly
Voraciously
Commandingly
Sagaciously
Soundly
Sensationally
Profoundly
Inspirationally

Abnormally
Bestially
Stormily
Celestially
Resplendently
Gloriously
Transcendently
Victoriously

[Note: I don't know if I got this poem to work the way I wanted it to in my head. I debated whether to put commas after each word, because if you just scan down quickly you miss what (I hope) I put in there. The proper way to read it is to read each word as a line of poetry, and pause between lines. Ach! Now I know I"ve failed. if I have to explain it, I didn't do it right. Well, anyway, give it another try, doing it that way. -H]

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Wave the Red Flag

2011-08-16T21:29:00.011-04:00

I was working on today's poem for the 31 Days of Poetry and it accidentally turned into an After Dark Tale! Oh well. I have to start over, but I went ahead and posted the story so you could enjoy:

Wave the Red Flag

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carry away

2011-08-15T21:29:00.005-04:00

[Day 15 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

carry away the heartache, carry away the lies
carry away the pity and disgust within your eyes
carry away the sadness, that makes you feel so blue
carry away most everything, but darling, never you

eliminate the violence, eliminate the rage
eliminate anxiety that locks you in a cage
eliminate the danger you fear is coming true
eliminate most everything, but darling, never you

atone for your transgressions, atone for callousness
atone for thinking you could walk away without a mess
atone for all the things that you swore you'd never do
atone for almost everything, but darling never you

forgive yourself the petty, forgive yourself the dumb
forgive your self-pity that you allowed to make you numb
forgive the hurt you caused, and that others caused to you
return to where you're loved, and let's begin anew

[painting is La Femme dans les vagues (Woman in the Waves) but Gustave Courbet]

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Broken Window

2011-08-14T19:02:00.000-04:00

[Day 14 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

She stares out her broken window-pane.
"If I only knew now what I knew then!"
Once she was young, and brash, and quite vain:
She had life by the balls (not the mention the men).
There was a time she defied her fate,
But there's no more need to pretend.
A glance at the clock: it's half-past Too Late --
-- and a quarter until The End.

Somehow Life had slipped past her guard.
So much happened. (She didn't know when.)
"Why was everything always so hard?"
How many times starting over again?
It would get better, if she could just wait.....
But there's no more need to pretend.
A glance at the clock: it's half-past Too Late --
-- and a quarter until The End.

She narrows her eyes and wells up her rage.
(She'd rather attack than defend.)
She wrote the book and can recite the page.
Now join in the Chorus of the "Unfair Amens!"
But sagging Weariness overwhelms Hate,
And there's no more need to pretend.
A glance at the clock: it's half-past Too Late --
-- and a quarter until The End.

There was a Time, when Hope was so Great....
But there's no more need to pretend.
A glance at the clock: it's half-past Too Late --
-- and a quarter until The End.

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Does He

2011-08-13T02:22:00.001-04:00

[Day 13 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Does he know how lucky he is to have you?
Does he wake each morning with a grateful smile?
Does he realize what he's got and savor every moment?
Does he tell you that you make his life worthwhile?

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Coraleiya tavandar

2011-08-12T16:44:00.015-04:00

[Day 12 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Coraleiya tavandar

gellimonya shalizar

fledderetten voulei-kai

antokimo reedohmai

floy gahpi-gonn, floy gahpi-gonn

keederenden-tevadel

floy gahpi-gonn, floy gahpi-gonn

keederenden-paravell

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Sifting over Memory and Bone

2011-08-11T16:44:00.001-04:00

[Day 11 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Tripping through the Light to find the Stone
Sifting over Memory and Bone
Tracking through the maze, filled with acrid, angry haze
Destined to forever be alone

Packing up the iron that can save
Splitting light across the arcing wave
The Past sings out the Storm, clotted red and salty warm
Shadows on the wall inside the Cave

Clawing through the carnage and the mud
Searching for a sign to end the Flood
Weakened by the Thirst, and the Remnant of the Cursed
Coursing with the venom of the Blood

Hidden Stone, forever lost from sight
Flowing through the Shadows of the Night
Bone - reduced to ash - wears the Silence like a sash
Never to return into the Light

Notes
1. I seem to have written this while I was asleep. At least, I have no memory of it. This is the third time I have woken up with something sitting next to me that sounds vaguely like prophecy. The first time I woke to find these words written on the wall (in my handwriting) next to my bed. The second time was one paper, but was in no language I'd ever heard. (I was obsessed with those "words" for months.) As for this, I have no idea what it means, but it tickles the back of my mind, as if I SHOULD know.
2. For what it's worth, I did change about 4 words from what was written (I felt guilty, editing Asleep Hyperion), and there was one word I simply couldn't decipher, so I had to come up with my own. Other than that, this is exactly what appeared on the page.
3. I noticed as I read this aloud (and I beg, you, I BEG YOU, to do so), that the meter was exactly like a poem I wrote last year for 31 Days of Prophecy called Missing Beat. I remember that poem drove me crazy because I could "hear" a fourth beat in my head for Lines 1,2 and 4 of each stanza, even though there were no words. I don't know how to explain it more than that.

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The Castle in my Heart

2011-08-10T15:15:00.003-04:00

[Day 10 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

speak to me one last time and tell me
there is no future, no hope for us,
and i will tear down what i created
for you; the castle in my heart.

i will take down the ramparts,
the towers, the very fortress
where you ruled as queen, stone by stone,
and i will wall off my heart from the
light of hope with those very same stones.
i want you to stay. to live in the castle
forevermore and be mine, as i am yours.

but if this is not what you want,
then speak to me one last time.
let me hear it in your voice
and see it in your eyes,

so that I may tear down the castle in my heart.

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The Hardest Part

2011-08-09T14:22:00.009-04:00

[Day 9 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Given the way, the days go by
he asks her why
her heart's so cold
Taking his hand,
she understands,
why so few lovers ever grow old

Down the trail
they walk in veiled
conversation, hiding pain
Never before
had so much more
than coursing love between them lain

Promises made
and hearts displayed
in quiet whispered lovers' songs
Held up to the burning Fire
the words speak liar
the notes sound wrong

Holding on,
the vanishing dawn,
the fading light of lovers' glow
The hardest part
of broken hearts
is learning how to
just
let
go

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