Our Vile Ancestors

Today is the first day of Autumn, and in the good ol' days, they used to celebrate in a very special way.

"It was the custom to burn a basket, barrel, or sack full of live cats, which was hung from a tall mast in the midst of the bonfire; sometimes a fox was burned. The people collected the embers and ashes of the fire and took them home, believing that they brought good luck. The French kings often witnessed these spectacles and even lit the bonfire with their own hands. In 1648 Louis XIV, crowned with a wreath of roses and carrying a bunch of roses in his hand, kindled the fire, danced at it and partook of the banquet afterwards in the town hall. But this was the last occasion when a monarch presided at the midsummer bonfire in Paris. At Metz midsummer fires were lighted with great pomp on the esplanade, and a dozen cats, enclosed in wicker cages, were burned alive in them, to the amusement of the people. Similarly at Gap, in the department of the Hautes-Alpes, cats used to be roasted over the midsummer bonfire." Frazer, Sir James George. The Golden Bough, (1922).

Open Stage Tonight

I'm going to be performing magic tonight at Open Stage.

Check it out if you're able.

"Life begins on the other side of despair." – Sartre

The popular image of the zombie is one of a ravenous, hungry monster. George Romero highlighted this by having his cinematic zombies run amok in a shopping mall. Dawn of the Dead is a not-so-subtle, but still clever commentary on consumerism.

But what of the zombie who merely exists, and is full of apathy and ennui? These zombies walk amongst us, and you can see them on your commute to work, and maybe even in your office. These quiet zombies will never get their own movie, or Halloween decoration, but they are the scarier of the two.

You, dear reader, can turn into one of these zombies, gradually, like an infection.

Don't let that happen.

White Cruiser of the Clouds

Charisma

Costumes!

I've found a new source for pre-owned costumes. These costumes are old, from an theatre in England, and were created in Pre-High Fructose Corn Syrup days, so if I purchase one, I 'll have to lose a few inches off my waistline. I guess that's okay.

My wife says she's keen to start constructing costumes, as my recent public magic performances doesn't look like a fluke, and I'll be doing this for some time now. Constructing a costume, as opposed to buying a moldering one from a theatre company, has its advantages, namely that it will be cheaper. I'm a little hesitant, as Chris seems to hate the process of sewing, and when she does, she offers a steady stream of expletives to anyone who will listen.

For my part, I see no reason that I can't learn to sew. A sewing machine is a complicated machine, full of arcane subjects like thread and bobbin tension, but I'm reasonably intelligent – I think – and should be able to learn its secrets.

Stopped By A Train

I don't mind getting stopped at rail road tracks; I like looking at graffiti, but only if it's well done. This morning on my way to work, a train halted all the traffic.  It was going extremely slow, which gave me a chance to really inspect the graffiti. Some of it was inspired. The graffiti was as exotic, colorful and unreadable as any alien alphabet. Unfortunately, the train came to a stop, and the train cars in front of me were very pedestrian efforts.

Instead of T-BOZZ! in subtle gradations of color rendered by stolen paint cans, I had to endure tossed-off squiggles. The artist – or as they say on the street, tagger – looked like they were just trying to mar the surface and no effort of artistic intention was present. I realize some people like that kind of thing, but I find it even more pretentious to intentionally obfuscate one's graffiti craft in a pose of throw-away insouciance.

We work commuters sat in traffic, and some of those with trucks, could no longer contain themselves, and jumped the curb and drove their trucks through a field, presumably to a road somewhere. One businessman in a BMW, got out of his car, and went up to the stopped train to see if he could see the end, or perhaps to see if any better graffiti was on its way. The businessman was on the phone, presumably complaining about the quality of art. I gave him a look that said, "I hear you buddy. These inferior scribbles aren't worthy us." He was so disgusted by the feeble artistic effort that I feared he would bottom out his BMW trying to jump the curb. 

A guy in front of me, in some tricked-out "Rice Burner" warned the angry businessman that his car was too low to try some kind of get-away. I certainly wasn't going to try and jump the curb, as if I were the Duke Boys in the General Lee. A bent axle is the last thing I needed, and I've seen bad art before.

After fifteen minutes, the train eventually moved again. There were some better artistic efforts. 

This might sound elitist, but I really think that would-be "taggers" need to present a resumé to a National Academy of Graffiti. I think embarrassing displays like this morning would be lessened.