Thou Heaven Born Maid?

There is a thing going around of people posting poetry in their LJ; huskyteer in particular posted some excellent choices.

Normally, I'm pretty down on poetry, particularly any written after Wordsworth got out of the game. With few exceptions, it's all so bloody morose and self-important. The major exception to this, besides Dorothy Parker, Edward Gorey, and a few others, is "kiddie poetry," such as you might find in A.A. Milne.

However, I do like one particular piece of poetry written by praeriedog, which he sent to me years ago for a little newsletter I was producing, called The Morning Star. Sadly, the original text is lost to the vagaries of history, so I'm reconstructing it here as best I can from memory:

The Fruitcake Ball by praeriedog
Goin', goin',
goin' to the fruitcake ball
We're goin' to the fruitcake ball

Come on darlin'
put a funny hat on
We're goin' to the fruitcake ball

The lights are out
the room's a mess
the music has run its course
it's time to say good night

'cause I'm sure not goin'
to the fruitcake ball
You're goin' to the fruitcake ball

That's the way I remember it, anyhow. I'm not at all convinced I've got it right.

-The Gneech

Why Isn't Today Over?

All of my current projects are waiting on other people.

I can't draw at my desk.

I don't feel like writing today, those mental muscles need a rest.

I am SO GODDAMN BORED.

Le sigh.

I guess I'll sort through my stacks and find some stuff to recycle.

Again.

-The Gneech

Fictionlet

"So," said Alex, "where is this mysterious lunch place?"

"Just up ahead," replied Greg. "You'll like it."

"What's it called?"

"'The Pit.'"

"'The Pit?'"

"'The Pit.'"

"Cheery name. What is it, barbeque?"

"Olives."

Alex shook his head momentarily. "Olives?"

"Yes indeed, old scout. 'The Pit' is that newest and trendiest of places, an Olive Bar. They have soups and salads and sandwiches and all that, but their showpiece is a long bar containing heaping piles of every kind of olive known to man. Black olives, green olives, oil-cured, water-cured, brine-cured, dry-cured, and lye-cured. Whole olives. Stuffed olives. Stuffed olives with pimento. Stuffed olives with jalapeño. Stuffed olives with anchovy. Stuffed olives with capers. Manzanilla! Picholine! Kalamata! Niçoise! More olives than you could shake a stick at -- even a very large stick! For an olive-hound like you, it'll be paradise."

"Who's an olive-hound?" said Alex, apparently rocked to the core.

"You are," replied Greg, "if the way you were putting them away that time at OneTrueCon is any indication."

"I was only 'putting them away' as you put it because I'd gotten lost in the Dealer Room and hadn't been able to find the exit until well after dinner time -- and olives were all that stupid bar had to eat! Ever since then, I can't stand the damn things! Jeeze!"

"Oh," said Greg, eyebrows slightly raised. "So ... this isn't what you'd call a 'thrilling surprise.'"

"No," said Alex. "The idea is turning my stomach."

"Ah," said Greg again, and exhaled awkwardly as Alex stewed. Finally, Greg hazarded, "Well, they also have pizza."

"Oh. All right then," said Alex, and off they went.

-The Gneech

<-- previous B&G
next B&G -->

What Are You Waiting For? [artwork]

Today I was siezed by the urge to draw Torey, a character of mine who has the odd distinction of having been drawn by Vince more than by me. Why is he dressed like a Chippendales dancer and pretending to be a waiter? Well duh ... ( because he can. )

Maybe he's getting ready for Halloween?

-The Gneech