No Disassemble Wall-E Five!

Like those plucky and industrious Japanese, the Faustian animators at Pixar have assimilated another pop culture icon into their unstoppable juggernaut of cinematic domination, and no one seems to care. This time, friends, in spite of Wall-E's evident status as the CGI Messiah (seriously, you should read some of the effusive worship-schlock spilling out of the collective mouth of our nation's "critics"), I shan't be put off the scent so easily.

I adored . . . no, ADORED the original Short Circuit movies. I memorized them and recited them in their resplendant entirety to family and friends. Along with Tim Burton's Batman and Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, the Short Circuit films supplied almost all of my conversational raw materials between the years 1985 and 1990. And I guess I'm really rather tired of Pixar's undefeated record at the box office. Is it just me, or do any of you feel even the slightest twinge of suspicion about any studio that seems incapable of producing a bad film? I mean, no artist hits the creative bullseye every time. Not even the Omnipotent Beatles were exempt from the occasional flop (QED the lackluster "You Can't Do That" and the totally indulgent "Wild Honey Pie"). And to tell the honest truth, I like the Beatles (and others) all the more for stinking up the scene once or twice during the course of their illustrious career. Sure, some would offer up A Bug's Life as Pixar's less-than-stellar follow up to the Earth-shattering genius that was Toy Story, but even Pixar's cast-off garnered a 91% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

Part of me genuinely hopes that I will find Wall-E repugnant and lame when I inevitably venture forth to see it this weekend. But the other part of me, the part that Pixar owns, clamors for more computer-animated goodness like a heroin addict with the DTs. To paraphrase the most recent installment from our good friends over at Futurama, "Love the Pixar."

Oh, and less than two weeks on the countdown and all that rot, what what.

London Countdown: T-Minus 3 Weeks

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 061808.3

In the interests of time, I must make my entry a bit shorter today. Preparations for landing have begun (such activities take a good deal longer when you're traveling by space balloon than they do when you use interplanetary vessels like Light Clippers and Solar Schooners), and there are a million things to do every minute. To be honest, I am grateful for the distraction of overseeing the landing because to focus on what happens afterwards is to neglect my official duties as captain. Nevertheless, we received our British transport passes this afternoon via satellite transfer, and seeing the destinations printed on them proved to be another source of the seemingly inexhaustable excitement generated by this journey. To think, I shall walk the streets of Oxford! An uninspiring prospect for some, but the pinnacle of existence for one such as I.

Well, my engineer just notified me that I am needed on the lower basket, where a portion of our hull seems to be unravelling due to the stresses of our descent through the atmosphere. We must also begin the ballast disintegration procedure over the next few hours or else run the risk of being swept off course by the powerful upper winds of the North Atlantic jet stream. Busy days! But the island grows very near, indeed, and my heart leaps within me.

London Countdown: T-Minus 4 Weeks

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 061108.1

There she lies. This morning, just after breakfast, my first mate came to my cabin door and knocked gently three times. This action was per my earlier instructions, of course. The entire crew knows how much I desire to see the great land of my forefathers, the wellspring of modernity, the cradle of the industrialized world. At once, I was out of bed and on the bridge, peering through my squinted eyes at the bright hodgepodge of blues and greens that filled the ship's monitor.

Believe me when I tell you that I almost wept. Had I not been afraid that such a public display of emotion would incite laughter, or worse, contumely, I would have shouted "Huzzah!" and danced around like an impish moon-fox. O, how I long to touch the very soil of that great land, to revel in the simple breathing of its air, to move about in the same segments of time-space that once clung to the immortal forms of Marx, Darwin, Mill, Bentham, Newman, Arnold, Tennyson, Dickens, Barrie, Carroll, MacDonald, Yeats, Wilde, Conrad, Wells, Stevenson, Tolkien, Lewis, and, perhaps the most noble name of all, J. Rudyard Kipling. The honor seems beyond all comprehension, beyond any merit a humble traveler like myself could possess. I am compelled to ask, "Who am I? What right do I have to be here among the ghosts of intellectual giants? Surely my place is on a lowlier rung of humanity's ladder."

And yet, there she lies. Just a few weeks more, and our descent will be complete. In the name of St. Christopher, may those weeks pass swiftly!

London Countdown: T-Minus 5 Weeks

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 60408.3

Things have been relatively smooth during our careful descent to the outer atmosphere, but today we ran into a tiny snag. The weather above the Isles turned rough and unpredictable early this morning, which prevented our navigator from making the necessary calculations for our intra-atmospheric trajectory. Apparently, this sort of thing is common with travelers to England, as the meteorological conditions there change rapidly and often. I have calmed the crew and assured them that this minor setback will do little to delay our arrival, but I cannot help but notice the flaring tempers and raw nerves all over the ship. Such is travel. Such is life.

On a more uplifting topic, however, the plans for our visit become more exciting with each new communiqué we receive from base command. Yesterday, we were informed that Her Inimitableness has requested our presence at a traditional theatrical performance of some sort on the Monday following our touchdown. According to our correspondent, such performances were common in the Middle and Late Renaissance periods in English history, and the "play" we will see comes from the distinguished pen of William Shurkspore...Slacksnear...or something along those lines. They tell us that a reproduction of his original theater still stands in New Southwark, though they had to relocate the structure several times during the Great Floods of 2666. At any rate, such an evening's entertainment should prove the perfect distraction for my exhausted crew, and I welcome the opportunity to view the art of ancient cultures.

London Countdown: T-Minus 6 Weeks

Well, I suppose I'm on my own out here in the lonely blogosphere. No one appears to have anything to say to me these days. But you know what, I'm going to keep blogging anyway! I do this as a substitute for journaling, so who cares if none of you silent blogvoyeurs wish to reveal yourselves through comments! Fine! Crouch behind your keyboards like the cowards you are!

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 52808.4

As you can see, I'm making my continental approach now. We have almost the whole of Europe and Africa on our viewscreen, a beautiful and humbling sight to behold. The phosphorous emeralds and sapphires of land and sea appear to be dropping off the map in the encroaching darkness that swallows the retreating rays of the setting sun. From our current altitude of over ten miles above the Earth's surface, the shimmering glory of our destination catches the eye with its verdant beauty.

This morning, we received a communication outlining our invitation to the Intergalactic Ambassadorial Reception Ceremony of the Keys at one of London's oldest and most historical landmarks, the Tower. We are to report promptly to the West Gate at 2130 hours, whereupon we will be shown into the inner chamber and given an audience with the Rector Regalis herself. Her Luminosity will dine with us and allow us to view the ancient "crown jewels," the royal headress and paraphernalia worn by primitive kings and queens of England before the International Conglomeration Act of 2510.

She has promised us the best accommodations at her disposal, but I have informed the crew that we will be staying on the bend of the Thames formerly known as Pimlico. The landing platforms are all located there, and most of the continental transport originates there as well. Her Ebullience's palace is undoubtedly grand, but I would prefer to experience London as the tourists of old must have seen it, tramping its gritty streets and following its labyrinthine paths to the hidden treasures at its heart. The excitement is scarcely containable.

Wait...Those Aren't the Pips

For those of you who do not follow Americon Idle (and no, those aren't typos; I'm attempting to be clever), there was one brief moment on last night's show that partially made up for all of the crappy singing and homoerotic bickering between Seacrest and Cowell this season. I suppose it made me long for the bygone days of variety comedy shows. Remember those? Great, hilarious programs like The Carol Burnett Show and Monty Python's Flying Circus, where truly intelligent people would come up with outrageous sketches that did not wholly depend on sexual aberrance or political pandering (thank you, SNL).

Anyway, you should probably watch this first to give yourself some enjoyable context for the more recent clip. Incidentally, this is one of my favorite songs of all time, and it really felt like Thalia, the muse of comedy, took special pity on me last night after Archuleta butchered Lennon's immortal song "Imagine," when she gave me this refreshingly funny (in a 1960s and 70s sort of way) clip to watch. Enjoy.

London Countdown: T-Minus 7 Weeks

Oh, bloggykins. I shudder with tremulous delight. As I write this, Louis Armstrong is telling me what a wonderful world we live in, and though I rarely agree with Mr. Armstrong, I'm compelled to concur at the moment.

The time is coming, my friends, when I shall pass into that glorious land of myth and fairy tale known as . . . England. Even the very name itself rolls off the tongue with a delicious magic, like some ancient Celtic spell. Soon she'll be all mine, the leas, the rivers, the rolling hills, the fog, the heaths, the moors, the overpriced transportation. I realize I sound a bit like a maniacal Bond villain, poised to set in motion some fiendish plot to take over the world, but I'm really just planning a humble trip to the greatest nation the world has ever known. That's right, America, I said it.

I feel like an explorer about to embark on an epic journey to a land he's only read about in ancient, mysterious tomes. My ship has come within a few hundred thousand miles of my destination, and I'm making preparations for my final descent. I plan to be your Bibb-on-location during this trip. If there is anything you have always wanted to do in London or Paris, just let me know and I will take a picture of myself doing it (within reason). I call it vicarious vacationing, and I thoroughly enjoyed it when my in-laws did it for me on their trip to the Holy Land a couple of years ago.

Seriously, I'll do almost anything. Want me to kick a Buck House Guard in the shins? I'll do it quickly and run away. Want me to hurl a croissant at a street mime in Paris? You know I'll do that. Want me to lie down in the "zebra crossing" in front of Abbey Road Studios and sing "Octopus's Garden" in its entirety? I'd rather do "Oh! Darling," but whatever; you're the boss.

*Beep!* "Shall we prepare for our orbit of descent, Captain Bibb? Over."
*Beep!* "Set a bearing of 49 degrees, Commander, and bring her into Gyre Descent Pattern Gamma. Over."
*Beep!* "Aye, aye, sir. Over."

Tee, hee!

A Tin Man with a Heart

Ok, I haven't blogged about it yet, perhaps because I wanted to test my infatuation with a little critical distance. But blogbots, even after the most objective period of reflective evaluation I could muster, I'm still nuts (& bolts) about Iron Man.

First off, let me clarify my history with, I would argue, Marvel's greatest character. Since I was around 8 years old, Iron Man has been my favorite super hero. Yes, even over the titans Superman and Spiderman. My late father and I would froth at the mouth at the very mention of Tony Stark and his dazzling array of awesome armor. I collected the IM comics with obsessive avidity, literally Marvel-ling at the often ludicrous storylines and soap opera style twists they would deliver. I thrilled when he fought with the Hulk (and won). I swooned when he joined the Avengers on their intergalactic campaign to stop the insatiable Thanos from assuming control of the universe. I squealed when he battled the nefarious Mandarin, with his ten extra-terrestrial rings of power. I wept when he "died" in No. 284.

Maybe my idolization of this seemingly less interesting hero stems from some inherent fascination with the steadfast but flawed mechanized man. I've always loved the metal underdogs in heroic literature. Going at least as far back as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (ca. 1380), literature's love affair with the metallic man with a heart of gold can be demonstrated in numerous examples. The most basic, I suppose, would be the medieval British knight.

Protected only by the thin layer of metal plating affixed to his body, the courageous knight sallied forth to defeat all manner of hideous monsters. But as the story of Sir Gawain so wisely reminds us, the knight is never as invincible as his appearance would have us believe. There's almost always a figurative "chink" somewhere in his armor, a character flaw or debilitating fear that must be faced and overcome before any true glory can be achieved. The character of Iron Man definitely draws resonance from this literary tradition of the valiant knight. He fights on behalf of those who cannot fight for themselves, but he's never truly out of danger himself. He may be tough on the outside, but he's still just a scared, fallible human being underneath, which leads us to another great example of the imperfect metal man, Baum's Tin Woodman.

Professed to be "heartless," the Tin Woodman actually has the largest heart of all. He weeps off and on throughout the Oz books, but lest that suggest to you that he's a weakling, remember that it is the Woodman who beheads the wildcat so that the Queen of the Field Mice can help drag the Cowardly Lion out of the poppy field. He's certainly not afraid of getting his cans dirty. The Iron Man comics allude to Baum's most charming invention quite directly, and the film picks up on Stan Lee's obvious linking of the two by having Pepper Potts present the reformed Mr. Stark with his original power servo, around which is appropriately inscribed, "Proof that Tony Stark has a heart." Our final example also involves a man unsure of his humanity, one whose immense power only serves to expedite his downfall and highlight his imperfect human nature.

Convinced of his superiority but ultimately the most insecure of all tragic heroes, Darth Vader becomes a living machine, his humanity compromised and melded with his ruthless desire for absolute control over himself and his destiny. But despite his terrible despotism and record of widespread genocide, Anakin Skywalker never truly disappears behind his metal mask. As his son rightly asserts, there is still a substantial amount of "good" in him, buried beneath the mass of restrictive mechanics that isolate him from the world.

So what's your point, Bibb? Well, I suppose my point is that, for me, Iron Man now represents (and maybe always has) my father. He was a profoundly flawed individual, consumed by self-doubt and alcoholism, but he also did his best every day to put on a brave "face" and protect the ones he loved from the horrors of the world. He didn't always succeed in this endeavor, but his willingness to keep trying definitely shows how much heart he truly possessed. And I hope that one day I can be as tough as he was without losing the humanity that made him a great dad and a good friend. And though he didn't live to see Iron Man on the big screen (we often talked about how Tom Selleck would make the perfect Tony Stark, but I like to think he would have been pleased with R. Downey, Jr.'s performance), I hope he knows, wherever he is now, that he was always my favorite hero: an occasionally malfunctional machine with a good man inside.

I love you, dad.

Ex Libris

Oh! The relief, blogapaloozas! The immense, profound relief! I just submitted the third of my three major term papers for this semester, and life instantly got 60-75% sweeter!

Admittedly, I still don't know what my grades will look like, but I think they'll all be A's. Folks, I only have one more semester of school . . . PERIOD! Do you understand me?! One semester stands between me and the end of school for all time! No, I don't think you quite grasp the significance of this situation. Let me elaborate.

1. Counting all my public school experience (K-12th grade), I've been in school for 20 years. That's two decades. That's two-thirds of my entire life. Capiche?

2. After this coming fall, I will NEVER have to write another G-D@#?ed term paper for the rest of my G-D@#?ed life on this earth! Do you hear me?! NEVER!!!

3. In just two short months, my lovely bride and I will be soaring high over the Atlantic Ocean on our way to my true homeland, the United Kingdom. I'm so giddy about this trip that I'm having trouble suppressing the desire to tap dance as I type this. Honestly, I will kneel and kiss the soil when we arrive, international decorum be D@#?ed!

4. I don't have to go back to Eyrieville U's campus for almost three whole weeks! That means no schoolbags, no rushed breakfasts from Morebucks, no innane lectures where I have to listen to hours of loquacious BS spewed forth like offal from the mouths of pimply, insecure graduate hacks! Halleloooooooooooooo . . . . . . . . . YA!

Now maybe you understand. If any of you have any favors to ask of me, now would be the time. I'm in one of the most optimistically bubbly moods of my whole life. When Monday comes, however, and the grades are posted, things may well come crashing down. Until then, blogfellows, I'm the happiest Bibb in town!

He Loves to *BLEEEEP*!

I don't normally do this, but I almost fell out of my chair this morning when I saw this video. For those of you who retain rosy, nostalgic memories of that mythical street, the video may soil those memories. But honestly, people, if you don't find the "Song of the Count" hilarious, something is truly wrong with your funny bone.

So if the mid-May blues have got you down, click on the link and give the video a chance. I guarantee you at least one laugh...or maybe two. Two laughs, ah, ah, ah.

Lilapsophobia

So, Eyrieville has been pelted by horrific weather recently. Hail the size of Volkswagen Jettas. Winds that tear your shorts off on the way to the mailbox. Thunderheads so dark and ominous that one expects the four horsemen to come galloping out of it, flaming swords in hand.

What's going on here? Honestly, every Thursday night the firmament opens and the Lord allows the bottom to drop out on us for several hours. This has happened for the past six weeks, loyal bloggeneers, and this Bibb is getting a bit twitchy over it.

Have we got a Jonah here in Eyrieville? Is someone trying to hide from God's commands down one of our back avenues? Should I organize a posse? I don't know that I've ever been this freaked over meteorological phenomena before. I've lived through a Texas hurricane, an Oklahoma tornado, a Wyoming blizzard, and the movie Michael Clayton, so one would think I would be past any revenant disaster phobias by now. But I'm not, blogfellows, I'm just not.

Take a look at the following photograph.

Now try to imagine that bearing down on you as you desperately try to drive away from it. No matter which direction you take, the twister follows, even if you make a 180 degree turn. This describes a recurring dream I've had about tornadoes off and on for most of my life. I'm no Freud, but I guess for me, tornadoes represent the unbridled power of God through nature, and my attempt to outrun them or evade them may indicate a latent fear of answering God's purpose for my life.

Good grief...I'm the Jonah?

What should I do, blogpals? Try to confront the twister in my dream? Go Pecos Bill on its ass and rope it into submission, metaphorically speaking? Or have I got things all wrong with my analysis of the dream?

Whaddya say, bloggerinis? Put Bibb on the couch and pick his addled brain.

Tempus Subsisto

Tick, tock, blogowatts.

Lately, I've been thinking how supremely satisfying it would be to have the power to stop time's irrevocable flow. Why hasn't one of our think-tankers figured that one out yet? We've isolated the addiction gene, constructed the Tapei Tower and the Three Gorges Dam, and flown remote control robots to Mars, but we still look like amateurs when it comes to boring old time.

C'mon, eggheads! Einstein gave you a damned good foundation! Where are our chrono-physicists? Where are the tempologists? Where, great Scott, is our Dr. Emmett Brown?!

One-Point-Twenty-One Jigowatts!

Many a time this semester, I've glanced forlornly up at the HUGE clock that hangs above our fireplace (why did I do that to myself?) and I've thought, "My life is running out with each modulation of that insufferable second hand. And what have I done with this precious second? What about that one? And the next?"

Folks, I wrote myself a letter when I was fifteen years old. I sealed it and scrawled "Do not open until January 2025" on the back (along with an incredibly lame clock with lightning shooting through it; I told you people I was nerdy). When that January finally rolls around, I will have reached my 45th year. I'll probably have kids in high school, a tenured position at some modest teaching college (God willing), and the United States Secretary of Education for my wife. And do you know what's really weird? I have no idea what I wrote in that letter.

I think it was some hair-brained teenage dream about inventing time travel (I thought I was a budding physicist in those halcyon days), but I really cannot recall. If only I had invented that most glorious of science fictions, the obsession of every moderately brainy kid who read Mr. Wells's fantastic novel--the first to put forth the suggestion that there exists a fourth dimension, one accessible to everyone with a functioning memory:

"But you are wrong to say that we cannot move about in Time. For instance, if I am recalling an incident very vividly I go back to the instant of its occurrence: I become absent-minded, as you say. I jump back for a moment. . . . and why should [the civilised man] not hope that ultimately he may be able to stop or accelerate his drift along the Time-Dimension, or even turn about and travel the other way?"

So you see, in a way I did invent time travel by writing that letter back in 1994. When I open it in 2025, my mind will travel back along the Timestream to that spring afternoon in my room with the green shag carpet on 10th street and uncover the revolutionary scientific aspirations of a lonely 15-year-old. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is pretty cool.

But it would still be awesome if I could get a little of what Joshua got that hot day outside Gibeon.

That's a hint, God.

Stud Within, Nerd Without

Ladies and gentlemen of blogopolis, I think I may be a nerd.

I have attempted to stave off that particular moniker for quite some time now. I'm not sure why, but I have an aversion to the "nerd" stigma. Maybe because so many neanderthals in junior high were so quick to assign that label to me, and maybe I'm not so anxious to admit they were right.

Or maybe it's just that at the core of every guy dwells the soul of an ass-kickin' stud. Ladies, you may not know this about men, but every last one of us thinks he's a superhero. I'm serious. If you could access the inner workings of the male psyche, you would see that we all believe we could beat practically anyone in a fight. Sometimes we size up another guy we see, and we think, "Hmm, pretty big, but if it came right down to it, I could break him in two."

And I'm just not ready to give that inner stud his permanent walking papers. You know? Sure, I admit that I'm overweight. I don't have a rockin' six-pack like certain other bloggers who shall remain identified as FORKULELE. I can't even get in and out of our tiny new Civic without grunting like an arthritic rabbi. But I could still soundly kick all your butts in my mind.

Looking around my office, however, I must concede that the nerd vibe is undeniable.

And that's not the half of it. Sure, they're action figures. But did you notice the absurdly nerdy care that went into their positioning? Did you observe the miniature dioramas that echo scenes and thematic elements from the films?

See, here Anakin Skywalker duels with Obi-Wan in their final climactic battle. Do you notice the shadow of Vader mirroring Anakin's movements? And the tiny Vader between his feet? These things aren't just set up willy-nilly; there was serious thought put into each interaction, into every bend of a leg and every wardrobe choice. I'm so ashamed...

Here, Gandalf the White wards off the deadly blows of a Nazgul, while Treebeard looks on from the background. What's wrong with me?

Trust me, people, the nerdapalooza doesn't stop there, but I'm actually getting embarrassed of myself, so I'm not sharing any more. Nevertheless, I need to know if I'm beyond rehabilitation. Blognerds, can I ever be as cool as, say, this dude?

Probably no hope for that, huh? Well, I suppose I will just have to settle for the nerd niche in society. But I refuse to completely abandon my aspirations toward studliness and ultra-coolness. I am going to start working out, and I'm going to try to wear actual pants a little more often (instead of the nerd's uniform of cargo shorts and Star Wars T-shirt that I'm currently sporting on a daily basis). Any other tips on how to be cool and studly? Do I have to be able to crush walnuts with my pecs? Do I have to lift small vehicles over my head while smoking two cubans? Do I have to go out and maul some monstrous beast for sustenance? You tell me.

In the meantime, I'll just have to settle for this clown.

RinGrudgEye = Sh#tter

You know all about the story.

Some waify Japanese broad with debilitatingly morose emotional problems dies, and guess what! Her evil, stringy-haired spirit harasses an artsy dude with stubble and his anorexic blonde baby of a wife until her mysterious and carcinogenically dull secret is revealed! Such innovation! Such imagination! Such a breath of fresh...wait...

Haven't we seen this before?

And before that?

And before before that?

OMG, blog-peeps. Why do I keep going to these movies? Moses, smell the roses, already. If there's a pasty Asian face on the movie poster, with wide eyes with no discernible irises, the film will shamelessly borrow wholesale from its Japanese ancestors. I mean, are there even any angsty Japanese girls left? I would think we'd have killed them all off by now, but there seems to be an endless stream of them, ghoul-shuffling their way across studio apartments everywhere and frog-crawling through bedsheets to beat the band!

What will it finally take for the movie execs over at Churn-'Em-Out Pictures to realize that their cookie cutter thrillers are as washed up as an unwanted demon-girl at the bottom of a New England well? We get it! Evil never sleeps, eats, pees, washes its hair, changes its clothes, or dies. But can we at least get a different set? A slightly altered wig for the Tokyo ghost? I honestly think the twerps in Shutter went to the EXACT SAME HOUSE they used in The Grudge at one point in the film! For Hitchcock's sake, people, are we that stupid?!! Are we willing to lie back like hogs in our own filthy slop and gobble down whatever odious corn-pone they lob in our direction?

We're on the bus...a Japanese ghost girl appears in the window. We're in the shower...a Japanese ghost girl paws at our hair. We're sleeping next to our ignorant spouse...a Japanese ghost girl crawls out of a closet. We're casually reading the morning paper...a Japanese ghost girl pops up in the crossword. I can't even brush my teeth without a Japanese ghost girl handing me the toothpaste! Where does it stop?

So I've decided to take another imaginary blog-poll. Since the plot probably won't ever change, and since they seem to keep hiring the same two twenty-somethings to play the horrified victims in every one of these wretched films, I'm going to at least hope for a slightly modified ghost demographic.

So, Japanese ghost blogs, which shall it be...

A.) A Mexican ghost grampa

B.) A French ghost chef

C.) A Canadian ghost mountie

D.) A Chilean ghost spelunker

You decide.

We Regret To Inform You...

Recently, eaglets, I received yet another "Dear Nigel" letter from a group of Snoddy Snodgrass editors who thought my paper was "very fine" but not quite suited to their esteemed SCHOLARLY journal. Try another journal, they say. Maybe one that's more "devoted to narrative." As opposed to what, I say? Papers on the proper way to tie your Windsor? Comparative analyses of the "summering" experience on the French Riviera vs. the Italian Riviera? Structural interpretations of the perfect soufflé au fromage? Poppycock!

Apparently, one must sell one's soul to Mephistopheles in order to succeed in this business. But since I don't know the proper spells for such an endeavor, perhaps you blogles (that's blog-eagles, you know - I love a good portmanteau) could provide me with paper topics snooty enough to satisfy even the bluest of the high-falutin' bluebloods who run these SCHOLARLY journals (in between their tours of the Swiss Alps and their deep-tissue massages). So whaddya say, eaglogs? Can you spare an upper-crust thesis or two for a poor tramp from the boondocks?

Crown Him with Many Crowns

HE IS RISEN!

Christ, the Lord, is risen today, Alleluia!

Sons of men and angels say, Alleluia!

Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!

Sing, ye heavens, and earth, reply, Alleluia!

Love’s redeeming work is done, Alleluia!

Fought the fight, the battle won, Alleluia!

Lo! the Sun’s eclipse is over, Alleluia!
Lo! He sets in blood no more, Alleluia!

Vain the stone, the watch, the seal, Alleluia!
Christ hath burst the gates of hell, Alleluia!

Death in vain forbids His rise, Alleluia!

Christ hath opened paradise, Alleluia!

Lives again our glorious King, Alleluia!
Where, O death, is now thy sting? Alleluia!

Once He died our souls to save, Alleluia!

Where thy victory, O grave? Alleluia!

Soar we now where Christ hath led, Alleluia!

Following our exalted Head, Alleluia!

Made like Him, like Him we rise, Alleluia!

Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, Alleluia!

HAPPY EASTER, EVERYONE!

BUNNIES BE DAMNED!

Green with Shame

Despite my best efforts, Danny O'Bloggerans, St. Patrick's Day was celebrated with the same feckless inattention to historic tradition and alcoholic irreverence as always. Take a gander at these incriminating photographs if you doubt me.

I'm not sure if that's supposed to be a shalale or a lead pipe in Starey O'Typeagan the Leprechaun's knubby fist there, but you can be sure he beats his wife with it!

Yes, that's the best way to reclaim your Irish roots and honor the Motherland. Cram as many shamrocks into the eyes of the spectators as possible, and maybe they won't notice how much you resemble the crypt keeper.

I'm not sure who suffers the greater injustice here, the Irish or the Little People. And no, I don't mean the ones who hung out with Darby O'Gill.

Apparently, St. Patrick was also responsible for ridding Ireland of its Lhasa Apsos.

Oh, for the love of Erin. No comment.

When Patrick Goes Marching In...

On Easter Sunday in 433 AD, the blessed Saint Patrick led a humble band of missionaries against the amassed strength of Ireland's druidic magicians in order to announce the arrival of the Gospel at the High King (Ard-Righ) Leoghaire's feast at Tara. A stern decree had been issued that no fires might be lit before the lighting of King Leoghaire's hearth to announce the feast, but Patrick lit a fire on the tallest of the hills around Tara in open defiance of the King's silly proclamation. The resulting battle between the enraged druids and St. Patrick reads like a wizard battle scene out of Lord of the Rings. I will let the inimitable Catholic Encyclopedia take it from here.

"On Easter Day the missionary band having at their head the youth Benignus bearing aloft a copy of the Gospels, and followed by St. Patrick who with mitre and crozier was arrayed in full episcopal attire, proceeded in processional order to Tara. The druids and magicians put forth all their strength and employed all their incantations to maintain their sway over the Irish race, but the prayer and faith of Patrick achieved a glorious triumph. The druids by their incantations overspread the hill and surrounding plain with a cloud of worse than Egyptian darkness. Patrick defied them to remove that cloud, and when all their efforts were made in vain, at his prayer the sun sent forth its rays and the brightest sunshine lit up the scene. Again by demoniac power the Arch-Druid Lochru, like Simon Magus of old, was lifted up high in the air, but when Patrick knelt in prayer the druid from his flight was dashed to pieces upon a rock."

Man, is that ever awesome!
St. Patrick kicks ass for the Lord!

"I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"

One Shamrockin' Saint

Erin go Bragh, blogprechauns! As you know, we are but one brief week away from that greatest of all hagiolidays, St. Patrick's Day 2008! In honor of the coolest of the "secular saints"--as Valentine, Nicholas, and Patrick are often called by the heathen hoards--I have embarked on a little educational endeavor to make your St. Patrick's Day more meaningful this year. Every day this week, I will post one new factoid about the Irish missionary, so maybe this year will register as a reverential tribute to a truly great (though possibly at least partially fictional) man of God instead of just another reason to get plastered on green beer.

And so, without further shenanigans, here's today's fascinating Patrick fact:

One of St. Patrick's first miracles occured near Slemish, where a pagan chieftain accosted him as he made his way up from the river Boyne. The chieftain, Dichu, intended to brutally maul the unarmed saint, but when he raised his sword to strike, his arm froze in place and would not budge until he pledged his fealty to Christ and St. Patrick. Afterwards, Dichu offered his own barn to the saint as a rustic church, where Patrick oversaw his first administration of the eucharist in Ireland. Today, the place is still called Sabhall (pronounced 'Saul'), meaning barn, and a small replica stone barn has been erected there to commemorate the site.