#[ Logic - Challenging (Failure) ] - Holy *s%&*

[kim-kitsuragi1908]

At the family dinner table my cousin has just admitted to comitting what she called "the crime of boiling boys. Regularly". I do not know what this means. I fear for the saftey of myself and my brother as we are both boys that could get boiled. I dont even know if boiling boys is a crime. I am afraid.

- Boston

Thank you for your concern, Boston, and yes, boiling boys— or anyone for that matter— is very much a crime. You and your brothers have low odds of being in danger, given that none of you have gone “missing” already, but still, steer clear of being stuck alone with this cousin, make sure you keep any food or drinks you plan on consuming in sight at all times, and let someone know if you feel at risk. Contact the RCM emergency number if you have any more concerns at immediate hand, and contact me or my partner’s direct logs if you need surveillance, should they mention planning to boil things at any point. Stay safe, Boston.

[lezliefaithwade]

David & Goliath

My grandfather, on my Mother's side, immigrated to Canada from Italy in the 1950's. For years I thought I was Italian until one day my Mother explained that her real father (who was Danish) had died when she was seven and that Ralph was actually my grandmother's “companion”. At seven I had no idea what a "companion" was, nor did I care. All that mattered was whether I would inherit his talent for cooking and gardening.  As a child, Italy seemed like a mythical land filled with beautiful palaces and amazing desserts.

When I finally had the opportunity to visit the land of my grandfather's birth, I made it a point to seek out all the places I'd heard about as a child. So, it was, that while I was in Florence, standing in front of the statue of David I was suddenly reminded of an episode in grade 9 when for three solid weeks I was bullied by a fellow student three times my size who I believed would destroy me.

In the Old Testament, the story goes that David, who is just a boy, takes down the 6'9" Goliath with nothing but a sling shot after King Saul, supposedly over 6' himself, is too afraid to challenge the giant on his own.

As I stood there examining the statue, I couldn't help wondering why Michelangelo had sculpted the boy to be so huge when Goliath was the giant?  At 17 feet, David stands three times larger than an average man. Is his size a metaphor for his bravery?

Growing up, I never considered whether I was brave or not until the summer before my thirteenth birthday when my parent's separation marked me (at least in my mind) as an oddity. I was the first one I knew of to come from a broken home, and to me, this was a truly embarrassing fact. I was ashamed of what I perceived to be a major failure on the part of my parents, and worried that everyone would think less of me because of it.  I wanted my family to be idyllic and though they were far from that, at least while we were all under the same roof, I could pretend. To save myself the embarrassment and shame of having to explain to kids I knew why I was no longer living at my old house on Belmont, and instead in an ugly apartment building across town, I opted to attend an all girl’s Catholic high school where no one knew me. For almost three months, I lied about where I lived. I pretended the apartment building I walked to every evening after school was where I babysat someone's kid. I never let on that my parents weren't together or that I was struggling with the reality that they were headed for divorce.

Catholic girl's schools, I soon discovered, harboured two types of young women. Those who longed for small classroom education among a female community of likeminded individuals, and those whose parents were forcing them to attend a school they hoped would reform them. Possibly attending Catholic school was a last resort ordered by the court. In any case, I was soon the target of gang terrorism brought about by answering questions in class – namely in English where I seemed to excel in understanding Shakespeare. Somewhere between The Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet I became the object of abuse. Short and obnoxious, I was an easy target for a small but imposing group of girls who were significantly bigger and louder. The leader of this particular gang of delinquents was an overbearing, unusually tall girl named Susan Podansky. Susan had thick brown curly hair and a large set of yellow teeth that filled her face when she smiled. Not that her smiles were warm and generous. When Susan smiled, there was foreboding in the air.  She reminded me of the witch in Hansel and Gretel licking her chops as she prepared to eat everything in her wake. Her neck was thick, her hands were large and her voice was low. “Guess who’s going to die tonight?” she’d whisper in my ear as I scurried from Math class to Science. The whole time I was dissecting my frog I imagined my innards splayed across the grass beyond the school.

It occurs to me now, many years later and infinitely wiser, that there was nowhere for Susan and her gang to actually pommel me. The school was small and well supervised and the yard was too. Unless their aim was to be caught, there was no way they could beat me up and get away with it. At the time, this logic escaped me. Instead I cowered in classrooms, stayed late for extra help in things I was already excelling at, and volunteered for everything from library duty to bible study. If something needed to be scrubbed, painted, sorted or filed, I signed myself up.

There were rumours going around about Susan and her gang. They set fire to garbage cans. They stole from variety stores. One of them had a friend who’d been decapitated on the roller coaster at Crystal Beach. Each story was more shocking than the one before. What started out as careful avoidance, turned into full blown terror.

Ironically, I’d known Susan in grades 3 and 4 when I had attended Holy Family elementary. I was not Catholic, but the school was close to our house and my mother deemed it more convenient than the public school that was a good deal further away. My parents were never concerned about what rubbed off on us. During the day I learned about the Virgin Mary and the Holy Ghost and after school my mother played Rock and Roll albums and allowed me to read, Mad Magazine, and Creepy comics. Susan had been in my class back then. She was already bigger than the rest of us, but harmless. Once she even invited me to her house. I remember her mother was pleasant enough as she cooked something in the kitchen that smelled foreign and delicious.  Most of the kids at Holy Family were Irish or Italian, but Susan was Polish. To me that made her exotic. But then again, I was the daughter of Wasps attending a Catholic school. Everything was exotic to me. In the two years we shared a classroom at elementary school, we’d never clashed. In fact, in a childish act of solidarity, we both called Mrs. Flint, a substitute teacher, Mrs. Flintstone and were called to the office. We were equally contrite and that was the end of that. What prompted this new vitriol, aside from a seemingly innocent love for Shakespeare, I’ll never know. Whatever it was, her threatening demeanour was scary and all consuming.

At home, my mother couldn’t help but notice that I was at school later than usual. I’d enter the hallway out of breath, eat dinner, then retreat to bed. After a week of this she coaxed the truth out of me with cupcakes and before I knew what I’d said, she was on the warpath. This was exactly what I didn’t want. I’d been warned by Susan that if I snitched on her, she’d make my life even more miserable. I begged my mother to leave it alone, but she was determined. My mother had lived with an abusive step-father for a time before Ralph, and bullying wasn’t something she tolerated.

The next day I was called down to Sister Rita Mary’s office where two seats were arranged in front of her desk. I could see from half a mile away that large head of messy hair belonging to Susan. I timidly entered and sat down next to her. Sister Rita Mary smiled, “It’s come to my attention that there has been some nuisance between the two of you.”

Nuisance? Between the two of us? I could see where this was heading.

“It’s my belief that you just don’t know each other well enough, so my solution to this misunderstanding is to arrange for you to sit next to each other in all of your classes from now on.” Then, with a smile on her face she dismissed us from her office and closed the door.

Susan grinned, “This oughta be fun,” she announced. “Guess who’s gonna have a funeral?” And then she galumphed off to class.

Sitting beside Susan was excruciating. In math she broke my pencils. In English she poured ink on my assignment. But it was art class where she really crossed the line. I’d been working on a painting for several weeks and had almost completed my masterpiece when she and her gang “accidentally” spilled paint all over the canvas. “Oh, sorry!” she feigned, and then left me to absorb what had just happened while the teacher insisted I stay and clean up the mess.

Two other girls in my class – Vicki and Sarah shook their heads in disgust. “This can’t continue.” they stated. “That girl has to be stopped.”

“I agree,” I muttered as I crawled about the class on my knees cleaning tempra paint off the floor, “But how?”

That afternoon at lunchtime the three of us hunkered down at a table in the cafeteria to eat. No sooner had we settled when Susan came bounding over, knocked my tray off the table proclaiming me a moron and warning, “Better watch yourself tonight.”

I could feel my face flush and the bile rise in my mouth. I’d learned one thing from comic books, and that was how things were never what they seemed. The meek were often strong. The strong were often scared and bullies could be undermined. Before I knew it, Sarah was standing.

“What did you say?” she asked her.

For a moment I saw Susan blanch. She was shocked. This was unexpected. All she could manage to say was, “What?”

“You heard her, " Vicki demanded, also now standing. They looked like two Davids' to Susan's Goliath.

"What's wrong with the baby?" Susan taunted, "Needs other people to stand up for her?"

"No," I said rising to my feet, "I can stand up for myself."

She hesitated. Everyone was looking at us. Even the lunchroom nun was staring in disbelief.

“You'd better watch yourself.” Susan growled just low enough for my table to hear.

“Or what?” I asked

Susan just stared at me.

“Or what?” I repeated, “You’ll kill me? Beat me up? Hit me? Bury me? Why wait until tonight? Come on. Get it over with. Do it. Come on. You want to hit me? Hit me.” I was on a roll. Words were ammunition from my slingshot and I was on the attack. Next thing I knew, Vicki and Sarah chimed in.

“Yeah,” they echoed, “You wanna fight? Let’s fight.”  

Susan blinked. The cafeteria was eerily quiet. All eyes were on us.

“You’re not worth it,” Susan grunted, as she backed out of the lunchroom alone. And that, was the end of that.

For a moment, I felt 6' tall knowing that I had faced my biggest fear and somehow come out the better for it.

Vicki turned to me, "One Goliath down." she smiled. "Listen, I'm having a sleep-over this Friday. Ask your parents if you can come?"

This was the moment. If I could stand up to Susan, I would finally have the courage to say, "Just have to ask my Mom. My folks are separated."

I waited for the judgement that never came. Instead she simply said, "Cool. I'm adopted. Come by at 7:00."

[incorrect-hunterx-quotes]

Hisoka is a name that often appears in old rumors, tales, historical narratives and in many secret documents of underground societies all around the world and in different centuries.

In 1919, when the first World War was over and the main focus was on recovering and building, a German soldier found a report about the time right before WW1 in the basement under the palace of Prussia. But he was found dead before he could share these documents because of a headshot. The culprit is unknown and the only hint left was a paper with the following sentence: "Verdammt, Hisoka!" ["Damn it, Hisoka!"]. There the research about that name began and it turned out to be a person who surpassed the natural laws and has been living for many centuries.  Also it is pretty sure that he is the biggest asshole in history.

His story is way too outrageous and goes beyond logical human understanding so that it has been kept secret in order to keep the balance of the world's history.

The "True" Mastermind behind major Disasters

Excluding the Greek "crimes" it can be said that Hisoka’s first deed was giving Brutus the knife to stab Caesar in 44 BC. Then until the 14th century not a single trace of Hisoka could be found. This is the longest break in the known sightings of Hisoka.

In 1378 he broke the nose of the Sphinx and blamed a Sufi Muslim who was later hanged for vandalism.

Furthermore he was responsible for the Spanish Inquistion in 1478. In fact it was Columbus who discovered America in 1492 but of course Hisoka was the one who started killing the natives.

As time went by the next disaster linked to Hisoka was the Great Fire of London (1666). The fire started at the bakery of Thomas Farriner and spread. The major firefighting technique of the time was to create firebreaks by means of demolition; this, however, was critically delayed owing to the indecisiveness of the Lord Mayor of London whose name (coincidentally) was Sir Thomas Bloodworth. And by indecisiveness it is meant that he was woken up, annoyingly said "Pish! A woman might piss it out!" and went back to sleep. So how much Hisoka is involved should be pretty clear.

To escape the mess after the fire he moved to Ireland but about 200 years later he got bored and decided to pull a "prank" causing the Irish Potato Famine (1845-1852).

After his return to the United Kingdom in 1895 he found out about H. G. Wells’ time machine and used it to travel back in time to visit Atlantis and sunk it for an unknown reason. When he came back in 1897 he started the legend of Dracula.

Then in 1912 he sabotaged the guidance system on the RMS Titanic and 1937 on the LZ 129 Hindenburg

Consequently the ship sunk and the passenger airship burned and crashed to the ground in two of the biggest disasters of the 1900′s. Big Surprise. 

While traveling from the UK to the Russian Empire, Hisoka stopped in Austria to kick A. Hitler out of art school leading from his journey to the army and later in to politics.

Later upon arriving in the Russian Empire he started preparing an inevitable plot for WW1 which would ultimately sabotage Russia, so that it will not be able to last till the end of the war. But right before the beginning of the war Hisoka went on vacation.

On his way to Hawaii he met Santa Claus and killed him (Krampus is still free though).

A few years later he returned to Germany to cause the Hindenburg disaster and afterwards traveled to France for WW2.

Near the end of WW2 when the reinforcement from the US arrived he used the chance to finally return to America after over 400 years but did not stay for long. From there he flew to Japan and dropped the nuclear bomb on Nagasaki (but not Hiroshima) in 1945.

Back in the US he triggered the Vietnam War (1946) and decided to go back on vacation in Bora Bora this time.

His third vacation resort was somewhere in the Caribbean, he stole the Russian nuclear bombs that played an important role in preventing the Cuban Missile Crisis (1962) from escalating so his vacation didn't get ruined by the fallout.

In the early 1970s after his vacation he peacefully enjoyed his time by taking enthusiastic walks in Northern California and somehow gained the title "Zodiac Killer".

Later in January 26, 1986, the 10th flight of Space Shuttle Challenger (OV-99) broke apart 73 seconds into its flight. Its failure caused by breach (made by Hisoka) in the SRB (solid rocket booster) joint it sealed.

For some nostalgic reasons Hisoka was "missing" the east side so he made a few calls to the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic and somehow because of that, on April 25, 1986, the Chernobyl disaster happened.

Surprisingly he was not the slightest bit involved in the 9/11 incident in 2001. At that time he was occupied by a very hard puzzle of 1000 pieces without anything to rely on because he threw away the box and could not remember the picture. He started working on the puzzle in January, and after many months completed it in December. 

Unfortunately that puzzle could not keep him focused long enough so he made a short trip of a few days to Fukushima on March 9, 2011 and 2 days later the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster was on every media of the world.

​

Secretly the governments worldwide are still looking for that man in the shadows to avoid further disasters but without any success.

​

Hisoka’s   Mythology

Hisoka was born as a mere human boy who coincidentally managed to find and keep the Holy Grail until he went to Olympus and took one of the Golden Apples of Hesperides for his immortality. Then after destroying the Holy Grail he kidnapped the Oracle of Delphi to know which major events to have fun with later on.

His sarcastic nature is beyond human understanding which can be clearly seen by his plot against the gods of the ancient times. It simply started with a prank on Ares by replacing his helmet with a hornets nest and (temporarily) ended with killing Zeus then dumping him in the closest volcano (because he was being a pain in ass) that happened to be Mount Vesuvius. So after the huge eruption of raw power of the volcano, Pompeii was doomed. Also he killed a few more gods and demigods and buried them in the resulting explosion.

Therefore he gained the title King Hisoka. His name was well known during the Hunter era but made it easier for Ares to find him. In the 1700s Ares came for revenge but was defeated utterly. Leaving only one "enemy" for him: DEATH, who has been trying to find Hisoka for 700 years.  Everytime Death finds him, Hisoka steals his scythe and escapes. This has happened 9 times so far.

Nowadays the name King Hisoka has disappeared from the mainstream media. Hisoka is staying low, living on Earth and waiting for his next oppurtunity. There are still going to be more wars for him to start, people to kill, a there are still a few gods around that owe him debts and also some imprisoned gods whose fate has not yet been decided.

List of Gods killed (sorted by pantheons)

- Aphrodite, Ares, Athena, Chronos, Hekate, Hera, Hermes, Iris, Nike, Pan, Zeus

- Bastet, Horus, Isis, Osiris, Ra, Serkhet,  Set, Sobek, Thoth

- Frigg, Hel, Odin, Thor

- Innana, Tammuz

- Ryujin

- Xolotl

List of Gods imprisoned

- Achilles, Amphidrite, Atlas, Dionysus, Ganymedes, Helios, Hercules, Hestia, Hyperion, Hypnos, Nereus

- Amunet, Aten, Khonsu

- Ba'al

List of Gods owing Hisoka favors

- Apollo, Nemesis, Persephone, Prometheus, Triton, Zephyros

- Loki

- Questzlcoatl

- Raijin

- the Morrigan

[woodworkingpastor]

Fleeing Barrenness -- Luke 13:1-9 -- March 7, 2021 -- Third Sunday of Lent

I learned recently of another disease that people around the world live with. Unlike the Cornoavirus, this malady is not new; it has been with us forever. It’s called apophenia. It’s nothing you would take a prescription for; it’s neither a rash that you treat with an ointment nor a virus that you treat with antibiotics. Apophenia is the tendency to perceive meaningful patterns in random events.

Apophenia is the bane of persons who create role playing games (things like escape rooms) because participants know they have to examine things carefully to find clues, but apophenia causes them to see patterns where there are none. One game creator set up a game where the first clue was almost childishly easy, only to watch in dismay as people were thrown off track by three pieces of wood on the floor that looked enough like an arrow pointing to a wall that participants assumed it was a clue. The game designer wrote, “these were normal people whose assumptions were normal, logical—and completely wrong.”

Learning how to properly understand and interpret events is a key to today’s rather challenging passage from Luke 13:1-9.

At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, "Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them-- do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did."

Then he told this parable: "A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, 'See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?' He replied, 'Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.' "

Ripped from the headlines

These verses are some that make us go “Huh” as we read them, before we simply move on to more popular or comforting passages of Scripture. We’re not quite sure what to make of the difficult stories or Jesus’ somewhat cryptic response to them.

These “ripped from the headlines” news stories refer to events we know virtually nothing about. If the internet had existed in Jesus’ day, then a simple Google search would allow us to read the news coverage of how Pilate had ordered soldiers to arrest (or kill?) a group of Galilean freedom fighters (or terrorists?) who were plotting an attack on the government. We could find Facebook or Instagram posts where people debated the motives of the Galileans and the appropriateness of Pilate’s response.

Similarly, our Google search could tell us about the tower of Siloam. We assume it to be an engineering failure and perhaps imagine that there were news reports of the event; perhaps human interest stories about the people who died in the collapse and the loss their families experienced. We would read of investigations into the collapse; maybe the construction was sub-standard or an inspector was bribed to look the other way.

But what our hypothetical internet search of these events would reveal is people trying to make sense of what happened. Luke shows us that people’s apophenia has kicked in and they’re asking, “Do these events fit some sort of larger pattern? Is there some unknown enemy operating behind the scenes, driving current events and even history itself in a direction away from righteousness and holiness?” We all know that bad things happen; what we find intolerable is bad things happening for no apparent reason.

We have our own headlines to rip events from, and we have our own apophenia which tries to find patterns in those events. From Covid-19 to car accidents and cold snaps to cancer diagnoses, we are not the first to wonder if the bad news around us is actually God’s judgment in disguise. We ponder that Jesus’ return must be near; surely the world can’t continue going the way it is.

Well, maybe. But a problem with this kind of thinking is that it often has more to do with apophenia than it does with Gospel. We are not the first generation of Christians to see difficult things happening in the world around us and speculate that they must mean the world is nearing an end.

The 160o’s was one of these times. Life was difficult in that century:

The average life expectancy of a European was 23-26 years.

The Thirty Years War (1618-1648) reduced the population of Germany from 21 million to 13 million, through war, destruction of crops, and disease.

In 1665, 70,000 residents of London died due to a plague; the next year 100,000 lost their place of shelter due to a massive fire.

People’s apophenia kicked in then, too. Alarming reports circulated that witches and warlocks were preying on people’s bodies, causing a rise in interest in the apocalyptic sections of the Bible and the rise of the Antichrist. People thought the Lord’s return must be imminent.

To the people who come to Jesus concerned with the actions of the government and a recent engineering disaster, Jesus rejects the notion of a correlation between these events and the sin of the people involved. God’s judgment is not being revealed; but that does not mean that God’s judgment is not real. We don’t need apophenia to construct a pattern where there is none, but we do need to repent, for we are all sinners.

Repent!

Jesus follows up his interpretation of current events with a parable to help the people of God see that current events are not as determinative as we think. We can become so caught up in a vision of how the world is “going to hell in a handbasket” that we neglect to give good attention to how we are giving witness to the Kingdom of God.

The parable has its own clues that show us that it is a story of the Kingdom of God. It is important to notice that the tree is in a vineyard; the vineyard was how Jesus’ contemporaries understood their identity as the people of God. In the vineyard, the primary task of trees is to produce fruit. We’re given a chance to change our ways and do what we were planted to do. Yes, we are concerned about what we see happening around us. But are we producing fruit?

It’s easy to look at difficult times and only see suffering and loss, especially when things were as bad as they were in the 1600’s. But when we look at church history more closely, we see that some of the hardest times led to the greatest church renewal; disease, disaster, destruction, and death are not the last word.

Sometime around 1670 a Pietist leader named Philip Jakob Spener established collegia pietatis. These “pious gatherings” were something of a new thing: they were Bible study groups that met in homes to discuss sermons and devotional readings, and to build up faithful believers.

His colleague Johann Arndt was a great supporter of these gatherings and took church renewal to the next level, advocating expanded use of these small groups, sermons that connected Christian doctrine and Christian life, and the importance of lay persons participating in Christian ministry, among other things.

Their work in spiritual renewal eventually captured the imagination of a man named Ernst Christoph Hochmann von Hochanau who became a well-known and well-travelled evangelist throughout central Germany, eventually settling in the village of Schwarzenau, where sometime around 1703 he met a man who was becoming increasingly frustrated with the spiritual coldness of the church in town—a man named Alexander Mack, the first leader of what is today the Church of the Brethren.

Spiritual renewal is never easy; the events of our time do impact our living. For Alexander Mack, bearing fruit for the kingdom meant leaving everything behind in Schwarzenau and by 1730 migrating to America with the rest of the Brethren. But from spiritual seeds planted in exceedingly difficult times, the Church of the Brethren today has over 600,000 members in 2,700 congregations and meeting points in 11 countries around the world.

When faced with difficult times, our calling is not to get sidetracked by our apophenia, but to be the faithful people of God in our current cultural circumstance. Sisters and Brothers, we are called to bear fruit, not live in fear and frustration!

[transfusionau]

Aradia Megido - fuchsiablood.

Trolltag:   arietineAspersory Lusus:      ♈ Classpect:  Sylph of Doom Planet:     Land of Glaciers and Ruin Dream Moon: Prospit Ancestor:   Her S()lit♈ Ethereality

Aradia used to be a big deal, but due to unfortunate circumstances, that's sort of taken a backseat to the fact that she's now nothing but a whisper in the air, a phantom haunting her hive. She's dead. Which is a pretty big deal because of her status as royalty, seemingly dooming her race to their current empress for the next billions of sweeps. She's a very logical and rational person, tending to opt for simpler, stricter routines with clear instructions as opposed to the chaotic lack of restraint her ancestor puts on her species. However, it's all pretty useless now that she's a ghost and will never challenge her for the throne, so she's resigned herself to a life of unimportance and mystery.

Contrary to popular belief and her interest in apocalyptic scenarios, she'd prefer for her race to survive, so tending to her lusus Bh'ablahc is key to her race surviving, as failure to tend to her results in the Vast Bleat, potent enough to kill off every troll in the universe. That's really the closest thing to an interest she has nowadays, as the rest of her earlier hobbies have become forgotten over time. The best thing she can remember is her earlier fascination with ghost stories whenever she ventured onto the surface for land dwelling camping trips with some friends, and even then, it's purely for the irony of her current situation. Excitement and intrigue have been lost to her, which is unfortunate, since she used to love exploring underwater caverns and touching the very bottom of the ocean where no other sea dweller dared to venture. She would map out the surface slowly, until she met a grim fate.

BEHIND THE MEANINGS:

Trolltag: 'Arietine' describes something that is like, or pertaining to rams (which is what her sign is in the first place as Aries). Because the symbol of Aries is such an important sign in troll culture as the sign of royalty, it makes sense that it would be something she would mention upfront to make sure everybody knows who she is. 'Aspersory' describes a container that contains holy water (linking to Aradia’s interest in possessions and spirits and such), as well as her own personal ram-shaped aspersory - her most treasured possession.

Classpect: Sylphs are helpful and keen to heal their aspect to the point of interference, which in this case is Doom, regarding death and limitations. Aradia is a very death-themed troll, so Doom makes sense from an aspect perspective. Being the heiress, she would have a very solid understanding of the rules of her society, and her desire to change it is what makes her a Sylph, even if her challenge as a player is a little muddied by her spiritual properties. In the broad sense, though, her mission would be to take a step forward and use her healing powers to repair a broken part of herself, as well as the world around her.

[vasilinaorlova]

hologram and flamingo, superimposed / anatomy of hysterics

uncanny valley. spooky. translucent you are a bunch of hypocrites. you would swear you love me but still won’t buy my book. I am not drinking that coffee with you, nor do I eat that cheesecake I promised you to share with you one day. what?! I cannot possibly humanly supposedly theoretically hypothetically reasonably wait this long. “vinyl” is veritably the strangest word in the whole English language. the more you look at it the stranger it is. I know you cannot marry me for a variety of overwhelmingly silly reasons, but buy my book. It’s almost the same, only twice better. In fact it brings all the privileges of the named arrangement but none of its horrific downsides. I was about to throw a tantrum,                       conduct a scene,                                    an instance of hysterics,                                  a scandal, but– thank you who bought or plans to buy my book; when you have just published something, there is always this great anxiety. *wipes out traces of cheesecake from her cheeks with a tablecloth’s ridge*

I will drink coffee with you and I will eat that cheesecake *another one* that I promised I’ll eat with you one day. sigh. Billy Collins, I hear–and he’s one of the most successful poets at least among those who look like something recognizable as poets, for there are perhaps more successful ones, but their identity as poets is under a sort of question, a pending identity, as it were–Billy Collins sells some 18.000 copies of his poetry books a year, and earns $44.000 a year of royalties–which are ridiculously low numbers for one of the most famous poets alive of the huge English-speaking world. just how much more he’d earn if he wrote prose. or how even more he’d earn if he wrote self-help books. in some sense it is a privilege to be a poet in the Western society, to afford to be a poet. either you have nothing and you can therefore afford to be a poet, or you have to have a lot–a (preferably tenured) position in a good university by the very least, connections, time to and understanding how to submit endlessly carousels of your poems to journals (might be a full-time job in its own right), a lit agent at least, a publisher, etc., etc., etc. poetry is a completely thankless trade, a vain business                           (yet in another sense the most rewarding too).

hologram and flamingo, superimposed

(I am looking for a title for my streams.) hologram and flamingo: invariance theorem (another variant)

my writing career started in another language, another time, and in another country. there I was lucky to be absorbed momentarily, as soon as I gave the first glimpse of myself, into existing writing community. to be sure, an impoverished community it was, a community which had next to no power, no assets, not much of a political voice or any other kind of significance beyond its own imaginings, but a community consisting of viciously ambitious writers who are professionals of the Russian letters for what it is worth.

this community is relatively small in comparison to English-speaking writing communities, but it is also dense and centered around several dying literary journals. I publish my work in these journals and used to have books coming out regularly from publishing houses which predate on these journals as well.

the journals are treasures of writings that are barely read; their authors suffer constantly and viscerally from being un-demanded by the society. plainly put, there are no adequate infrastructures in existence, for the un-reader of said journals also exists, but laments the absence of good literature.

this un-reader dismisses the journals without reading them, because journals are the remnants of the previous epoch, surviving well into the new times in forms that seems to be outdated. (the irony of it, however, that they are just fine–in the Western world such professional journals look exactly the same). it is quite a world. pretty much everything I have ever written in Russian is published, except for diaries and things like that–something that I write for my own endless references.

I moved to the English-speaking world in 2010, and struggled with the language for quite a while (I continue struggling with it, every day is another challenge). here my successes are quite modest, at least they are not in any way in comparison with what I had in Russia.

now is a luminous, liminal moment: I have everything in endless drafts. tons of work. I like this work sincerely. my best pages are written in English, no doubt. however, there is a lot of difficulties with getting it out there. everything requires another round of revision. additionally, the services of a professional editor are extremely expensive, and I have to consult a highly skilled native speaker professional for any of my writings I attempt to advance. I asked friends to help me several times, but they cannot possibly run such a charity, and I am not entirely comfortable asking them all the time. …yes. this is about it. everything that appears in this book (Holy Robots) at some point was given away “for free,” as you put it, that is to say, was posted. I have no secret storages of writings that somehow exceed in mastery or ferocity what you see every day. however, the preparation of the book does involve selection, revisions, polishing, and, most importantly, building of sequences of poems, which is a crucial part. I try to compose my books so that each division in them has its own logic, and together they form a complex but permeable system. I believe the book should have a breathing; for the poetry book it is extremely important to think about the rhythm, architectonics, and harmony of the whole corpus of texts. I don’t know in what degree I succeeded with my task but I tried. a text into which it is easy to slip my old-time dream is fulfilled. when I was asking myself many times a day if I ever master the English language, the image of a remote room, the inhabitant of which would one day perhaps listen to my words in silence, was something that kept me going. don’t forget to write me an explicit report. Holy Robots consist(s) of eight divisions: “Holy Robots,” “Necromancer,” “Emperor,” “Missionary,” “Poems in a Male Voice,” “Alchemist,” “Paper Flowers,” and “Mirrors." Six poems out of the “Poems in a Male Voice”  series were out in Figroot Press web literary journal December 2016. This is approximately one fifth part of all the Poems in a Male Voice. I am happy with this book but I am also tired of it. It took me a long time to put it together because I kept adding poems to two sections, “Poems in a Male Voice” and “Alchemist.” By the end of it I was thoroughly exasperated. I hope I will never write another Alchemist poem or Poem in a Male Voice. I am so done with both, I cannot even tell you. The tomb of the unknown writer Is a faceless obelisk                     {obscene]                     {obsidian] Amidst a deserted landscape, Surviving by pure chance, Rising alone, Throwing a straight shadow Like a sundial For no one to measure time; No flowers, And a path                   [petulant} Overtaken by virulent verdure. Infinite Jest traveled with me to Russia–Moscow and then Siberia–in 2013. It was the only book in English I took to that travel of mine. I rather liked and disliked the book. It is a writing as much fascinating as it is disappointing. Ulysses is another matter; one cannot really dislike it–it is already pretty much a monument covered with beautiful stains of respectable moss. (Who knew it’ll happen so soon.) German philosopher Peter Sloterdijk’s masterpiece is a trilogy consisting of “Bubbles. Spheres Volume I: Microspherology,” “Globes. Spheres Volume II: Macrospherology,” and finally “Foams. Spheres Volume III: Plural Spherology.” Sounds like a life pleasantly spent. “…what Clément describes as a punitive adoration of female singers: "They suffer, they cry, they die.”“ –Alex Ross (”In Extremis,” The New Yorker, Jan.9, 2017) very true in regard to writing as well (Ross is talking about music) the female writer is constantly on the edge. inasmuch as the female writer is her character, she suffers terrible blows from life, even if as a person she’s perfectly fine. she follows through the enfilade unfolding: from one excruciating story into another. it’s a never-ending cascade of stairways, an endless kaleidoscope. the key is to sustain this spectacular falling for years without (or preferably with) the harm to the mental health. everything should fall apart to blow the reader away. if you don’t have tragedies in your life, forge them. exaggerate what little you have. keep them fascinated with the tragic sublime. be a figure of constant emaciation. a silhouette of the unbearable. sustain endless hysterics of writing. be a cascading cry, a carousel of terrible losses. "wake up from a nightmare into another nightmare.” feed vultures of déjà vu. pick worst lovers. pick lovers who would prostitute you on the agora. age tragically in one night. age irreversibly. choose strong betrayers. arrange a failure out of the most enduring friendships possible–a female friendship. bury relatives. divorce husbands. have a drug-addict child. nothing is too gross. don’t forget to die from your own hand.

[dhgfashe]

           Through their training, scientists are equipped with what Sagan calls a “baloney detection kit” — a set of cognitive tools and techniques that fortify the mind against penetration by falsehoods:    

                   The kit is brought out as a matter of course whenever new ideas are offered for consideration. If the new idea survives examination by the tools in our kit, we grant it warm, although tentative, acceptance. If you’re so inclined, if you don’t want to buy baloney even when it’s reassuring to do so, there are precautions that can be taken; there’s a tried-and-true, consumer-tested method.            

           But the kit, Sagan argues, isn’t merely a tool of science — rather, it contains invaluable tools of healthy skepticism that apply just as elegantly, and just as necessarily, to everyday life. By adopting the kit, we can all shield ourselves against clueless guile and deliberate manipulation. Sagan shares nine of these tools:    

Wherever possible there must be independent confirmation of the “facts.”

Encourage substantive debate on the evidence by knowledgeable proponents of all points of view.

Arguments from authority carry little weight — “authorities” have made mistakes in the past. They will do so again in the future. Perhaps a better way to say it is that in science there are no authorities; at most, there are experts.

Spin more than one hypothesis. If there’s something to be explained, think of all the different ways in which it could be explained. Then think of tests by which you might systematically disprove each of the alternatives. What survives, the hypothesis that resists disproof in this Darwinian selection among “multiple working hypotheses,” has a much better chance of being the right answer than if you had simply run with the first idea that caught your fancy.

Try not to get overly attached to a hypothesis just because it’s yours. It’s only a way station in the pursuit of knowledge. Ask yourself why you like the idea. Compare it fairly with the alternatives. See if you can find reasons for rejecting it. If you don’t, others will.

Quantify. If whatever it is you’re explaining has some measure, some numerical quantity attached to it, you’ll be much better able to discriminate among competing hypotheses. What is vague and qualitative is open to many explanations. Of course there are truths to be sought in the many qualitative issues we are obliged to confront, but finding them is more challenging.

If there’s a chain of argument, every link in the chain must work (including the premise) — not just most of them.

Occam’s Razor. This convenient rule-of-thumb urges us when faced with two hypotheses that explain the data equally well to choose the simpler.

Always ask whether the hypothesis can be, at least in principle, falsified. Propositions that are untestable, unfalsifiable are not worth much. Consider the grand idea that our Universe and everything in it is just an elementary particle — an electron, say — in a much bigger Cosmos. But if we can never acquire information from outside our Universe, is not the idea incapable of disproof? You must be able to check assertions out. Inveterate skeptics must be given the chance to follow your reasoning, to duplicate your experiments and see if they get the same result.

           Just as important as learning these helpful tools, however, is unlearning and avoiding the most common pitfalls of common sense. Reminding us of where society is most vulnerable to those, Sagan writes:    

                   In addition to teaching us what to do when evaluating a claim to knowledge, any good baloney detection kit must also teach us what not to do. It helps us recognize the most common and perilous fallacies of logic and rhetoric. Many good examples can be found in religion and politics, because their practitioners are so often obliged to justify two contradictory propositions.            

           He admonishes against the twenty most common and perilous ones — many rooted in our chronic discomfort with ambiguity — with examples of each in action:    

ad hominem — Latin for “to the man,” attacking the arguer and not the argument (e.g., The Reverend Dr. Smith is a known Biblical fundamentalist, so her objections to evolution need not be taken seriously)

argument from authority (e.g., President Richard Nixon should be re-elected because he has a secret plan to end the war in Southeast Asia — but because it was secret, there was no way for the electorate to evaluate it on its merits; the argument amounted to trusting him because he was President: a mistake, as it turned out)

argument from adverse consequences (e.g., A God meting out punishment and reward must exist, because if He didn’t, society would be much more lawless and dangerous — perhaps even ungovernable. Or: The defendant in a widely publicized murder trial must be found guilty; otherwise, it will be an encouragement for other men to murder their wives)

appeal to ignorance — the claim that whatever has not been proved false must be true, and vice versa (e.g., There is no compelling evidence that UFOs are not visiting the Earth; therefore UFOs exist — and there is intelligent life elsewhere in the Universe. Or: There may be seventy kazillion other worlds, but not one is known to have the moral advancement of the Earth, so we’re still central to the Universe.) This impatience with ambiguity can be criticized in the phrase: absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

special pleading, often to rescue a proposition in deep rhetorical trouble (e.g., How can a merciful God condemn future generations to torment because, against orders, one woman induced one man to eat an apple? Special plead: you don’t understand the subtle Doctrine of Free Will. Or: How can there be an equally godlike Father, Son, and Holy Ghost in the same Person? Special plead: You don’t understand the Divine Mystery of the Trinity. Or: How could God permit the followers of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam — each in their own way enjoined to heroic measures of loving kindness and compassion — to have perpetrated so much cruelty for so long? Special plead: You don’t understand Free Will again. And anyway, God moves in mysterious ways.)

begging the question, also called assuming the answer (e.g., We must institute the death penalty to discourage violent crime. But does the violent crime rate in fact fall when the death penalty is imposed? Or: The stock market fell yesterday because of a technical adjustment and profit-taking by investors — but is there any independent evidence for the causal role of “adjustment” and profit-taking; have we learned anything at all from this purported explanation?)

observational selection, also called the enumeration of favorable circumstances, or as the philosopher Francis Bacon described it, counting the hits and forgetting the misses (e.g., A state boasts of the Presidents it has produced, but is silent on its serial killers)

statistics of small numbers — a close relative of observational selection (e.g., “They say 1 out of every 5 people is Chinese. How is this possible? I know hundreds of people, and none of them is Chinese. Yours truly.” Or: “I’ve thrown three sevens in a row. Tonight I can’t lose.”)

misunderstanding of the nature of statistics (e.g., President Dwight Eisenhower expressing astonishment and alarm on discovering that fully half of all Americans have below average intelligence);

inconsistency (e.g., Prudently plan for the worst of which a potential military adversary is capable, but thriftily ignore scientific projections on environmental dangers because they’re not “proved.” Or: Attribute the declining life expectancy in the former Soviet Union to the failures of communism many years ago, but never attribute the high infant mortality rate in the United States (now highest of the major industrial nations) to the failures of capitalism. Or: Consider it reasonable for the Universe to continue to exist forever into the future, but judge absurd the possibility that it has infinite duration into the past);

non sequitur — Latin for “It doesn’t follow” (e.g., Our nation will prevail because God is great. But nearly every nation pretends this to be true; the German formulation was “Gott mit uns”). Often those falling into the non sequitur fallacy have simply failed to recognize alternative possibilities;

post hoc, ergo propter hoc — Latin for “It happened after, so it was caused by” (e.g., Jaime Cardinal Sin, Archbishop of Manila: “I know of … a 26-year-old who looks 60 because she takes [contraceptive] pills.” Or: Before women got the vote, there were no nuclear weapons)

meaningless question (e.g., What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? But if there is such a thing as an irresistible force there can be no immovable objects, and vice versa)

excluded middle, or false dichotomy — considering only the two extremes in a continuum of intermediate possibilities (e.g., “Sure, take his side; my husband’s perfect; I’m always wrong.” Or: “Either you love your country or you hate it.” Or: “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem”)

short-term vs. long-term — a subset of the excluded middle, but so important I’ve pulled it out for special attention (e.g., We can’t afford programs to feed malnourished children and educate pre-school kids. We need to urgently deal with crime on the streets. Or: Why explore space or pursue fundamental science when we have so huge a budget deficit?);

slippery slope, related to excluded middle (e.g., If we allow abortion in the first weeks of pregnancy, it will be impossible to prevent the killing of a full-term infant. Or, conversely: If the state prohibits abortion even in the ninth month, it will soon be telling us what to do with our bodies around the time of conception);

confusion of correlation and causation (e.g., A survey shows that more college graduates are homosexual than those with lesser education; therefore education makes people gay. Or: Andean earthquakes are correlated with closest approaches of the planet Uranus; therefore — despite the absence of any such correlation for the nearer, more massive planet Jupiter — the latter causes the former)

straw man — caricaturing a position to make it easier to attack (e.g., Scientists suppose that living things simply fell together by chance — a formulation that willfully ignores the central Darwinian insight, that Nature ratchets up by saving what works and discarding what doesn’t. Or — this is also a short-term/long-term fallacy — environmentalists care more for snail darters and spotted owls than they do for people)

suppressed evidence, or half-truths (e.g., An amazingly accurate and widely quoted “prophecy” of the assassination attempt on President Reagan is shown on television; but — an important detail — was it recorded before or after the event? Or: These government abuses demand revolution, even if you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs. Yes, but is this likely to be a revolution in which far more people are killed than under the previous regime? What does the experience of other revolutions suggest? Are all revolutions against oppressive regimes desirable and in the interests of the people?)

weasel words (e.g., The separation of powers of the U.S. Constitution specifies that the United States may not conduct a war without a declaration by Congress. On the other hand, Presidents are given control of foreign policy and the conduct of wars, which are potentially powerful tools for getting themselves re-elected. Presidents of either political party may therefore be tempted to arrange wars while waving the flag and calling the wars something else — “police actions,” “armed incursions,” “protective reaction strikes,” “pacification,” “safeguarding American interests,” and a wide variety of “operations,” such as “Operation Just Cause.” Euphemisms for war are one of a broad class of reinventions of language for political purposes. Talleyrand said, “An important art of politicians is to find new names for institutions which under old names have become odious to the public”)

           Sagan ends the chapter with a necessary disclaimer:    

                   Like all tools, the baloney detection kit can be misused, applied out of context, or even employed as a rote alternative to thinking. But applied judiciously, it can make all the difference in the world — not least in evaluating our own arguments before we present them to others.            

[iratobs]

LIVING IN THE BLESSING OF GOD.

⛪ IFC SUNDAY SERVICE: 02/SEPTEMBER/2019⛪

PREACHER: REVEREND THOMAS S. SHELWAH.

THEME: LIVING IN THE BLESSING OF GOD

MESSAGE TITLE: BLESSED ARE THE POOR IN SPIRIT

Scripture: Matthew 4 vs 23-5 vs 3.

☑ INTRODUCTION

⏩ The Beatitudes, which weregiven during Jesus' Sermon on the Mount (SOTM), are considered the most challenging pursuit any Christian can engage in, because they set an incredibly high standard. It is therefore worth noting that we cannot attain these standards without God's help (Gal. 2 vs 20). On the other hand, living according to them helps us to experience the fullness of God's blessings in the light of His Kingdom.

⏩ To be blessed means to be well-off, happy and fortunate. It is a state of wellbeing that brings with it peace, contentment, and the knowledge that God is in control. It is something that all should strive for. However, although some find wealth and fame, they never find or enjoy God's blessing. Yet, discovering and enjoying God's blessing is not a secret! God's word has revealed it already and through this sermon, we will be able to see how we can be blessed through being poor in the spirit.

⏩ Poverty of spirit is certainly not something that comes naturally to us and it is not a quality that is celebrated in our time and culture; ➡ Our culture and world emphasize and appreciate things like self-reliance and self-confidence. ➡But poverty of spirit is absolutely essential for us to be right with God and be righteous in His eyes.

⏩ Jesus began the SOTM and the Beatitudes saying: "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven" (Matthew 5 vs 3). ➡ J.B Phillips' translation renders it; "How happy are the humble-minded, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs!" ➡ It should not surprise us that this is the first of the Beatitudes, because it is definitely a key to all the ones that follow and embracing the entire SOTM. ➡ Certainly Jesus put the Beatitudes in a logical and sequence. ➡ By necessity this one must come first. No one can enter the Kingdom of Heaven without being poor in the spirit. ➡ Poverty of spirit is the fundamental characteristics of the Christian and all the other characteristics proceed from this one. ➡ But what does it really mean to be poor in spirit? Let's begin by trying to describe what it does not mean.

❇ WHAT POVERTY OF SPIRIT IS NOT.

1⃣ FIRST OF ALL, BEING POOR IN SPIRIT DOES NOT MEAN FINANCIAL POVERTY.

🔸 Spiritual poverty is not a matter of money. 🔸 Certainly, money could be a problem for us spiritually. Jesus had a lot to about that during His ministry. 🔸 But how much money we have or don't have is not a question here. 🔸 You could be flat broke and yet not be poor in spirit. 🔸 The real issue of being poor in spirit, as we will see, has to do with the heart.

2⃣ BEING POOR IN SPIRIT DOES NOT MEAN BEING BIBLICALLY ILLITERATE.

🔹 Some might think that having biblical knowledge is the same thing as being spiritually mature, but that is not the case. 🔹 Having biblical knowledge is helpful in our growth as Christians, but it does not guarantee it. 🔹 Spiritual maturity involves being and living according to God's word. 🔹 It's not how much you know, but how much you obey and apply. 🔹 This verse, from God's word is the simple basis we need at getting right about poverty of spirit.

3⃣ BEING POOR IN SPIRIT DOES NOT MEAN THINKING POORLY OF YOURSELF.

◼Some think that if they just put themselves down enough they will be poor in spirit. ◼God does not want want us to think poorly of ourselves, He wants us to think properly of ourselves. ◼ The issue is not proper loathing of self, but proper leaning on God.

4⃣ OKAY, SO IF POVERTY OF SPIRIT IS NOT BEING FINANCIALLY POOR, BIBLICALLY ILLITERATE, OR PUTTING ONESELF DOWN, THEN WHAT IS IT?

🔶 WHAT POVERTY OF SPIRIT IS

✅ There are 2 words used in the NT for poverty: ➡ The first is 'PENES' which speaks of a person for whom life is a struggle. ↪It is a reverse of affluence. ↪ The person who is penes somehow manages to get by.

➡ The second word is 'PTOCHOS' which speaks of absolute poverty, being destitute, bankrupt. This is the word used here in this first Beatitude.

✅ To be poor in spirit really means to realize that we are spiritually bankrupt and we cannot save ourselves.

➡ In the Expositor's Bible Commentary, Carson explains; 'To be poor in spirit is not lack of courage but to acknowledge spiritual bankruptcy. It confesses one's unworthiness before God and utter dependence on Him.'

✅ One of the best biblical illustrations of poverty of spirit that Jesus told about the Pharisee and the Publican (Luke 18 vs 9-14).

➡ Luke introduces the story with the words; "To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else. Jesus told this parable." (Vs 9).

➡ In this parable He tells about a certain Pharisee who went to the temple to pray.

↪ This is commendable, people ought to pray. ↪ But this man promoted himself in prayer, rather than humbled himself. ↪ The Pharisee certainly had 'I' trouble not 'eye' trouble. ↪ He prayed; "I thank God I am not like other men...... I fast twice a week....." ↪The Pharisee was one of those 'holier-than-thou' types. He thought that God really loves him because of how righteous and holy he was. ↪ He was self righteous and that is not being poor in the spirit. ↪The other man in this parable was quite different. ↪ He stood back in humility. ↪ His prayer was not elegant nor long. ↪ Jesus said; "I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted." ↪ The Publican went home justified, not because he had done more right things, but because he had the right heart- he was poor in spirit.

✅ HOW CAN I KNOW IF I AM POOR IN SPIRIT?

1⃣ The poor in spirit has a broken and contrite spirit.

➡ The persons of spiritual poverty know that they are sinners who are spiritually bankrupt. ➡ They know they are not righteous and cannot be righteous without God's Grace and power. ➡ They know they are saved not by works but by God's Grace. ➡ Knowing their failure to live up to God's standards brings them great remorse as they look to God for mercy.

2⃣ The poor in spirit are humble.

➡ To be poor in the spirit means to have an absence of spiritual pride. ➡Humility says any goodness in me comes from God. ➡ Pride causes us to compare ourselves with others and say 'look at how much better I am that you are'. ➡ Humility causes us to compare ourselves with God and recognises how far short we fall.

3⃣ The poor in spirit are dependent on God.

➡ In the message by Peterson, he translates the Beatitude we are working on as; "You are blessed when you are at the end of the rope. With less of you is more of God and His rule." ➡ one of the most important lessons for us is to stop relying on ourselves and to depend on God. ➡ The poor in spirit learn to walk with God expressing continual dependence. ➡ The poor in spirit do not trust in themselves, they recognise their on going need for God.

✅ How can I become poor in spirit?

➡The answer is not to look at yourself or try to do it yourself. ➡ Poverty has to do with humbling ourselves before God and expressing a broken and contrite spirit.

♦ CONCLUSION

God loves us and accepts us just the way we are, but He loves us too much to leave us that way.

➡ God wants us to have real righteousness and be just like Jesus. ➡ The Beatitudes are a composite of the character that will make us be like Jesus. ➡ The first is 'the poor in spirit' and requires that we die to self through brokenness, humility and dependence on God. ➡ This is only the beginning, but it is the right place to start. ➡And it is the right place to keep on starting.

[tinymixtapes]

Feature: Favorite 15 Video Games of 2017

Let’s face it — art is escapism. We might feel like we’re doing serious work when we catch up on arthouse films or when we listen to music that preaches values we believe in. But at the end of the day, sitting on the couch is just something we all need sometimes. The old guard has a vested interest in inflating the significance of the media we consume in our spare time, in making us feel as if it’s our collective duty to remain caught up with the season’s latest rehashes on contemporary issues. But is escapism in itself really so shallow? Is it so low to seek visceral immersion in this terrifying and numbing reality we’ve found ourselves in? And more importantly, if we’re going to burn away our hours staring at a screen, why just absorb when we can participate? Amid another year wherein it seemed as if the amount of music to listen to and TV to watch reached a breaking point, video games pushed forward yet again as one of the defining platforms of our time. After all, we’re talking about a medium that distinguishes itself from other artistic formats in the agency it gives to its recipient, placing the experience of a video game as much in the hands of the player as in the hands of the developer. And never before has there been so much freedom in how we create that experience: Between AAA titles that pushed the boundaries of the open-world concept to unimaginably beautiful new heights (The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild) to indies that sent us tunneling down absurdist rabbit holes (West of Loathing), the games we played in 2017 reflected the expanding chaos of our world, trading in linear pathways for freeform silliness (Super Mario Odyssey) and easy relaxation for carpal tunnel-inducing mindfuckery (Getting Over It With Bennett Foddy). Even if we couldn’t control what was happening beyond our front door, we were the masters of our domain, as far as our living rooms were concerned. Of course, in the end, it’s all fun and games, and sitting at home isn’t going to fix all of our problems. But rarely have we felt as nourished as we have after picking up one of these 15 gems, each one as inspired and invigorating as any film or album or book from last year. It’s with that in mind that we present our Favorite Video Games of 2017, with a little reminder that if you’re going to escape reality, do it right. –Sam Goldner --- 15 Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp Developer: Nintendo [iOS, Android] In 2017, it often felt like our most basic sense of community and fellowship to one another continued to deteriorate. It was a small but powerful relief when Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp hit the app store. Beyond the purely nostalgic appeal of hopping into a camper and getting away from it all, of hearing the sound of leaves crunching underfoot as we ran errands for all our cute animal friends, Pocket Camp distinguished itself with a simple goal for players: give to others, unconditionally, purely for the sake of giving. The fact that the game drew such ridicule for this suggestion of unreturned generosity is telling of our world in and of itself; but even in the face of its haters, Animal Crossing felt like a big bear hug from an old friend, the sort of neighborly, low-stakes game that championed a kind of calm that seems to be disappearing from our lives. Best of all, it was essentially free, with pay options only cropping up if we felt the need to speed up our steady furniture accumulation — as if the game itself was asking us, hey, why are we always in such a rush? –Sam Goldner --- 14 Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice Developer: Ninja Theory [PlayStation 4, Windows] Hellblade boasted a range of state-of-the-art technical features, from expressive motion capture to miasmic binaural sound design, but its most effective trick was decidedly old school: a disorienting, medium close third-person point of view. Unlike first-person walking simulators, which often dissolve the nuances of character in service of narrative simplicity and reduce the experiences of being, of embodiment, to mere avatardom, Hellblade never let you forget whose story you literally stand in the shadow of. Considering that one of Hellblade’s core mechanics involved the manipulation of perspective, there was a harmony of theme and structure, a rare achievement, even in consideration of the whole history of the medium. That these devices were utilized in service of a melancholic, Herzogian fever dream of love, loss, trauma, and hereditary psychosis was more astonishing still. As VR tides continued to rise throughout 2017, Hellblade made a convincing argument for the ascendancy of those smaller stories yet untold, over the paradigm-shifting promises of vulpine industrialists. Best of all, Hellblade’s commercial success proved that there’s a market for games as immersive, empathy-building experiences, which is perhaps the most impressive of its tricks and achievements. –embling --- 13 Puyo Puyo Tetris Developer: Sonic Team [Nintendo 3DS, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Nintendo Switch] I copped Puyo Puyo Tetris on a whim, hoping to eke a few hours of portable puzzle-solving between classes. Turns out, I’d underestimated just how much longevity this title packed within its cartridge: it’s the Switch game I’ve most frequently returned to this year. Whether I’m playing it on a TV at a friend’s get-together, getting decimated while attempting to play competitively online, or just plugging my way through a ridiculously written story mode, I never seem to get bored with its simple and succinct gameplay, which pits two classic stacking puzzles against each other, side by side. Puyo Puyo Tetris was a straightforward title that breathed new life into veteran concepts. The learning curve’s quick, but there are hours and hours worth of strategic depth built into the game’s blocks and blobs. –Jude Noel --- 12 Prey Developer: Arkane Studios [PlayStation 4, Windows, Xbox One] Who would have thought that a first-person, sci-fi horror throwback under the premise of an alternate reality (wherein JFK was never shot and the space race flourished) could be so captivating? Touted as a “space horror version of Groundhog Day” at E3 2016, Prey certainly delivered in story, but it became a true standout through its slick, immersive atmosphere, inspired by films like Moon, Starship Troopers, and The Matrix. It was such a joy to play an original property that recalled playing Doom for the first time, but the game complemented its retro aesthetic with interrogations into morality and artificial intelligence. While Prey is that rare, underrated gem likely to be buried among similar genre titles, it was nonetheless an alternate reality worthy of being lost in. –Emceegreg --- 11 Golf Story Developer: Sidebar Games [Nintendo Switch] Golf Story was one of the biggest surprises on a system that was itself one of 2017’s biggest surprises. The game sported a typical hero story, but twisted such that your golfer was old and unlucky instead of young and plucky. And instead of townspeople cheering you on, the crowd consisted of a crew of sarcastic golfers rooting for your failure, in the most pleasant way possible. The story was amusing, but it never got overly involved, present just enough to introduce new courses and rivals with flair while letting the excellent gameplay speak for itself. Traditionally, sports games don’t have stories, but the bizarre combination offered by Golf Story led to an intriguing mix of genres that was absolutely worth the low $20 entry fee. –Munroe [pagebreak] 10 Thimbleweed Park Developer: Terrible Toybox [Xbox One, Android, Windows, Nintendo Switch, iOS, Linux, Macintosh OS] The 1990s were the golden age of the point-and-click adventure game, largely due to companies like LucasArts and Sierra Entertainment. But the genre has persisted over the years and even thrived with the recent popularity of tablet devices. Indie developers of all stripes have embraced these casual (and sometimes frustrating) games, often applying a pixelated aesthetic in homage. Thimbleweed Park, from the creator of Maniac Mansion and Day of the Tentacle, was this year’s standout example. All the aspects of the classic gameplay were there: the crosshair cursor, the blocky verb actions at the bottom, the humorous dialogue, and of course, the bizarre use of objects to advance the story. Thimbleweed Park gave us control over two secret agents plucked right from The X-Files, a female video game programmer, a foul-mouthed clown, and a ghost, all humanized with superb voice acting. And at its core, the game’s logic was pleasantly goofy, much like its predecessors. –Tristan Kneschke --- 09 Getting Over It With Bennett Foddy Developer: Bennett Foddy [Windows, Macintosh OS, iOS] Part B-game, part Sisyphean metaphor, part pop psychology, tough-love therapy, and meme generator, QWOP mastermind Bennett Foddy’s latest absurdist platformer carved out an unexpected niche in the 2017 zeitgeist thanks to the revival of tired conversations about difficulty in games sparked by Cuphead’s punishing, retro-style gameplay. But Foddy’s incredible, impossible, holy mountain-climbing abstraction brought new life to old discourse by challenging the nature of simulated obstacles in gaming, testing the player’s perseverance by delegitimizing itself as just another emblem of gamer credibility, and actively questioning why we’re even playing. Foddy created a game that could’ve used its quick novelty and high meme potential to cash in on a voracious Twitch and YouTube market. But with theming that blends a delightfully clumsy control setup, slapstick physics, and existential horror/psychological torment courtesy of Foddy’s alternatingly abusive and encouraging voice-of-God commentary, the game also proved to be one of the most unique interactive experiences of the year. As for my own quest up the mountain, I still haven’t hit the top, and I honestly probably never will. But I’m fine with that. I think Camus would understand. –Colin Fitzgerald --- 08 NieR: Automata Developer: Square Enix [PlayStation 4, Windows] A tree in the vastness of a broken future, its many branches varied and reaching toward an open-ended sky. It’s these visuals in the bleak fast-forward of NieR: Automata that best exhibits how rich and entrenching the storytelling was with the latest in the series. And though the multiple endings and perspectives (and the chase therein) were the top-level canopies of NieR: Automata, it was the interactions and revelations drawn by 2B and 9S that truly stripped you of your own cynical bark. There were plenty of post-apocalyptic games littering the gaming market, each fitted with its own emotional gimmick, yet it was the lack of a gimmick that set NieR: Automata apart. The branches of its storytelling reached into the futuristic ether, a towering coniferous that brightly blossomed the higher you climbed it. Much like that tree, NieR: Automata shouldn’t exist in this prophetic space of humanity’s not-so-distant landing spot — and yet it did. And I’m glad it did. –Jspicer --- 07 Night In the Woods Developer: Infinite Fall [Windows, Macintosh OS, Linux, PlayStation 4] Here’s an Indie Game Mad Lib: Night In the Woods was a self-aware, slice-of-life adventure game with an ironic sense of humor about millenial social fatigue, set in a 2D cartoon world populated by morose talking animals. The game also mercifully swam against the rushing currents of contemporary gaming culture. While the industry at large continued to thrive on unquestioning nostalgic dogma, Night In the Woods sought out the true value of reminiscence in an era of profound disconnect; while most games took on social issues with a myopic perspective and a heavy hand, Night In the Woods was, if anything, too muted in its depiction of the communication breakdowns plaguing a generation buckling under the weight of modern strains of anxiety, depression, and socioeconomic disenfranchisement. The game was stocked with authentic characters whose stories you learned gradually through awkward encounters and halted conversations, all simultaneously desperate for something meaningful to happen and terrified of making themselves even the slightest bit vulnerable. It was either an empathy machine for a society automating itself into isolation or a quirky little story about how we’re all just confused idiots floating directionless in space. The result was the same. –Colin Fitzgerald --- 06 West of Loathing Developer: Asymmetric [Windows, Macintosh OS, Linux, iOS] The Western is America’s answer to European medieval fiction. Both genres are essentially fantasy that romanticize the unwritten reality. Both possess a certain character that reflects ideals for each location. Some would argue they whitewashed the truth, a claim for which there is some validity. However, what truth it hid was more mundane: These times were actually boring. In Europe, knights were spoiled rich boys, marriages were political and financial transactions, and the life most people had was tending to a farm. The American West was not full of gunslingers, cowboys, and prospectors, but immigrant farmers, bored Civil War veterans, and cattle ranchers just getting by. Sometimes it’s important to reflect on the absurdity of these fictions in subtle ways. Meat as a currency. A necromancer raising dead saints and antipopes — taking back their “holy relics” in the process — only for them to be instantly killed by a lady with a bone saw. Crowded trains waiting for the continental railroad to finish. A ghost town’s bureaucracy denying cow-punchers a shot of whiskey. A great cataclysm occurring when The Cows Came Home. It was all so goofy. But when you think about it, aren’t Westerns just as ridiculous? –Ze Pequeno [pagebreak] 05 Persona 5 Developer: P Studio [PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4] Although its core gameplay wasn’t a revolutionary departure from the JRPG subgenre’s tropes and traditions, Persona 5 kept me coming back to its magical-realist incarnation of Tokyo on aesthetic strength alone. Visually, aurally, and ethically, the game’s cast of delinquent teens had their finger point-blank on the pulse of 2017, bumping future-funk jams in the background as they dealt vigilante justice to their oppressors, all the while decked out in high-fashion fits equally inspired by Victorian literature and late-70s punk. The game oozed style down to its animated menus, bordered by sketchy illustrations: though much of the game took place in a surreal meta-reality populated by demons, an elegant charm stitched the torn fabric between its fantasy and beautifully mundane reality. Give Persona 5 a try for yourself: you’ll exorcise ancient evil, buy soylent from vending machines, date the two-dimensional character of your dreams, and have uninterrupted fun through it all. –Jude Noel --- 04 Horizon Zero Dawn Developer: Guerrilla Games [PlayStation 4] Horizon Zero Dawn might not have offered the best open world of 2017 — hi, Breath of the Wild; hello, Assassin’s Creed Origins — but no matter what it appeared to lack, in the superficial and reductive comparisons that commonly pass for game criticism, it more than compensated for with hope, hard-earned humanism, and technical polish. 2017 being a banner year for the format, there were plenty of games that did more, but few that did better. Whether in terms of the satisfying tactility of its weapons, the impossible, magic-hour glow of every single in-game moment, or the unexpected, hard sci-fi implications at the core of the narrative’s parallel mysteries, Horizon Zero Dawn presented itself with more craft, care, thought, theme, and feeling than any other escapist entertainment this year. Sure, the characters’ photo-realistic wax figure faces could be jarringly unnatural from time to time, but what this game had to say — about faith, our relationships to technology, and the very concept of the uncanny valley — was so much more impressive than any mere graphics engine could ever be. While I came to fight robot dinosaurs, I stayed for the mechanical flowers that pollinate poetry. And during a year that consistently dimmed belief in our collective myths — such as peaceable resolutions to decades of cultural Balkanization or the prospect of a decent, sustainable future for humankind — Horizon Zero Dawn served as a balm, a worry stone, a bright and vital reminder that, no matter what, life rarely fails to find a way. –embling --- 03 Super Mario Odyssey Developer: Nintendo [Nintendo Switch] All due respect to The Young Bucks, The Usos, and The Beatdown Biddies, but Mario and Cappy were the greatest tag team of 2017. Mario games tend to have a central gameplay conceit, and with its “Mario’s hat is a sentient being now” mechanic, Super Mario Odyssey was no different. In order to save Princess Peach (as well as Cappy’s sister Tiara the tiara) and restore balance to the universe, Mario and Cappy must join forces. With Cappy by his side/on his head, Mario was able to jump higher, accumulate more coins, and of course possess unwitting enemies before using their abilities toward his own purposes. The resulting body horror made for one of the single-best platformer experiences ever, which might be a little hyperbolic, but I mean come on, it’s-a him, Mario! That name carries a lot of prestige with it, and this latest adventure more than lived up to the pedigree. Collect hundreds upon hundreds of Power Moons, wear a variety of fun costumes, take over a human’s free will and force it to drive an RC car around a racetrack in under 30 seconds. Along with another game that shall remain nameless because this blurb isn’t about it, Super Mario Odyssey made the Nintendo Switch a console worth owning. –Jeremy Klein --- 02 Cuphead Developer: StudioMDHR [Xbox One, Windows] The little Xbox One champion that could this year was also one of 2017’s biggest surprises: a run-and-gun platformer based on rubber hose animation. If you asked if we wanted to play a game that looked like Steamboat Willy, we’d probably be a little reluctant at first, but usually the best and most unique games are the ones you didn’t know you wanted. Cuphead had truly stunning animation that convincingly reimagined what playing a 1930s video game would be like (thanks to independent Canadian studio StudioMDHR). But besides the delightful aesthetic quirk, there was also an impressive difficulty to the game that made it pleasantly addictive rather than annoyingly impossible (see Crash Bandicoot N. Sane Trilogy). So many indie side-scrollers rely on the same tricks from decades before, but Cuphead had mechanics that didn’t allow players to simply remember patterns. In the end, Cuphead was a reminder that all we really want in a game is to have a fun and be challenged. –Emceegreg --- 01 The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild Developer: Nintendo [Wii U, Nintendo Switch] “Games and play are not identical categories. Games are organized forms of play; they have elements that might not be playful. Finite games are games that come to some kind of conclusion, and the conclusion governs how the game is played and what the game means.” The above quote comes from a book about baseball (Fail Better, by Mark Kingwell). It’s strange to me that, in 2017, I’d be looking to a book about a physical sport for a way to understand a video game, but it’s also not surprising that the lines of philosophy in sport, video games, and art run concurrent (hence why you’re reading a video game feature on a website that focuses on music). It’s often what we do when we try and grasp various forms of art: we end up looking back as well as across to see the permutations of ideas run through their forms and related ideas. Sometimes we look at Cage and say Duchamp, or visa versa, as often it seems as if one is looking back at the other, even though often (almost always) they were both working simultaneously. Shared philosophies are reflected in aesthetic permutations in various mediums, but it’s less interdependent and more of reaching to an idea of why we talk and write about our experience with art. Forgive the digression, but I personally find this above point important, at least for myself, when I try to understand what I find so enjoyable, invigorating, impactful, and remarkable about Breath of the Wild. In all ways, it shouldn’t be: another franchise game in the running output stream of a mega-sized corporation that specializes in spectacle and entertainment, etc., etc. But against an understandable skepticism against large-scale video game producers (cf. loot boxes, the existence of EA), we often forget companies like Nintendo were at the start of the medium, or in fact were the start. Breath of the Wild was not a swoop-in project from the outside, even if it’s open-world construction bears some resemblance to games like Skyrim or Assassins Creed. BOTW’s true predecessor exists in its own lineage: the original Legend of Zelda. Before the term “sandbox game” was coined, Shigeru Miyamoto referred to the original Zelda as a “miniature garden that they can put inside their drawer.” I love this quote because it reflects how games at the time were built around experimenting with the experience rather than the presentation of a cinematic, linear plot. Zelda was approached more like a garden than a book. Early games, in their limitation, had to find new ways to approach a person’s interaction with it, and after the limitations of platform games became obvious, why not make a game wherein a person just might miss one of the game’s crucial objects because it’s not explicitly laid out for them to grab? For those who are unfamiliar, the original Zelda puts a sword, your main weapon, in the care of an old man inside a cave. This cave is in the first screen you start on, but nothing stops you from not getting it, save for an extreme difficulty navigating the surrounding areas full of enemies (it is possible to make it all of the way to Ganon, the final boss, without the sword, and to play the rest of the game without it). Everything about the original Zelda was so antithetical to a guided experience. Sure there are numbered dungeons and even one that requires an item from another to gain entry, but the closest dungeon to the start (arguably) is the one marked “2,” and there’s nothing to stop you from entering it. So what might have looked like a technical limitation initially ended up being a source of liberation for the Zelda series. As Kingwell states how the interaction with finite games is governed by their conclusion (think of games that bait you with multiple endings, how the result is dependent on very specific interactions within the game, and how a player is rewarded with this ending by behaving a very specific way), at what point does a game lose its sense of play? In a game like the original Zelda, and especially in BOTW, play is created by the absence of organized form. To free-jazz enthusiasts (and many, many other art forms) this is definitely not a new concept. Even to video games, hell, even to the Zelda franchise it’s not new. So why then does BOTW’s sense of play give me the feels so much? Here’s an example: BOTW contains a physics engine that lets you essentially “break” certain puzzles. There’s a puzzle in one of the game’s shrines that works by way of the motion controller; you attempt to move a ball from point A to B by rolling it through a maze. However, if you take your controller and flip it upside down, the maze turns around as well, revealing a maze-less, smooth backside that makes guiding the ball to the point much easier (at least for me). But no approach to this puzzle is exactly the same; I’ve watched videos of people pan-flipping the ball like a fried egg to its goal; I’ve seen people try and hit it like a baseball as it dropped from the sky; and I’ve also witnessed doing shit. Expectation colors experience; try as hard as we may, what we expect will always bleed into how we see/hear/read anything placed in front of us. Every now and then, we experience a work of art that goes out of its way in both methods subtle and unsubtle to break us from this cycle. It might be outside of the realm of possibility to be a true blank slate and, in the reality of humanity and history, only possible in ignorance, but it’s often a work’s subtler transgressions that last beyond those of a more obvious flavor. I can’t help but think of works by Cage when I play this game, and it might be that a video game’s strong suit is how far removed it is from the problem of authorship/auteur theory. BOTW is not a new entry into this idea, but rather a reminder of what was there while we were taking an artistic format for granted as a children’s toy. Maybe BOTW will signal a movement into which we quit expecting to be constantly rewarded for participating in a work, asking that we turn inward to study our own experience rather than constantly criticize works on the grounds of delivery and feed. Cynically, I doubt this, but if I could interact with every artwork at the level on which I can interact with BOTW, both myself and the experience will be better off for it. Credit to Joe Davenport for bouncing off ideas and helping me find secrets. –Riboflavin http://j.mp/2ElLuva

[jonjordanforrealz]

The Chronicles of Elfdom

Last December, I documented my struggles with Hermie the Elf - you know, of the “on a shelf” variety, sure, but more accurately, in my head, eating my brain and in my soul, tormenting from here to eternity. 

This is my story, shared only in hopes that it may help others.

Tread lightly... Vol 1: Narrowly avoided complete disaster after totally forgetting about the little bastard on Night 1, despite having read the special book/instruction manual/elf commandments at bedtime. Oldest boy Kramers through our bedroom door at 0500, announcing that he'd prefer to use our bathroom over his. As I pondered the logic behind this, thinking, "Boy, he's assertive," something felt amiss and within seconds, I realized my worst December nightmares (since exam time during the old teaching days) were already coming true. As Boy 1 finished his business, I sprung into action, anticipating his yearning to find our annual household guest at this ungodly hour, escorting his proactive little ass back to his bedroom. Always (read: sometimes) a step ahead, I waited in the hallway for the inevitable: an attempted rendezvous to join forces with little brother. After that was easily intercepted, it was time for a little psychological warfare. Warding off both emotional sabotage (Boy 1's, "Daddy, I love you") and an honesty play (Boy 2's, "We we were trying to find Hermie but he's tricky") some redirecting was in order. Authoritative Dad speaks! "It's 5:00 am. No one comes to this house unless everyone is sleeping." With that understanding in mind, aided by the musical distractions of the old Epcot Canadian band and, of course, Kidz Bop 27, I hunted down Public Enemy #1 in his top secret hideaway. Tucked away in a Target bag - dead giveaway, right? Duh. - I shoved him into my pocket and moved on to recover the donuts that he brought with him from the North Pole. Breaking kayfabe here, I'd actually purchased these GMO-laden diabetes bombs myself from Dunkin Donuts on the way home last night, on direct orders from the General, but yes, still totally forgot about this whole charade... Does anyone realize how fucking loud a paper bag is at 5:15 am? Donuts on a paper plate and little orphan Hermie's demanding ass still secured in my Florida State sleepy pants, I knew I had very little time to reach the intended destination and disappear into whatever remained of this night. Cat- or zombie-like in my movements (not quite sure which) down went the plate and into a bouquet of flowers leftover from Thanksgiving landed Osama - or whatever his name is. Somehow, now back behind my bedroom door, I'd survived. There would be no more sleeping for our hero this morning. The sweet taste of victory would be the lone reward. Looking ahead to Night 2, it is possible that we may bribe an acquaintance to drop the bomb on Boy 1, letting him know that this is all a bunch of honkybonk, and thus, instantly creating a valuable ally to continue the ruse for Boy 2. It is now clear that the oldest is the mastermind of what will surely be a constant barrage of this sort of subterfuge for the next 24 days. Vol 2:

There will be no threat of disaster tonight. Since yesterday's torment weighed on my mind all day, it would have been nearly impossible to forget my elfly duties this evening. So, there he sits, the little prick. He's made friends with another rather smug trio that has taken up residence in my home (rent-free, I might add.) Yes, nestled snugly between Alvin and Simon, while Theodore's fat ass looks on, in the morning, the kids will find Hermie, appearing to have read the timeless holiday classic, "Santa Comes to Florida" with his rodent buddies. If you haven't read this piece of literature, it's worth at least a passing glance. But I must warn you that it isn't all that accurate. For one, there is no mention of meth or bath salts, even as Santa flies right over Apopka. And two, there isn't a lot of love for Melbourne, which is pretty shameful since such visionaries as Jim Morrison, Darrell Hammond and that guy I went to high school with who ended up in that reality show boy band are among its native sons. Let's not get too sidetracked here. There is still work to be done. I was informed earlier that one of Boy 2's little friends announced that he received a letter from Santa himself this morning, officially putting him on "The Nice List," while, shame on me, all I did was make sure the kids saw the fuckin' elf and got to eat donuts for breakfast., sacrificing sleep, sanity and something else I forgot about because I'm tired and crazy. I guess lil' man used the power of deductive reasoning and, sans Santa letter, convinced himself he was on "The Naughty List," creating a bit of a challenge at bedtime. Dad here, who may or may not have occupied a spot on the unsavory version of the imaginary fat man's lists a time or two over the years, did his best to convince the young buck that he was not on any such document - that things were going just fine - but I'm not sure he bought it. Thanks to utter exhaustion, a self-inflicted derivative of last night's bullshit adventures, sleep came quickly for the littlest Jordan, allowing me time to think of what I might include in the now necessary piece of prose needed to support my earlier claims of his green light toward Christmas presents galore. Ideally, it'd be straightforward: [Hey, kid(s). If you're worried that you might be on the wrong side of Santa's ledger, maybe you weren't as good as you thought you were all year. You ever hear of the NSA? Ever see any of my text messages? Holy shit! Now that's a list you don't want to worry about being on. Anyway... Keep the faith. The truth is, we like you. And you'd probably have to try to stab one or both of us before we'd make sure you didn't get anything at all for Christmas. Love, Dad PS: On Saturday, I want you to sleep until 10 am. Remember: THE LIST!] But traditions are traditions and in this family, as in so many others, we lie like a muthafucka - especially around the holidays! And so, the propaganda continues. Hermie, it will appear, took a break from reading his Florida Santa book to his pals to write a letter to the Jordan kids, detailing how fantastic they've been and urging them to be good listeners and make good choices at least for a few more weeks. (Pretty suspicious - or "ironic," as Alanis Morrisette might deem it - that the stuffed elf, who I think wears makeup, uses the exact same discipline terminology as Mom and Dad do, ain't it? These kids get any smarter any time soon and they'll bust me for sure. And what then?!?) Depending on what time they wake up in the morning, I may have to stage a sacrifice when it comes to the chipmunk population in this home. If we can send positive messages via letters from imaginary people, we can also send negative messages by offing a fake friend or two. And since they haven't seen "Christmas Vacation" just yet, nor do they know for sure that I don't have a Cousin Eddie, they'll have no idea that he stopped eating chipmunks (yeah, yeah, chipmunks and squirrels are different things, I get it) when he found out they were high in cholesterol. Black and white photos should do. I'll use the old Hitchcock chocolate syrup trick. Tomorrow brings the added challenges of that batshit crazy Chick-Fil-A with all the lights, what the food there does to my insides and selecting the 2016 Jordan Family Christmas tree. There will be booze. Two down, 23 to go. Vol 3:

It's clear that my efforts here are drawing something of a crowd, which is much appreciated but not at all the intent. One trusted advisor has even suggested I attempt to profit financially from this record but the truth is simply this: It has to be done. For the betterment of all mankind, our successes and failures with this Johnny-come-lately holiday irritant must be documented. Tonight, I was reminded of a better day that has passed us by. As we decorated our tree, I took some inventory of the many ornaments we've accumulated over the years. Among them, holiday stalwarts like Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus and The Grinch make their presence known. We also have the typical representation of some of our sports teams (all of whom suck out loud), life milestones ("2006 New Home" is a real joy, since that was two houses, two kids and one lawsuit ago) and the innocence of homemade trinkets featuring the younger versions of Boy 1 and Boy 2, long before they discovered the art of whining. There is also an ornament that is simply a beer glass (right on!) and the disembodied head of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I find terrifying. It wasn't so long ago that my biggest holiday concern was making sure that as few of these characters were damaged during tree-trimming time as possible. (Why do they call it "tree-trimming" anyway? When I go to get my hair trimmed, I'm not looking for Akbar the barber to scatter random trinkets about my rapidly-depleting mane.) But as I longed for the days of yore tonight, there it was, right in my face, as if to say, "Not so fast, asshole! The glory days are over, mother fucker!" Hermie - this sonofoabitchofanelf - is also present as an ornament on our tree. Well, shit in my hat. Just as I discovered this mini version of our mini-monster, both boys began to melt down, merely an hour past their regular bedtime, and I was already on my way to a conniption fit myself, three days into the shit and already running out of placement ideas for Elfrey Dahmer. Coincidental timing, my ass! This guy's in my head. Or he's like the alien thing from Stranger Things. If my lights start flickering, I'm setting him on fire and we'll tell the kids he didn't stop, drop or roll because he wasn't a good listener. But at least I'm not in danger of forgetting at the moment. Tomorrow may prove difficult, what with multiple activities involving alcohol already scheduled - after the children's sporting events, as per societal acceptance. I figure if I can make it through a day like that and still move "it" from Point A to Point B, that's a big win for ol' Daddio. His mind powers working on both me and the young'ins tonight jives with my recognizing the cheery-cheeked, red-and-white clad fuzzy thing to be quite clearly a demon in cahoots with Beelzebub himself. So, I've now paired him up with a dragon statue that we have atop our curio cabinet. (Never thought you'd hear me use the term "curio cabinet," did you, old friends? That's right, I'm cultured. Or I've lost all street cred. Not quite sure which distinction to hang onto here.) What's the connection between Hermalerm and the dragon? Well, heroin of course. That's right, kids, the elf didn't just chase the dragon. He caught the damn thing. Which means as I drift off to sleep tonight, I'll be headed for a righteous dream of Hermie sinking through the floor to the sounds of Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," a la Trainspotting. You'll be alright, elf boy, but this one won't be easy. One bucket for urine, one for feces, and one for vomitus. Preparation is key. You're in a new kind of hell for now, fella. See you on the flip. Vol 4:

The voodoo appears to be working. In the last 24 hours, my better half and I have each been caught making mention of "having a talk with Hermie" about this instance of a slight misstep in behavior or that. It's worth pondering what sort of residual effect this may have on the boys (or any kids, really) long-term. Is life truly one observed event after another, with an eye in the sky passing judgment in turn? And let's not get all religious here. I'm seeing this through an Orwellian lens at the moment. If we do slip up, must we live in fear of being told on? I should get out more... Speaking of, having been out quite a bit yesterday, bailing on my "move the elf" responsibility was a distinct possibility but it did not come to pass. Late at night, headache looming, our favorite holiday hobo was relocated from the dragon's back to a high perch overlooking the entrance to Boy 1's room. It's a creepy spot for sure. Like, if you were to walk out of your bedroom and find a person situated the way Hermie is at the moment, laying on his belly, chin resting on his hands, smiling like a whackjob, cheeks as rosy as ever, you'd definitely call the cops. Or shoot him. Or both. The creative maneuvers are lacking for yours truly this year - although I guess mounting the dragon was pretty cool. That's ok, though. My goal is simply to survive this month with as few mid-sleep panic attacks as possible. Started off 1-for-1 but we have a clean slate since, so I'll call it a win so far. Perhaps tonight, we'll set the elf up with a lady or something - freak Carrie out a little, if nothing else. The boys have been warned - née, reminded - that no one is supposed to be up and moving about until at least 7 am in this house (great rule, hardly ever followed) and they seem pretty beat from a long weekend so there might be hope for a more restful slumber. If not, maybe it's time for the elf to get shelved for a day or two, go visit Santa (or Satan?) or something. That'll get these tired kids back on track. Tired kids are like drunk adults, by the way. But that's a story for a different setting. 21 days to go. Zeus help me. Vol 5:

There has been no shortage of remarkable moments in our adventures with the red devil of late. Boy 1, in an apparent attempt to extort his elf friend, left him a tangerine on Monday, after finding him purportedly reading through one of Mom's cupcake cookbooks. Perhaps he was being proactive, in the event that the elf delivers cupcakes as he did donuts on opening day of this annual charade. A simple, "Hey, man. I gave you a tangerine. Whatchyougot for me?" Or maybe he's overheard dear ol' Dad opine on the corruption of politics, in general. Either way, Boy 2 was not pleased. The littlest Jordan, you see, has developed an affinity for these tangerines and while he is almost always quite willing to share his snacks, such was not the case here, as he relocated Boy 1's offering back to its original box. This incensed the elder sibling and the back-and-forth game from tangerine box to offering table began. I should note that the boys are still suffering from Christmasitis - the plague that renders otherwise lovable little humans into demon beings, drunk on exhaustion, impulsive and exhibiting a bravado unbecoming of their age or social status. Now off to school, Mom stepped in with a solution, staging a scene where the elf appeared to have eaten the tangerine in question, abandoning his cookbook perch in favor of a seated position at a makeshift snack area and leaving scraps behind, along with a note that read, "Thanks for the tangerine! I'll only eat one!" (It is also likely that a smiley face was included but I cannot confirm with any certainty, having destroyed this document, and thus, in the name of accuracy and out of respect for journalism, it is omitted here.) This was, largely, an intelligent counter tactic by my female counterpart and while its intended result - assuaging the pending civil war betwixt brothers with a reasonable compromise - was achieved, ultimately, the strategy lacked the necessary foresight to continue the mind games without needling questions from the youngsters. Of utmost importance: "Wait... You moved him?" Crickets. "No, kid," I thought to myself - but dared not say aloud. "He moved himself, of course!" But, of course, this was not supposed to be a part of the pestilent pixie's skillset! For his meandering about is only supposed to take place at night, according to the owner's manual! Far be it from Mom to not have her next move planned, however, and as I stood stock still, considering a swift exit strategy (were the neighbors home? Could a friend pick me up? Where is my rocketpack?) as if beamed in by the projector of Orson Welles himself, the holiday classic "Home Alone" was suddenly on the living room television and Mom's invite for cuddle time was accepted by both young Jordans. Crisis averted, once more. In the time since, the attitudes of drunken demon children 1 and 2 have worsened. Boy 1 resisted piano practice and was not permitted to walk the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights in turn, then admittedly plotted revenge on yours truly, attempting to stave off bedtime as long as possible by prancing about the house, giggling and speaking in tongues. And Boy 2 ignored my orders to disarm, wielding his light saber freely about the living room as though I wasn't even there. With Mom on a run (and not 100% sure she was coming back) I engaged hand-to-hand, demilitarizing my target and receiving his "Mad Dog" glare for my troubles. In fairness, Boy 2 pulled it together enough to join me on the aforementioned Christmas walk, where he graciously educated me on the difference between frogs and what he calls "toadfrogs," (apparently this has everything to do with their tongues - who knew?) and I shared with him my disdain for projector lights. Nonetheless, the net result of Sunday/Monday called for a sabbatical for the nefarious imp creature, who has, as far as the boys know, "gone to visit Santa for a day or two," according to my - no, his! - note. Improvements are expected in short order but just in case, the vodka supply has been restocked. I now count 19 days, which looks far less daunting than 20. Still, my sleep pattern has been erratic. We'll call that 20% problem drinking, 60% guilt from blatantly lying to one's offspring and 20% New York Jets football. With apologies to my parents and, more importantly, to Mark Twain, I haven't told the truth, out of necessity, thanks to you-know-who, and now I can't remember anything.

Vol 6:

Tensions have subsided. The elf was brought back after the exhibition of acceptable behavior on the part of both boys on Tuesday night. 1 did a fine job at his school Christmas concert, while 2 gave a great effort at soccer practice. (It is also important to note that Dad scored a goal in an impromptu coaches/kids mixed scrimmage. That this feat was accomplished against 6- and 7-year-olds matters not.) More importantly, bedtime was without incident on the evening in question. Why that is ever an issue is still beyond me but never has a more relatable tale been told than that of "Go the Fuck to Sleep," by Samuel L. Jackson a few years back. (Well, maybe it isn't exactly the written work of Jules Winnfield himself but I'd like to think it is, as no one could possibly ever recite it better.) Boy 1 is a fan of the every-excuse-in-the-book technique (from pooping to asking questions to feigning injury to everyone taking turns laying with him, telling stories, needing water, etc.) while Boy 2 is more straightforward with his thoughts on sleep overall. Namely, he says he never sleeps. He just relaxes. While I know this isn't completely true, having witnessed him sleeping myself on thousands of occasions, there is something a little vampiresque about the littlest Jordan, who is almost always the first to arise in the morning, often long before the sun. Today, in fact, I awoke to a noise and thinking it was either intruders (that I would have to exterminate, obviously) or my youngest son dicking around (slightly more likely) I promptly began a seek-and-destroy (or G the F to S) mission. The latter scenario proved to be reality, as there he sat, hiding behind his bathroom door, sitting on the floor with the light on, cuddling with his blanket. I don't know either, people, but hey... We all have hobbies... The return of Hellboy Hermie, fresh from his visit with Santa, Satan or Sam Kinison - can't recall which and perhaps it was all - featured him choking out one of the boys' forgotten bath toys, a gator. In this house, that visual brings more joy than the hair of the dog cure-all on a Jordan Family Christmas morning. (Well, almost.) As we enjoy this new era of peace, recognizing that it may be a brief interlude, I'm appreciative of the pause its given me, for the war against the imaginary (?) black magic of this shitbag of a Christmas toy is rather taxing. 17 days. #tylenol Vol 7:

This tradition begets strange bedfellows. Hermie the Elf, who is destined to be renamed Beelzebub, I assure you, commandeered a ship belonging to Jake and the Neverland Pirates last night, along with John Cena and Sleepy (of Seven Dwarfs fame.) Oh, if this were only real, what an adventure they may have had overnight. Sleepy, groggy to the point of hallucination, no doubt, likely from a mixture of NyQuil, booze and some medicinal herb (since we can do that here now!) wouldn’t have been much help to his shipmates. The elf, in his Luciferian glory, perched atop the crow’s nest, would attempt to serve as captain, I would think, causing immediate conflict with Cena, the jorts-wearing, self-important hero, who nobody above the age of 12 really likes. (I’m told he was actually at a local bar I’ve been to a time or 200 a couple of weeks ago. Think I could take him?) They’d square off at some point to determine the alpha male and I’d have to give that decision to the only being on this ship with supernatural, other-worldly powers. “You can’t see me,” John? Well, that’s fine. Hermie doesn’t need to see you to breathe demon fire into your soul. And they'd land at their final destination knowing that the little red-faced asshole with the pointy hat was absolutely in charge. The destination was our TV stand, by the way, because I didn't feel like thinking anymore - or leaving the ship somewhere it might easily fall, ruining everything for everyone. (Or saving them?) The children seemed to approve of this newly established faction, upon this morning's discovery, and I suppose that’s what it’s all about. Unfortunately, it’s also proven to be all about my own sick mind, full of delusions and unfulfilled desires belonging to my inner child. Back in my day, all we had was the mystique of Santa Claus himself – and thanks to friends, Sean and Tina, that gig was up for me at around eight. (Eight! That’s Boy 1’s age now. Well, balls... Getting old indeed.) I believe the big reveal upset me for a few minutes but already conditioned toward materialism (thanks, America!) I reasoned that, hell, I’d still be getting presents, so I don’t think I really cared whether they came from Mom, Dad, Uncle Charlie (who I’m pretty sure once stole a trampoline before gifting it to me) or an old, fat stranger in a furry red suit who likes to have little children sit in his lap. I was skeptical – maybe my friends lied to me. After all, this was the same brother/sister combo that once had me convinced that the oil I spotted floating atop the drink they’d made for me was perfectly normal for “Swedish chocolate milk.” (Looking back, the accompanying smell of vinegar should have been a dead giveaway. Tasted like shit but I’m sure it built character. Appreciate that, S&T!) But alas, as I gave my dad a goodnight hug on Christmas Eve, 1987, there sat the Nintendo I’d be receiving the next morning, in his closet behind him. When I found it, unwrapped, as was Santa’s style, at the foot of the tree, the bullshit meter exploded but I wouldn’t let it get me down. Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out and Super Mario Brothers (and Duck Hunt, if only so we'd all learn about tagalongs at an early age) awaited! I was smart enough to know that I didn’t want to deal with upsetting my mom so I didn’t let on that I knew that Santa was Keyzer Soze (or Verbal Kint? Sometimes my metaphors don’t work.) I think I hid that from her for at least two years. Point is, I guess I fear these kids of mine finding out we’re all the masterminds behind some pretty serious fabrications. What sort of example does that set? But mostly, it’s about the growing-up-too-fast thing. I mean, fuck. I’m 37, somehow. Oh and the other point is, how did we allow this elf thing to get so popular? We had friggin' Santa already! And wasn’t one lie enough? I’m tired. 16 days.

Vol 8:

Turnabout is fair play. Boy 2 had something of a rough day yesterday, although not in the sense that his behavior was unacceptable. With the added pressure of a snitch like the elf-demon watching over you at all times, I'm sure being a 6-year-old isn't as easy as it could be at this time of year so, when the boy wonder seemed exceptionally emotional, I should have known to chalk it up to just that. After eight straight days of "being on 'Good Citizen'" at school, the littlest Jordan was proud to announce that he had recorded No. 9 in a row. How about that? My own little Cal Ripken-type thing. But after dinner, the tiny tough guy started showing his sensitive side (a trait shared by his father - but don't tell anyone.) Seeking either a goalkeeper for his soccer game, an opponent in marbles or a playmate of any sort, he solicited the services of all of Boy 1, myself and the lady of the house, though we all politely declined, citing a collective desire to relax and/or consume the programming of WWE Network before bedtime. (The latter, of course, forced upon Mrs. Jordan, although I think she enjoys it at least a little, though she would never, ever admit as much.) His emotions played out with faulty reasoning - "No one likes me!" - and harsh accusations - "I don't have a nice family!" and "Nobody is being my friend!" My explanation was simple; that declining an invitation to any particular activity does not automatically disqualify one from being another's friend, since free will is an important quality and, if I asked a friend of mine to eat dog poop with me, their lack of participation would not stand in the way of my assessment of their loyalty toward me. But Boy 2 was not having any of this and in a brief fit of rage, he roared at me, "You better watch your attitude, Mister, or I'm telling Hermie!" Oh, did I laugh! But he did not appreciate that either and retired to his room. Confession time came quickly. As I laid with him to coax him to sleep - the sleep that, remember, he swears he never gets in favor of only "relaxing" - he exclaimed, "I'm a bad boy!" and began crying immediately. At first, he would not tell me why he had come to this conclusion but after some leveling with him in the form of a promise not to get mad, he told me he had lied and that he had not, in fact, achieved a ninth straight day of school-bestowed "good citizenship." Instead, he was stuck on "Ready to Learn," which is quite fine in this house, although anything less will need to be addressed. I blamed the elf. For the boy was convinced that he needed to be stellar each and every day without fail, whereas on most days, outside of this window of watching from on high (and by on high, I mean somewhere high enough so as not to tempt the "illegal" touching) he, like his father, would be just fine in the realm of acceptable mediocrity. Never again will I utter the words, "I'm telling Hermie." At this point, 1) I hate the name. The kids named him, after that failure of an elf from the original Rudolph special, now a dentist, or so we're told. (Probably one of those creepy dentists, I'd say. You know, the kind that gasses his female patients and plays peekaboo and stuff?) 2) The kids know the (completely fabricated) score. I will not add to this charade more than I already have. And I will not go gentle into this good night. The company Christmas party awaits and I've got some tomfoolery in which to partake. Still tired. 15 days.

Vol 9 and 10:

They sell both volumes of Kill Bill together now, as I understand it, so I’m allowed to drop a double dose of Elfdom if I want to. (This will be of no additional length, mind you, but we’ll call it two volumes nonetheless.) The uptick in emotion from Friday still fresh in my mind, the idea this weekend was to restore the spirits of Boy 1 and Boy 2 (and mostly the latter) and the elf, for all his faults, appears to be adept at aiding that, so long as the pressure he brings is tempered. I’d like to think that the littlest Jordan is less concerned, having had some weekend time, about trying to be “Good Citizen” levels of perfect than he was during our last volume. Saturday morning, Elfenstein, which is one of many names I am considering for a possible rebranding, took a ringside seat next to Boy 1’s toy wrestling ring, watching what was staged as a battle royal between all of his favorite toy wrestlers. Adorning the garb of a particular favorite, Samoa Joe, along with the NXT championship belt, he sat, smiling his usual satanic smile, as if to say that he was some sort of champion himself. You are not, sir, by any stretch. Let me make that clear. But, they enjoy your company, again, despite your many shortcomings. The wrestling set-up reminded me, however, that I would enjoy squaring off against you, were you of an acceptable size to do so, and perhaps if I can find someone of a similar appearance in human form, elbows will drop (and he shall fall.) Of course, then, I’d likely be arrested and/or sued but hey, that’s the cost of doing business, I suppose. This scene, like so many others featuring you-know-who, turned out to be less than perfect, largely because I set him up too low to the ground to be completely ignored or out-of-reach, but this turned out to be a positive step for the children, who resisted the temptation to move him themselves and asked for assistance when he flopped over at one point. Boy 1 wanted the championship belt the evil elf had been wearing, you see, and I was happy to strip it from him, since he did not deserve such an accolade by any means. Boy 2, it should be noted, held back his elfly interactions on Saturday. Maybe he was trying to determine just how emotionally invested in this thing he really should be. Saturday evening brought forth the annual company Christmas party and since the lady and I do not often stay out past 11 pm, let alone 2 am, anymore, it is no wonder that the Hermie the Hack almost did not get moved that night. Of course, I had every intention, and though my return home (thanks, Uber!) involved a certain level of whiskey breath as I spoke directly with my mother-in-law about plans for said move, in the fleeting seconds following that conversation, I forgot completely, probably focused on the pillows calling my name just a few feet away. Ever-clutch, Gran chipped in and relocated the impetuous imp, placing his (fake) happy little ass in the middle of a wreath on the door to the laundry room. Last night, as I stared at him, I honestly thought to myself, “You know, elf, you look like a real asshole sitting there smiling at me with your hands folded. I’d like to spear you with one of the skewers I use to make kebobs from time to time. Or drop you into a vat of bleach. Or something... Keep looking at me like that! Go ahead!” He was just lucky that there was no whiskey for a second consecutive evening. Of course, there can be no whiskey on consecutive evenings for yours truly anymore. Such is the penance that comes with age. Well, that and a vile attitude toward all things festive, it seems. Or at least all things purportedly festive that are nothing more than some sort of fabric, a little plastic and stuffed with cotton (or is it demon fiber?) 13 days. Unlucky 13, the elf might say, but we’ll see how lucky he is when I practice punting him later on today...

Vol 11:

The easy way seems like the right move at the moment. From one stocking (with Spider-Man) to another (with Ultron) - specifically recognizing each boy's individual preference for good guys vs. bad guys, we've killed two days and two potentially grief-inducing moments. But hark! There are three more stockings! That could very well be three more days. Lady Jordan would love to see the imp intruder in her stocking, along with, say, vodka? Yeah, she likes vodka. And Superdog would dig it if he were to show up in hers next to, ah yes! Something she always begs me for - leftover pizza! Perfect! As for me, well, this isn't really about me but if I'm to tend to this shithead as much as I do, why not treat myself and set the stage for him to gift me some Johnny Walker Blue? Mmmmm. We're already down to 12 days and if I can pull this off, we're into the single digits with plenty of creativity left in the reserve tank. Note to self: Boy 1 is looking more and more suspicious by the day. He is wise indeed. Perhaps it is time to distract him with fear and confusion. Would he believe the Russians hacked his elementary school, forcing an uptick in homework? That seems to be a popular play these days and it just might work. Operation: Borscht shall commence in the am. And looky, looky! It's now midnight! 11 days, just like that! We can do this. Ohhhhh, yes. We shall overcome.

Vol 12:

Rats once spread the Bubonic Plague. Prince Prospero's hubris allowed the Red Death to infiltrate his castellated abbeys, according to E.A. Poe. And I say these little elves carry their own special pandemic - a yuletide malady that flips the universe onto its head and turns otherwise relatively well-behaved children into distracted, exhausted malcontents, spewing tidings of discomfort and misery on adults the world over. It makes no sense. At a time when conventional wisdom would dictate that they walk the straight and narrow like never before, the little ones have truly gone mad. Under the watchful eye of the hellion in the red hat, I always expect that Boy 1 and Boy 2 would adopt model citizenship - and for small spurts, they do. For instance, Boy 1's cleaning dog poop from the backyard last Sunday was completely out of character and Boy 2's strong run of eight consecutive "good citizen" statuses (already chronicled in a previous volume, as well as his subsequent fall from grace) was quite a feat! (Suddenly, I'm reminded that I did not ask for details on the dog doo cleaning duty - nor can I say for sure if they showered that night... Nonetheless, the past is the past.) But these exceptions have not become the rule. instead... It took 47 utterances of the elder Jordan child's name tonight just to get him to come to the table to do his homework, when normally, it would only take 3-5. And that was just the beginning of the battle. "Math with Mom" may sound like a fun game show of sorts but in reality, it's quite torturous. Eating dinner in short order once that was finally complete, a necessary rush on an evening when baseball practice beckons, drew moans and whines and pouts and eventually, claims of complete disinterest in our national pastime - a sin, certainly, but more importantly, a lie, as proven instantly upon arriving at the field, where free-spirited fun commenced. (I noticed there, too, that it is not just my own children who have figuratively tooted the Christmas cocaine of late. Everyone's offspring is mental at the moment, it appears. We're all in this together, people.) As for Boy 2, well, that run of eight straight school days by which he was judged all chivalrous and what not has been followed by quite the struggle. Warnings and consequences and nastygrams from the teacher are the new trend. (Note to Teacher: I feel ya, girl. I mean, I ain't never did kindergarten and shit but I did teach at muthafuckin' Hillsborough High School for a hot minute. And you trippin' if you think students clownin' in December is only for the jits. Teenage fools be whack AF.) But we have reached the magic number of 10 and with that, I see the light. Alas, I am stupid enough to crank this sonofabitch waaaaaaaaaay past 10 on the Holly-Jolly-Christmas-o-Meter tomorrow night, as we venture to what some might call the happiest place on Earth (whereas I call it, "Whythehellcan'twedrinkhereagainland") for Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party. We'll see how very merry it is this time, kids. Just keep up the shenanigans and maybe I'll tell you the story of the crazy Christmas kid who got left with the elephants on the Jungle Cruise back in 1984. Look for him, Reggie, I think... Yeah, he's in there, somewhere. Keep looking... Ah, but that's tomorrow night... Tonight, I'll resist the urge to send the elf into the garbage can, no matter how easy to pull off the narrative of "Hey, kids. Yeah, sorry... He must have really wanted that last piece of chocolate," might be. Single digits are afoot!

Vol 13:

As if Christmas madness wasn't already enough to make even the most level-headed parents consider sending their normally well-adjusted children to some sort of juvenile rehab, we went and introduced the idea of this all-powerful elf and sent things into hyperdrive. And then you have idiots like myself, who facilitate the special kind of speedball that is Christmas and Disney World to launch the youngsters into a stratosphere of holiday intoxication that would appeal to Belushi- and Farley-types the world over. I've spent enough time at the House of Mouse in the last seven years or so to know that on any random Tuesday, you can do some serious people-watching but on a designated Friday night in December, at something they jam down your throat as a "Very Merry" Christmas party, young bucks and grandmas alike are off the rails right from the jump. It's marketing, I get it, but shouldn't it be up to me to decide how to describe the levels of joy and/or merriment I get from a party to which I'm invited (and certainly one I've paid for?) I'm not going to throw a pool party in a couple of months, invite a bunch of you people, and call it "Jon's Super Enjoyable and Relaxing Pool Party." I might assist in the temporary adjustments of your dopamine and serotonin levels as best I can but I'll leave it up to you to determine what sort of accolades you bestow upon my event. Anyway, free from the eyes of the elf (theoretically, anyway) the children were a bit wild on the journey to WDW but I've found that any car ride longer than 20 minutes or so has the potential to become the clearest manifestation of their best friends/worst enemies style of relationship at this phase of their lives. One minute, they're sharing books and the next, someone's finger is in someone else's eye. I tried my best to sing Christmas songs to myself (no, really, I do try to get into it here and there) but my soul-soothing would have to come in the form of a bunch of junk food at the park and a ride or two. The kids had free reign to try and off each other in the interim. As evenings go, one could really do far worse, honestly. As I've said a million times, it would be tremendous if adults could wander around the Magic Kingdom with a beer but I get it. It's a kids' park. And I suppose that isn't appropriate EVERYWHERE, after all. Plus, there are fleeting moments on these nights that we just aren't going to get anywhere else - like Boy 2 cuddling with his mom or Boy 1 beaming from the front row of a parade route or both of them, giggling with laughter (and maybe a little hint of fear) as we whirl around on some roller coaster or other. Those are sights and sounds I'm tattooing into my brain for sure. But by the time it's all over, we have reached full-fledged juvenile Christmas drunkenness, where, just like your overserved adult friend, conversations ramble on making very little sense, emotions are high and the expression of as much can go from "I love yous" to crying in an instant. There is slurring, overindulgence on late night snacks and then, ultimately, they just pass out. And while one big difference between your friend, Drunky the Bear, and your overtired, cranky Christmas kid is that you usually don't have to worry about the latter throwing up, another is that you can't just leave them where they fall out. So, in my case, you're forced to scoop and carry the now 70-ish pound, increasingly long 8-year-old for miles into boats and trams and finally to the car. While waiting for said tram, I surveyed my surrounding area and confirmed my suspicions that, yes, out of the 500 or so people I could see in my immediate vicinity, Boy 1 was definitely the biggest human sleeping in another human’s arms at that point. But again... Special moments, I suppose, if I'm being honest. (And honestly, between that and multiple shoulder hoistings throughout the evening, holy shit is my back messed up! Thanks again, lady who rear-ended me a few years back to kickstart that now-lifelong pleasantry.) As for the elf, the vile, heinous, intrusive being that he is, he's joined forces with an Angry Bird and Sven from Frozen, and has taken up residence in the boys' bathroom - which is definitely a little weird and creepy, now that I re-think my most recent placement strategy but hey, can't touch him again until tomorrow now. And besides, weird and creepy suits him just fine. ONE WEEK.

Vol 14:

Creativity has ceased. There are no more ideas. The focus has shifted, solely, to survival. Christmas intoxication has run amok and both children are perpetually drunk in turn. I have not yet found the proper means to detox them, although I believe, once that bag of chocolate-covered pretzels was stolen and consumed, only time was to be my ally. Boy 2 turned emotional once more last night, expressing his desire to "go home." Since he was sitting in his bed as he proclaimed this, a deeper inquiry revealed that he wanted to go back to our old house, which we left roughly 18 months ago, because he missed his friends. Total bullhonk, of course, since he couldn't identify a single "friend" by name, other than the old neighbor's dog, aptly named Jordan, which weakens his argument even further. Boy 1 arose at 6 am today, reportedly uttering some nonsense about starting a band. (I cannot confirm this directly, as I was in the midst of a dream starring myself, Wolf Blitzer and Jennifer Lawrence, all scouring the planet for "the lost relics." But the reporting of my wife person is to be trusted, more often than not.) His level of Yuletide inebriation has manifested itself in a phenomenon known as "Low Eyes Syndrome" and whether you choose to admit it or not, you've all been there. Just look through photos in which you've been tagged by others - specifically anything after midnight, at weddings or taken by your most obnoxious friends. On the positive side, we've reached the 5-day mark and are just two days shy of relocating this clan to the other coast, where the grandparent folks can assist in keeping us all alive. The inherent danger of said grandparent folks inadvertently contributing to Christmas chaos matters not, for there is strength in numbers and reinforcements at this point are sorely needed. The elf is spooning with a San Francisco 49ers Christmas ornament today and I think I will say no more to that end. "Take a look around here, Ellen. We're at the threshold of hell!" - Clark W. Griswold, Jr.

Vol 15:

The day is nigh. The elf has been bagged in preparation for the cross-state trek. Part of me wanted that to happen legit abduction-style - little potato sack thrown over his head, a swat of a tiny baseball bat to the dome... A garrote, probably, would have been overkill but I wouldn't have ruled it out. Anyway, he's MIA - and of course, that means we'll have to lie to the children once more as to why he's disappeared. "I don't know, kids. I walked around the corner and he just wasn't there anymore!" Then, tomorrow morning when he shows up at La Casa de Jordan 1.0, I'll be ogling Boy 1 to see if there is any further hint of suspicion in his eye. Surely, Boy 2 will wake up some time between 3 and 5 am tomorrow as the excitement percolates. (I will not.) There will be no attempts to peer deeply into his eyes, mostly out of fear that they've turned black by now, undoubtedly the evildoing of you-know-who. The good news is that I believe all is reparable, once he is gone for good - or at least until next year. In my experience, Christmasitis usually takes a couple of weeks to fade away and then some semblance of normalcy returns. This year, I'm hoping that comes with a newfound affinity for sleeping in. I was never very good at that as a young kid and didn't master it until college, really - an achievement aided at that time by, well, let's just call them PEDs. But I know it is possible for even an 8-year-old to sleep until 9, 10 or 11, even, because I saw my pal Jeremy do it with my own eyes. Sleeping over at his house was great the night before amidst our usual hijinks but I could only describe the following mornings as, uh, educational, as in I seized the opportunity to read every single book on his bookshelf and watch every movie he owned, killing time until he finally woke up. (What the hell were my parents doing anyway, that they couldn't pick me up early, as I often asked? Actually... Don't answer that.) So, again, the hope is that Boy 1 takes after Uncle Berm and learns to hibernate (at least a little.) There is no hope for the other one to that end. He continues to remind us that he never sleeps and only relaxes. "Sometimes," he says, "I don't mean to but I accidentally go to sleep automatically." Clearly, he isn't to be trusted with this intentionally perplexing narrative of his but I believe he has convinced himself that it is all true. That, in and of itself, surely leads to the unique circadian rhythm he's adopted. He sure is cute, though. I imagine that'll keep earning him a pass, no matter how many times he fires a soccer ball directly into my nether regions. Perhaps only one or two more entries into these chronicles shall be necessary from this point forward. I should say that I'm pleased with the response so far, as it seems most of the free world can relate in one way or another, but the goal from the beginning was simply to document the daily deeds of our ignominious, inanimate, annual invader and their impact on our everyday lives. Plus, if I should meet my demise during his stay, surely this will aid law enforcement officials. As far as that goes, one only needs to buy one vowel to solve this puzzle, and that is the "E" to kick off "E.L.F." You see, although we are still in the pre-Christmas phase of my intensive study, I have learned enough to commit to the conclusion that it is indeed an acronym, standing for Evil Little Fucker, as some of you may have already ascertained. It is but one piece but a vital one indeed. I've got you now, you hellion. It is only a matter of time. Deportation is but three days away!

Vol 16:

He is everywhere and he takes on many forms. The shape-shifting shithead has obviously meandered about my home for weeks but also invaded my tree, in the form of a Christmas ornament, and now, as I've taken up temporary residence at my parents' house, he is present as a children's nightlight in the bathroom, staring, peering, judging as people partake in their most private and personal moments. He truly is a sick sonofabitch. He is also in my brain at this point, as evidenced by the masterful mindfuck he pulled on me on Thursday evening. I am a man of many talents but perhaps my most important task as the husband, father and clearly established second-in-command of our family is to handle all packing duties for out-of-town adventures. At Christmastime, this can get tricky, what with an overabundance of presents to account for, in addition to our regular haul. But, always up to the challenge, I gathered up all of the important items and successfully played the game of Tetris that is fitting all of them into the dadmobile, née Honda Pilot. All of them, you see, except for my own suitcase, left perfectly packed and wide open on my bedroom floor, only to be revealed at the most impactful moment from a psychological perspective, as we crossed the Brevard County line, all according to "Its" diabolical plan. I have no clothes. I have no toiletries. As a broken man at this point, I also have no soul. And now I seek redemption. A Christmas angel has aided my efforts to thwart this hostile takeover and my suitcase has been successfully recovered, here, two days later, so brushing my teeth and replacing the loin cloth I've adopted in the interim is but hours away. But the damage has been done. The little fucker has clearly won a round. His reign of terror ends for the season after tomorrow but does that give me time to recover my soul before he is banished once more? Clearly, his excommunication is more important than my return to human form so if sacrifice is required, I must remain committed to the cause. In the event of Christmas catastrophe, I offer warmest regards and eternal gratitude to all that have followed these chronicles. As I forge forward, know that I am acting not on my own behalf but for all that is good in this world. The final showdown is nearly upon us and with any luck - and the guidance of Lord Zeus, Ra the sun god, sweet baby Jesus, John Cougar, John Deere and John 3:16 - when it's all said and done, I aim to look the elf straight in the eye and tell him what a cheap, lying, no good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?

Vol 17:

It is all over. Since I am writing this, it needs not be clarified that the side of righteousness prevailed in the end but this was not always a foregone conclusion. The red devil was a formidable foe and I can say with near-certainty that we will do battle at least once more, as Boy 1 and Boy 2 will probably still be buying what he's selling. It cannot go undocumented that Hermie took one last pound of flesh as he exited, to the tune of me waking up in a panic at 5 am to remove him from sight and complete this festive ruse. Just as he had on Day 1 this year, he ruined my slumber and that cheeky little smile stretched ever so slightly. It did feel good, under the cover of darkness, to jam the little prick into my suitcase pocket and zip it up. I hope it's hot in your own personal hell, you heathen. And now, we pick up the pieces. I am in need of repair, inside and out. Tired, tattered, full of torment... But mostly tired. Is there no vacation from Christmas vacation? It's become clear to me that, despite my ultimate victory, this experience will haunt me for years to come. And in ensuing years, likely, it will be worse. So, when is a win actually a loss? Perhaps it is now. Perhaps it is more than just a pound of flesh the evil elf has taken with him. There is, it turns out, slight discomfort in my liver area, you see. That's either from the traditional holiday excess or, if you believe the ancient Navajo legend, that's where the soul is located and clearly, mine is gone. Back to our happy little lives? Sure - I can play that game. It is a beautiful existence. But he has broken me indeed. "And Darkness and Decay and The Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

[aceandsparrow]

Survivor 35: Episode 9

[S] I forgot Dr. Mike has an idol. [A] I too forgot Mike has an idol. But you know who doesn't have an idol? Tony v.2.

[A] Mike doesn't seem to understand that hated people don't always get voted out because people like to take them as fodder for the finals.

[S] Did not need the shot of Ryan pulling the idol out of his pants. [A] Is that an idol in your pants or are you just happy to see me?

(just for you, Sparrow)

[A] How does telling him about the idol make Devon dependent on Ryan? I'd imagine vice versa - Ryan has to depend on Devon keeping his mouth shut.

[S] Red wine and chocolate cake. No thanks. [A] I've mentioned it a bunch, but they really need to provide non-alcohol rewards. I know they did the few times a contestant was 18-20, but assuming everyone 21+ drinks alcohol and wants it as a reward is dumb.

[A] I might be mistaken, but I swear Chrissy just took a second to shake the water off her legs before climbing on the platform.

[S] Good God, Ashley crushed that…

[A] JP did what I kept expecting someone to do - just dive down from the ladder and get the buoy without surfacing.

[S] Granny style is the way to go.

[A] Did Lauren do anything in that challenge? She didn't dive for keys. She didn't do the locks. She didn't shoot. She didn't retrieve the balls. WTF DID SHE DO?!

[S] The three most obnoxious players win reward. Boo. [A] If that boat could just have catastrophic failure (but JP escapes and saves Mike), that'd be great.

[S] Ryan is the kid who is so proud of himself for finding an idol that he just has to tell everyone so they'll give him praise. [A] YES. SO MUCH SO THIS.

[S] Leave Ashley alone, Joe!

[A] Tony v.2 understands it. He should teach Mike a lesson about the whole "keeping annoying people around" strategy.

[A] Devon is either a great actor or Ben is just oblivious.

[A] Everyone's clothes look a little worse for wear as they walk in for the individual immunity challenge. Except for Lauren. That looks like a brand new shirt from Target.

[S] I think every immunity challenge will be a balancing act. The immunity necklace literally sits on a post that has fucking scales on it. [A] Holy shit it really is on scales.

[A] Is JP okay back there? Everyone is chilling on the bench and he is just standing behind Jeff looking like his back is in serious pain.

[A] Has Lauren ever lasted this long on a challenge?

[A] Ben would be the worst poker player. [S] Ben, you gotta learn to hide your emotions.

[S] Ben, don't dictate. Do by democracy.

[S] Oh God. Mike is going to play the idol for Cole and send himself home, isn't he? [A] If Mike plays his idol for Cole and then goes home, I may shed a little tear. He's a decent person and I'd like him to stay in the game.

[S] Screw you, Chrissy. You asked for the logic and he gave it to you!

[S] You are wrong, Chrissy. Ben should listen, but at the end of the day you are wrong. Cole is a bigger threat than Joe. [A] Ben is a dick, but he is indeed right. Cole wins immunity challenges. Tony v.2 doesn't, and no one on the jury will vote for him.

[S] Dr. Mike owning everyone.  Love it. [A] I love that Mike is owning this tribal, but you know damn well that he's doing it because he has that idol in his pocket.

[S] I hate strategizing at tribal. Shouldn't be allowed.

[A] If Mike plays his idol tonight, I guarantee next episode will start with a scramble looking for the idol that they will assume is back in play.

[S] Mike played it for himself. I'm glad.

[S] I still hate that Ben shot himself in the foot by being right.

[A] Poor Desi. She's stuck with just Cole for company.

[S] LOL Ben wrote "Coal."

[allbestnet]

The 100 Best Books About Middle East History & Politics

A History of the Modern Middle East by William L. Cleveland

Orientalism by Edward W. Said

The New Arabs: How the Millennial Generation is Changing the Middle East by Juan Cole

Resurrecting Empire by Rashid Khalidi

Colonising Egypt by Timothy Mitchell

A History of the Arab Peoples by Albert Hourani

The Hidden Face of Eve by Nawal El Saadawi

From Deep State to Islamic State by Jean-Pierre Filiu

Islam and the Arab Awakening by Tariq Ramadan

The Modern Middle East by James L. Gelvin

The Venture of Islam by Marshall G. S. Hodgson

Being Arab by Samir Kassir

The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine by Ilan Pappe

Beware of Small States by David Hirst

The Mantle of the Prophet by Roy Mottahedeh

A Savage War of Peace: Algeria 1954-1962 by Alistair Horne

The Old Social Classes & The Revolutionary Movement In Iraq by Hanna Batatu

When Baghdad Ruled the Muslim World by Hugh Kennedy

A History of Islamic Societies by Ira M. Lapidus

State, Power and Politics in the Making of the Modern Middle East by Roger Owen

Over-Stating the Arab State by Nazih N. Ayubi

Iran: A People Interrupted by Hamid Dabashi

No Good Men Among the Living: America, the Taliban, and the War through Afghan Eyes by Anand Gopal

A Peace to End All Peace: The Fall of the Ottoman Empire and the Creation of the Modern Middle East by David Fromkin

A History of Saudi Arabia by Madawi al-Rasheed

Burning Country: Syrians in Revolution and War by Robin Yassin-Kassab

The Muqaddimah: An Introduction to History by Ibn Khaldun

Forgotten Voices: Power and Agency in Colonial and Postcolonial Libya by Ali Abdullatif Ahmida

Contending Visions of the Middle East: The History and Politics of Orientalism by Zachary Lockman

Greek Thought, Arabic Culture by Dimitri Gutas

Beyond the Green Zone by Dahr Jamail

Turkey: A Modern History by Erik J. Zurcher

Water on Sand: Environmental Histories Of The Middle East And North Africa by Alan Mikhail

A Political Economy of the Middle East by Melani Cammett

Muhammad: Prophet and Statesman by Montgomery Watt

The Formation of Islam: Religion and Society in the Near East, 600-1800 by Jonathan P. Berkey

The Far Enemy: Why Jihad Went Global by Fawaz A. Gerges

The People's Spring: The Future of the Arab Revolution by Samir Amin

Jihad: The Trail of Political Islam by Gilles Kepel

The Modern History of Iraq by Phebe Marr

This Time We Went Too Far: Truth & Consequences of the Gaza Invasion by Norman G. Finkelstein

Quicksand: America's Pursuit of Power in the Middle East by Geoffrey Wawro

Algeria: Anger of the Dispossessed by John Phillips

The Israel Lobby and U.S. Foreign Policy by John J. Mearsheimer

Syrian Notebooks: Inside the Homs Uprising by Jonathan Littell

Armed Struggle and the Search for State: The Palestinian National Movement, 1949-1993 by Yezid Sayigh

The Iron Wall: Israel and the Arab World by Avi Shlaim

Women and Gender in Islam: Historical Roots of a Modern Debate by Leila Ahmed

Afghanistan: A Cultural and Political History by Thomas Barfield

Inside Inequality in the Arab Republic of Egypt by Paolo Verme

The Society of the Muslim Brothers by Richard P. Mitchell

Arab Politics: Search for Legitimacy by Michael C. Hudson

Modern Iran: Roots and Results of Revolution by Nikki R. Keddie

Ambiguities of Domination: Politics, Rhetoric, and Symbols in Contemporary Syria by Lisa Wedeen

Al-Qaeda: The True Story of Radical Islam by Jason Burke

Drone Warfare by Medea Benjamin

The Crusades Through Arab Eyes by Amin Maalouf

Good Muslim, Bad Muslim by Mahmood Mamdani

On Saudi Arabia: Its People, Past, Religion, Fault Lines--and Future by Karen Elliott House

Bad News from Israel by Mike Berry

Islamic Science and the Making of the European Renaissance by George Saliba

Who Speaks For Islam?: What a Billion Muslims Really Think by John L. Esposito

Beyond Islam by Sami Zubaida

The Road to Iraq by Muhammad Idrees Ahmad

Defending the Holy Land by Zeev Maoz

A House of Many Mansions: The History of Lebanon Reconsidered by Kamal S. Salibi

Pakistan: A Hard Country by Anatol Lieven

Islam, Charity, and Activism: Middle-Class Networks and Social Welfare in Egypt, Jordan, and Yemen by Janine A. Clark

The Ottoman Empire, 1700-1922 by Donald Quataert

Middle East Authoritarianisms: Governance, Contestation, and Regime Resilience in Syria and Iran by Steven Heydemann

A Modern History of the Kurds by David McDowall

Inventing Iraq: The Failure of Nation Building and a History Denied by Toby Dodge

Suez: Britain's End of Empire in the Middle East by Keith Kyle

Arab Nationalism in the Twentieth Century: From Triumph to Despair by Adeed Dawisha

Egypt: The Moment of Change by Rabab El-Mahdi

Yemen Chronicle: An Anthropology of War and Mediation by Steven C. Caton

France, the United States, and the Algerian War by Irwin M. Wall

The State and Social Transformation in Tunisia and Libya, 1830-1980 by Lisa Anderson

All in the Family by Michael Herb

A Different Kind of War: The UN Sanctions Regime in Iraq by Hans von Sponeck

The Coup by Ervand Abrahamian

The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited by Benny Morris

The Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain by Maria Rosa Menocal

Egypt on the Brink: From Nasser to Mubarak by Tarek Osman

Remaking Women by Lila Abu-Lughod

Women with Mustaches and Men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity by Afsaneh Najmabadi

Al-Jazeera: The Inside Story of the Arab News Channel That is Challenging the West by Hugh Miles

The Gulf Monarchies and Climate Change by Mari Luomi

The Rise of Colleges by George Makdisi

The Middle East in International Relations by Fred Halliday

Cairo: The City Victorious by Max Rodenbeck

The Egypt of Nasser and Sadat: The Political Economy of Two Regimes by John Waterbury

Hell in the Holy Land: World War One in the Middle East by David R. Woodward

Dying to Win: The Strategic Logic of Suicide Terrorism by Robert A. Pape

Religion and State in Syria: The Sunni Ulama from Coup to Revolution by Thomas Pierret

The Unraveling: High Hopes and Missed Opportunities in Iraq by Emma Sky

Gaddafi's Harem: The Story of a Young Woman and the Abuses of Power in Libya by Annick Cojean

Epic Encounters: Culture, Media, and U.S. Interests in the Middle East since 1945 by Melani McAlister

An Introduction to Arabic Literature by Roger Allen

Afgantsy: The Russians in Afghanistan, 1979-89 by Rodric Braithwaite

Source: List Muse