Barrow Deer

When I was out walking the dogs this morning they started tracking some barrow deer (which are burrowing deer we have around here). They got their name from the First People (who call themselves The People and not The First People, in the same way that we call it The United States and not The First United States because they did not (as we do not) wander around in a state of precognition that some bastards were going to blunder in from another dimension and kill most of us with alien diseases and guns and torture and shit, and when there’s just a heart-rending rump of us left give us a hearty kick in the nuts every time they even notice we still exist. Pretty much the correct response when you see one of the survivors of this morally-haywire ongoing genocide is to throw yourself prostrate, lay your wakizashi on the ground before you and just see what happens.)

Anyway barrow deer since the beginning of time will occasionally get into a burial ground and make a complete hash of it. The traditional solution to this was to keep a continuous fire of poison sumac going in the center of the burial ground. This took a great deal of courage and skill since inhaling the smoke from poison sumac inflames the lining of the lungs.

We live right next door to a cemetery. Story is that back in 1964 a whole herd of barrow deer got in there after hours one evening and by morning there was an unholy pile of Aaberg, Erickson, Askelund and Sonderby bones, after which the cemetery board approved an eight-foot above-ground, eight-foot below electrified fence with its own backup generator, which we can hear from our house whenever it fires up and it makes the dogs howl.

Barrow deer are gentle and no big deal (dead grandmas aside). What really bothers me is the big mothers they have in the swamps of northeastern Minnesota. The common name is the same but they’re actually a different species, Alces Tumulus. They have humongous antlers with their own moss (I’m tempted to say their own microclimate) and weigh up to 1800 pounds. When you feel the peat heaving under your boots, you run. They won’t hurt you on purpose but a one-ton barrow deer can do you a whole world of accidentally.

Anyway the dogs backed off on about my fifth whistle and we watched the dirt fly up out of the hole and the rain pounded it straight into mud.

Image CC-BY-SA by uberphot

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God Save the King

The Pearly Kings and Queens are royalty I can get behind. Let no man call himself a king who does not make his own suit.

via Warren Ellis

Image CC-BY-NC-ND by squaregraph

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Little Funny

Three Uncles

The International Cartoonist Conspiracy, Big Time Attic, and Altered Esthetics Gallery in Minneapolis are staging Big Funny, a month-long wake celebrating the endangered medium known as “newspaper comics.” They have produced a full-size, full-color Sunday Funnies and loads of collateral art.

There will also be a vintage cigarette machine stocked with mini-comics. I will be contributing the three *highly-collectible* Uncles minis whose covers appear above. (Your spare change will help to buy meagre portions of Artist Chow for unnamed starving cartoonists and gallery owners who aren’t me. I get paid in mini-comics, which pretty much rules!)

The opening reception is Friday, August 7 from 7:00-11:00 at Altered Esthetics, 1224 Quincy Street NE, Minneapolis, MN 55413, 612.378.8888. Please bring your checkbook and a pocket full of quarters!

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Raise a 743-Pound Catfish

Mozhi’s and my new illustrated story, Raise a 743-Pound Catfish, just passed the 500-reader mark! Wo0t! Mozhi’s illustrations are astounding. Please check it out!

http://www.instructables.com/id/Raise-a-743-Pound-Catfish/

Image CC-BY-NC by MozhiDian

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Magnificence

My mom (and, by extension, my brother and I) grew up in a subculture of the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers) that places strong emphasis on the Testimony of Simplicity.

I have always found that Testimony to be morally unassailable but spiritually flawed (in the sense that it lacks soul) because it devalues the pursuit of magnificence.

While pounding nails just now, I was listening to NPR on my crazy AM/FM/MP3 hearing-protector earmuffs, and I ran across a reference to magnificence as a cardinal virtue in Nicomachean Ethics. Huzzah! An ethical system I might want to fit into!

Fortunately, my neighbor on the other side of the fence is a scholar of Aristotle and Nicomachus. I will now bake him some cookies and run over there for a conversation.

Image CC-BY-NC-SA by Ibán

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Outta Zight

Tinariwen

I have the the new Tinariwen album on. It forces me to march bow-legged in a never-ending circle. If you don’t have the same problem I don’t want to know you.

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Luther Magnussen

I just want to state—for the record—that I recognize Luther Magnussen as my superior. If I ever pass within a mile of him, I will immediately and without hesitation buy him a glass of whiskey and a pint of beer.

I was on the plane from Dallas yesterday, listlessly leafing through the July issue of Harpers, when I stumbled across this excerpt (paywall!) from Magnussen’s Work and Industry in the Northern Midwest from the July 2008 issue of the Yale Review.

Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary reach the summit only to discover that George Kilroy has been bringing his drinking buddies up here every weekend.

Image CC-BY-NC-ND by Kongstein

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One In Every Port

Waled was born in Mocha above a coffee warehouse. At age eleven, his right arm was bitten by a dog, beaten with a pole and burned by oil and had to be amputated. His uncle bought him an arm carved from Boswellia sacra for his twelfth birthday. It was an extravagant and sweet-smelling gift but the arm was impractical and easily-gouged. At age thirteen he went to sea as ship’s boy aboard the Habb. On a brief leave at al Hudaydah he discovered the benefits of a missing arm.

A widow named Ma’isah saw him drinking coffee and beckoned him with her eyes. Above her brother-in-law’s chandlery she tenderly removed his arm and led him to the pile of old rugs that was her bed. He barely made it back aboard ship, arrived without his arm and had to make do with the fragment of oar he had grabbed off Ma’isah’s floor by mistake.

In Jeddah, he met a girl his own age under the Gate of Al-Magharibah. She took him under a lean-to against the city wall and kissed him on the mouth until he grew faint, then stole him a new arm of ivory and silver. The chunk of oar was carried off by dogs.

He lost the ivory arm in Sharm al Sheikh gambling with a sailor’s wife in a game he was happy to lose. On his long nights aboard ship he wove a new one out of strands of straw.

The straw arm caught fire in Hurgada under a torn fishnet with two village girls (but one always afterwards resented the other). What could he do but weave a replacement out of palm leaves?

In Sawakin he found himself alone and slowly and sadly made his way to the camel races. Standing next to him was a one-armed merchant named Aban. Aban left the race with Waled’s palm-leaf arm. Waled left the race with Aban’s articulated brass arm and his youngest wife Ablah.

Near Massawa Waled dived for sea urchins (which are haram but extremely delicious) with Lamya’, who, when naked, was so dark as to be essentially invisible. The brass arm sank beneath the waves and he hurriedly replaced it with a float of cork pulled from a fish trap.

The chief of police in Aseb (who suffered from delusions of grandeur) kept a harem in a five-sided building with heavily-guarded doors on all sides. The women within grew bored and invited the East-side guards inside, and they did not object when Waled came in too. Who could blame him for forgetting his cork? He left Aseb with an arm woven from khat stems left after all the leaves had been chewed.

The next port of call was Mocha, his birthplace. His second-cousin Afifah greeted him with an embrace that could scarcely be called chaste, and she took him to buy a simple leather-and-wood arm with the last of his wages. The next day he sailed again for al Hudaydah.

Image CC-BY by Wrote

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My Dogs are in Tennessee.

My dogs can never learn not to pull on the leash. So the first thing I did is, I drove them out to El Mirage, along with a trailered ‘93 Chevy Malibu with a governor on the engine, all the seats removed and a throttle-and-steering control made of pulleys, clothesline and a chewed-in-half leash.

King drove demolition-style. There isn’t much to hit in El Mirage, but King managed to hit it. Princess, though, was a natural. She immediately split for the horizon at 17MPH. I had only put a half-pint of gas in the tank. (Like a jackass, I was using a half-pint Wild Turkey bottle to carry the gas around. When Princess took off, I pulled the flask out of my ass pocket and saluted her with a huge toast. That shit BURNS.) So she ran out of gas before she got all that far. Even still it was a long hot walk up to the Malibu. I fed her a fistful of Velveeta (her favorite) which had melted to shit in my pocket.

Next step was traffic. I belted King into the passenger side (pissed him right off), cranked the governor up to U-Haul Standard and stood back while Princess pulled out onto 395. I followed on a Yamaha 175cc dirt bike I found leaning against a dumpster in Barstow one time. Once Princess figured out to stop driving in the left-hand lane everything went pretty smooth. She waxed a gila monster I would just as soon have taken home, but most humans would have made the same mistake. She even pulled off on the shoulder when the tank ran dry. Good dog, Princess! Here, have half a cold-ass Denver Breakfast Bowl! (I gave King a burrito off the floor, even though he hadn’t done nothing but ride along.)

Anyway, then I had her drive to Furnace Creek Ranch. We all drank some Amp and then hiked into Cottonball Marsh, where I had some business to conduct with my man Snake, who, crazy fucker, keeps a floatplane in there. We got done with that and then we all drove back to San Pedro, put the Chevy back on the trailer and drove back to Minnesota (which took about eight days and cost me most of my cash on KOA’s and diesel.)

My idea was Princess could do halftime shows at the Elko NASCAR track. But my dipshit neighbor Beans filled up the tank for them last Saturday night while I was out, and now my dogs are in Tennessee.

Image CC-BY-SA by DanCentury

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Mummy Dust

Yeovil surrealist Kek-W has just published my story “Mummy Dust.” Check it out!

Here is Kek’s story Cobalt Imperium in Rudy Rucker’s Flurb.

Here is my exact favorite music review ever, also by Kek.

Image CC-BY-NC-ND by jwinfred

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