Just some food for thought

     You will never be able to write a book and call it "Lolita" because of... you know.

     You will never be able to wear a rainbow shirt in the summer and not have it be mistaken for something homosexual.

     You will never be able to form a musical band and call is The Beatles.

     You will never be able to discover the North Pole for the first time.

     You will never write Star Wars.

     You will never have to worry about sword training, since guns are invented.

     You will never invent the radio.

     You will never paint the Mona Lisa.

Satyrday, a Fable. Thursday, parts 1 & 2.

THURSDAY

     Vera didn't sleep much that night. The boy and satyr rested on the sand, surrounded by the large boulders. They lay huddled in their blankets, for night on the Plain was very cold. The fox sat and watched them a long time, not thinking much of anything. The boy appeared dreamless, almost dead, as he lay on his back, the blanket tucked around his chin, his face turned upwards to the blank sky. The satyr rested on his side, his hindquarters bent at the hips and knees, his back to Derin.
     And then the fox's eyes clouded over, she ceased to look at her companions, and she was very far away. She was remembering, sifting though the past as one might walk along the beach, vacantly, stopping now and then to examine something which lies on the sand–a bright washed pebble, a piece of shell, each story distinct from all others, but connected by the great sea which has given it up.
     The longest hours of the night stretched before her. In the shifting winds which swept the plain, small pillars of sand rose up in a whirlwind and disappeared. If the bones of her children beneath her could understand, they would want her to rest. And so she lay beside the satyr and the boy and closed her eyes.



                                                             *                    *                    *



     "What do you have to say to me?" the owl asked, his eyes bright with interest. The ancient raven dropped to earth. The owl towered in front of her, but she didn't seem frightened.
     "I don't know much at this time," the crone said. "Members of the clan are beginning to talk against you, several in particular. I have heard it said your plan is doomed to fail."
     The owl's eyelids lowered as they did when he was thinking. The crone was unaware of the fury behind that thought.
     "There are more than one who question me," he said, his voice muffled, as if it were of no concern to him.
     "Yes, my lord. I've listened to many conversations since last night, and ravens who do not know each other are saying the same things."
     "It will not matter," he said. "I will clamp down so swiftly upon whomever questions me the others will understand they have no choice. And in a few short days nothing anyone could do will make a difference."
     There was silence in the clearing. The ancient raven and the owl stared at each other across the distance between them. "The old are either very foolish or very wise," the owl said. "Which are you?"
     I am not foolish enough to think myself wise," the crone said, and the owl was pleased with her response.
     "You speak well, the owl said. "What did you have in mind?"
     "I ask only that you allow me privately to serve you," she said. "I would act as a spy on your behalf."
     "Go then," the owl said, almost gently. "Bring me the names of those who speak or act against me. And if you should discover a connection between the three strangers I spoke of earlier and a member of the clan, it would be of special interest to me."
     "What will you do about them?" the crone asked.
     "I will deal with them, if they get this far," the owl said fiercely. "But before they arrive, I have ways to make their journey more difficult."
     "If I may be so bold to ask.  .  .  ."
     "You may not."
     In the darkness behind them, the sound of the ravens returning from the southern reach began to build in intensity.
     "They are coming," the crone said. "I have to go." She hesitated. "My lord, when the new kingdom is established, if there should be a post for me, I would humbly accept it, were you to offer."
     "Surely," the owl said, for he had nothing to lose in this. "In the meantime, keep your eyes open. I will await your report."
     The crone lowered her head. "My lord," she said, and flew away.
     The wind carried the sound of beating wings closer and closer to the owl. "It is done," he said. "The moon is in the southern reach." He thied to experience his pleasure, but every time he began to gloat, the knowledge of his betrayal stuck him in his throat. Unbeknownst to him, a raven had been working–slowly, carefully, with great foresight–against him.



                                                       *                       *                       *



Who knew part 2 was short, and part 1 extra short? Not me! For I have only read this book once, and do not have perfect memories of how long each part is.

I blame the INTERNET (and myself).

     You probably heard a lot of complains, a lot of moans about things getting worse, about everything being shit. You heard complaints about #KidsTheseDays who cannot spend 5 waking minutes without checking their status on a touch phone, and being willfully ignorant about actual knowledge.

     You might even have heard about the entire Western Civilization going to Hell in a regular basket.

     Assuming any of that is true, and things in the western world really ARE getting worse, there are only 3 options.

     –Blame yourself.

     –Blame someone/something else.

     –Do Both.

     I personally do believe that things in the western world have been going downhill, and that people are becoming increasingly apathetic and willfully ignorant. People are refusing to think for themselves, refusing to question things, refusing to DO things; refusing to live as brave independent people, and not cowardly sheep following either RELIGION of SCIENCE to wherever those take us (spoiler: it's destruction).

     I believe that the West have been getting more and more sick for some time. And of the three options listed above, I pick the 3rd, the last one.

     Blaming yourself is always a good option, and is an important step in growing up, and becoming MATURE ADULTS™.

     HOWEVER, blaming yourself BY ITSELF, only leads to self hatred (and suicide). You can only blame yourself for making the wrong action (or not taking actions at all), believing the wrong idea, or allowing someone to keep you down.

     So, for the shit that has been happening to the West, and myself personally, I blame myself for allowing THE INTERNETS to turn me into a slob, eager for instant gratification.

     We have become chronically afraid of missing something important, for missing some hot new content, for falling out of the loop. We are afraid of not being in the know. And that is why we are always online, always checking IF WE MISSED ANYTHING (spoiler: we almost never do).

     We have become spoiled by the promise of instant access and no waiting. We curse our INTERNET connection when downloading our movies and games illegally (because why work for money if that is hard and takes time?) Don't work! Don't wait! Do not do hard things! Do not discipline yourself! DO NOTHING BUT CONSUME EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE RIGHT NOW!



     Looking at myself, I make myself sick sometimes.

     And I am not the only one.

     LOOK IN THE FUCKING MIRROR.







     P.S. Satyrday updates will return very soon. I promise to not take very long now.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 15 & 16.

     It was like the night before, but the owl was meaner, clearly more angry. Deirdre looked around her slowly, trying to see if the conversations of the past day had a visible effect upon the other ravens. If there were a change, she couldn't see one. All were silent, obedient, careful to show the owl complete attention and respect. He wasted no time.
     "It has been suggested to me that perhaps the punishment meted out last night was too severe," he said. Deirdre was instantly cautious: had he a plan to win back those who were turning against him? Did he even know of the dissenters? "But first, a more important matter. It seems there may be a further traitor in our midst, one who knows far more than a puny little imp. Which of you flew south beyond the boundaries given by me? Who passed into the southern reach?"
     Deirdre stayed quiet. She had flown there completely by accident and had told no one. She was safe. But still, this line of questioning piqued her interest. Why was the owl protective of the southern reach. There must be some secret, something none of the ravens knew. Since Maxwell's mutilation, they understood the south as a place of exile, although they hadn't an idea of the starfish or ferns.
     No one spoke. The owl's last words had been completely absorbed by the ravens' feathers, and a quiet like softly falling snow lay over the clearing.
     The owl was beside himself. He fumed below them. His great chest heaved. Since the weasels had come with their information, he'd been obsessed with the thought of betrayal. Which of them was it?
     "Listen," he said. "Tonight I was given information that strangers have entered the Outer Lands, are even now at the grave of the ancestors. Does one of you know something about this?"
     Deirdre's heart leapt in her throat. They had crossed the river! They were on the Plain of Desiccation. She could hardly contain herself; she felt like cawing jubilantly, like dancing on her branch. They had made it!
     "I WANT TO KNOW!" the owl thundered. "WHO ARE THESE THREE?"
     Three! Deirdre jumped. Who had they picked up?
     "Begging your pardon, sire," a sycophant murmured from a branch directly over the owl. "But if your worship doesn't know, how would we have the slightest guess?"
     "Shut your mouth, you imbecile. I don't want sugary words. I WANT SOME INFORMATION."
     The raven all but disappeared. Deirdre looked around, but it was clear that no one had a thing to say, out of fear, out of perversity, out of disdain.
     "It doesn't matter to me who they are," the owl said, making every effort to regain his composure. "I know what they look like, and how far they'd come. I will keep careful watch over their progress. I will look forward to their arrival in the forest. I will prepare a welcome they won't forget. Do they think I can be beaten at my own game, and in my own territory?" Deirdre shivered. She's hoped this news would frighten the owl, but fear seemed the farthest thing from his mind.
     "I await them with great anticipation," he said.
     "Now. In the interest of a free and open discussion, let me offer a trade. If whoever flew south without my permission will reveal himself, I will answer questions concerning the justice of my punishment of last night. I am not above reproach. I depend on your good will."
     As before, the ravens stirred on their branches, distrustful. None seemed willing to try him again. Maxwell's example wasn't easily forgotten.
     "None of you knows a thing about this," the owl said, his body beginning to shake with the tension of keeping his anger throttled. "All are completely innocent. No one flew south; no one knows about the strangers to the east." His breathing became harsher, and his talons dug more deeply into the ground.
     "I DON'T BELIEVE IT!" shrieked the owl. "NOT ONE WORD."
     The ravens began murmuring to one another. Never before had the owl appeared like this. Always icily cool, always under control, he had made decrees, handed down orders with total aplomb.
     "SILENCE!" he screamed. He shivered in his feathers. His eyes, blood-red, matched the crimson of his bib. Apoplexy, Deirdre thought with glee. Angina pectoris. But she was wrong. He was not about to die.
     "All right," he said, more under control. "Let's pretend your naïveté is real. But let this be known. I will not stop this inquisition, whether you be here or elsewhere. I will search until I find the traitor. And I will find him. If it means pulling your tongues out one by one, if it entails torturing you in view of the clan, I will discover who stands against me. Nothing can stand against me. You should have realized that years ago.
     "I want the moon moved to the southern reach," he said. "Tonight." The groan that arose from the ravens was unmistakable. "I want her taken from her tree and carried south. My falcons will show you where to put her. She can keep that broken-winged toadstool company. Are there any who question my command?"
     Yes, thought Deirdre, but she made no sound.



                                                *                           *                          *



     Whatever hope the moon felt at the disappearance and reemergence of her sister that afternoon was gone. The warmth she'd felt had long since dissipated. She was wretched, underfed, losing her silver sheen. She was trying to keep in shape, but there was nowhere to exercise. And she was very lonely. It seemed she hadn't spoken to a soul since Deirdre had left her the day before. Was that how long ago it was? In the forest, time was endless.
     From the distance, she heard a faint thunder which grew louder the more intently she listened. She'd heard that noise before. She'd been floating serenely in the sky, bothering no one, when that roar had crept up behind her. There was no mistaking it; the ravens were coming.
     They swooped at her from all directions. The wind made by their wings buffeted her, threw her against the branches of her cage, forced tears from her eyes. They settled around her, on the trees of the forest, on her own oak. And then, like the other day, the owl fell to earth and sat in the clearing below her. He was not friendly; he was not sarcastic. He was enraged.
     "You're being moved," he said unceremoniously. "Now. Tonight. And I don't want to hear a word from you." The ravens moved toward her. "No," he said. "Wait." His voice became more mellifluous. "Before they go to unnecessary trouble, I want to know if you've thought about my proposition."
     "Your proposition," the moon echoed dully.
     "I want to know where your sister sleeps," the owl said. "It is of great interest to me."
     Deirdre thought it very bold of him to ask this in front of the assemblage of ravens, for the owl had been at pains to let them know there was nothing he needed toward the completion of his quest except the moon, safely in his grasp. She was not even sure why he wanted to know there the sun slept, or what he would do with that information.
     The moon wavered in her cage, and Deirdre wondered if she'd been sufficiently worn down to give in, give up, tell the owl what he wanted to know. His tone became more wheedling. "You are beautiful," he said. "I have always admired you. But you grew weak and wan in your cage. Tell me what I want to know, and you will be freed. Together we will rule the night."
     "I cannot tell you," the moon said.
     "She has always been brighter than you, always has thought herself better than you. I give you the opportunity to rule over her, and you turn it down?"
     "She is not brighter than I, and I am far more beautiful."
     "Not any more, my lovely," the owl said cruelly. "You are tarnished and tame. You are like a beautifully groomed animal lost in a briar patch."
     "May you bite off your foul tongue at the root," the moon said. "Your breath infects the air."
     "I don't mean to insult you," the owl said. "I mean only to remind you of all you would give up. And for what? A sister who despises you, uses you, who all along had thought herself superior to you."
     "You miserable bloated bag of feathers," she said. "She may be many things, but she is still my sister."
     "You will suffer far worse where you are going than you have here," the owl said coldly. "Take her away from my sight."
     The falcons held back the branches, and a host of ravens entered the cage with their net. It was the same gauze, and it wrapped around the moon as though it had longed to return. She struggled against it, doing all she could to make herself more difficult to manage, but it was no use. She was lifted from the cage by the ravens, who now flocked through the opening made by the falcons. They struggled with their burden, for the moon was indeed heavy, and several times she felt herself being lowered, as though they couldn't garner the strength to get her free. But more and more ravens flew to the oak's top, tangled their talons in the net, and slowly she was lifted.
     She swung loose above the trees in a hammock of gauze, and the rolling motion as the ravens ascended and headed south sickened her. But she was free of her cage. She took deep breaths, shedding her pale light around her. It illuminated the tops of the Deadwood Forest, those broken branches which now, instead of holding her, seemed to be reaching up in farewell. It reflected off the ravens' underbellies, a sea of feathers.
     The journey lasted some time. She was quiet, listening to the harsh rasp of wind on the ravens' throats. They were struggling, tiring. Perhaps they'd drop her and she would float free, up through the clouds, away from all this. But she knew there were too many of them for that to happen, and replacements who flew behind, should and of those carrying her tire too much.
     They lowered her carefully at the appointed time, their wings outspread and floating on the wind. She felt herself dropping, and another tree surrounded her. The falcons strained against the branches, holding them, and finally the last raven released the gauze. It was whipped from under her, and she was alone again, listening to the faint flapping as the ravens headed north.
     She closed her eyes and listened to her heart. She was breathing shallowly now and her light was dim. Above the sound of her breathing, above the beating of her heart, she heard another noise like the ocean, a faint rising and falling of breath, waves beating themselves against a foreign shore.
     Miles to the north, the owl sat in the clearing, alone but for one raven who had left the entourage to return early. It was the withered crone, her black feathers rumpled and dusty. She was breathless, and she thought her old heart would give out on her before she could say what she'd come to say.
     "My lord," she ventured.
     The owl looked up at her as she hovered in the air inches from his beak. One snap would cut her in half. "Ancient one," he said. "I have never trusted the very old or the very young."
     "I would speak with you," she said. "I have some information you will want."



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     If you made it this far, thanks for your patience. If you just stumbled upon this page, please find the first chapter and read form the beginning! It won't be hard to find.

Why Santa Claus makes no sense (and needs to go away).

     We lie to our children like total scumbags. And when they grow up, they take after us, because we are fucking stupid, and totally incapable of learning from others' past mistakes, or growing to become better than our parents. We are stuck in an endless cycle of mediocrity, unable to improve due to our inherent stupidity.

     But this is not what this cheery Christmas article is going to be about.

     No, it is about why Santa Claus, as a concept, makes no fucking sense.

     Who is Santa Claus? Well, he is an old seemingly immortal man who lives on the North Pole, and gives presents to worthy children on Christmas Day. He delivers all Christmas presents by himself.

     What is Christmas all about? Well, if you don't get über religious about it, Christmas is about sharing, and giving. Giving presents (of various kinds). On Christmas you give presents.

     SEE THE PROBLEM YET??

     Well, in case you don't, allow me to put it this way: Santa Claus destroys the Spirit of Christmas by existing. If Santa was real (WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE ISN'T REAL YOU JERK), that would mean all presents on Christmas would be from him. That, in turn, eliminates any reason for sharing and giving. Why give presents yourself, when some fat man from the north pole can just do it for you, and do it better? Cause Santa knows what everyone wants, and delivers stuff on time, never late. You cannot beat Santa. He is friggin perfect.

     And you can never beat friggin perfect, let me tell you that.

     So, in order for gift giving and the whole kindness thing to take place, Santa Claus needs to go away. Either you are nice, or somebody is being nice for you. In my OPINION, there is no middle ground here. It is either Santa Claus, or you. And I would rather be nice and give gifts by myself, rather than rely on someone else to do those important things for me.



     MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS! :D

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 13 & 14.

     The weasels, out of breath and frantic from their travel, returned to the owl that night and told him what they'd seen. He was still in the clearing he'd awakened in earlier, still in a foul mood at the disappointment he'd felt when the sun's light returned to earth.
     They crept from the underbrush, staying as close to the ground as possible so they seemed to the owl, who had been aware of their proximity long before they thought he was, like two furry snakes whose bellies dragged leaves and twigs behind them. "You're back," the owl said, his voice as closeto a growl as was possible for him. "You bring good news. No more ravens flying west, I trust."
     "Sire," one weasel said in a quaking voice. "It's worse than that." The owl's eyes opened more widely. "Three strangers approach the western reach."
     For a moment, the owl ceased to breathe. His eyelids drooped, and then they flew open, and their red fire blazed out at the weasels. He spread huge wings and beat them so that a cloud of dust rose from the ground, blinding the two frightened animals.
     "You come to tell me this?" the owl thundered. "Better it had been news of a reigning darkness. Better for you to have discovered where the sun spends her nights!"
     "We are sorry, my lord. We can only tell you when we know to be true." The weasel's voice was almost a whisper. "Today a fox, white as snow, and two strange creatures who walk upright, like bears, have reached the grave of the ancestors. One is slim and young, and practically hairless, a male. The other is older, with the hindquarters of a goat. Above the hips, he most resembles the other creature. They are very strange."
     "That's impossible," the owl said. "You're lying." He gave a cry and a volley of wings stained the air of the clearing. The falcons descended, thudding into the dirt around him.
     "They lie to me," the owl said to the falcons' leader. "They're perverse. It displeases me. Take them away."
     "My liege," one of the weasels said desperately. "Three creatures have arrived at the grave of the ancestors. I swear to you." The other weasel scuffed in the dirt, wildly looked around, and made a break for the forest. He thrashed in the underbrush, but the falcons were too quick for him, and his screams for mercy grew weaker.
     "Your friend seemed eager to depart," the owl said. "What did he have to fear, if you do not lie?"
     "You, my lord."
     "And are you frightened of me as well?" the owl asked.
     "T-t-t-terrified," the weasel stammered. "My lord, if I might say one thing. . . ." He stopped, asking permission, but the owl didn't say a word, just fixed him with his gaze. "I know this news angers you. And there is nothing I would not do to avoid your anger. Why then, if this were a lie, would I put my life in danger?"
     "What do you think?" the owl asked the assembled falcons, but as usual, none said anything. He turned to the weasel. "Perhaps you are telling the truth. Your logic is persuasive. Get out of here." The weasel disappeared, taking it as reward enough that he had escaped with his life.
     "Gather the ravens," the owl ordered. "Now. Be quick about it."
     As one, the falcons ascended and dispersed. They flew east and west, north and south, spreading the word of the owl's command.
     The owl remained where he was. His solitude did nothing for his mood. He seethed there on the forest floor, his breathing harsh and rabid, almost convulsive, wild thoughts racing through his brain. "A boy," he thought. "A BOY. It's impossible. No one has escaped the Keep." He would wait until the ravens were gathered. And then he would find out what they knew. His breathing grew harsher and deeper until he thought he would burst.



                                                       *                      *                      *



     "It's true," Deirdre said. "I couldn't agree with you more. I didn't like the way he talked to us one bit."
     She's grown considerably more outspoken since the sun had disappeared that afternoon, had begun to talk to the other ravens, edging  around them cautiously to find out what they thought. She wasn't taking too large a chance in this, having overheard some conversations which gave her a great deal of hope.
     Many of the clan were upset by the owl's punishment of Maxwell, peremptory and vicious as it had been. For years, they had managed to maintain an image of the owl as just and fair, but his coldness, his insults of the night before made some begin to question him. Camps formed among those who were angry with the owl and those who blindly followed him. It was with a group teetering between these choices that Deirdre settled. She masked her voice, her ardent feelings, and tried to appear dispassionate.
     "Of course he has a right to say anything to us he wants," she said. "And to do anything he wants. He could torture each of us, one at a time. We're his, aren't we?"
     "It's not fair," a young raven named Condor said. "Not fair at all."
     "But what in this world is fair, young one?" a withered crone asked from a branch some distance away below Deirdre. "The idea of justice creates false hopes. There is only strength."
     "Wait a minute, wait a minute," another raven said. "What's this talk about torture?"
     "I asked whether you'd submit to torture," Deirdre asked.
     "Red herring, red herring!" the old crone cawed, hopping on her branch.
     "Are you hungry?" Condor asked solicitously, but the crone stared at him disdainfully.
     Deirdre was flustered and she backfeathered for a minute. The crone had a subtle mind and would bear watching. Deirdre had not expected to be called on her illogical leap. "I mean only this," she said. "Until now, we've been content with our part in the owl's general plan. He wants to rule the world, am I correct?" They nodded. "But would we still owe him our allegiance if we had reason to believe that in so doing we would contribute to our own demise?"
     "What?" Condor asked, baffled.
     "She meant would we follow him if we knew we'd die."
     "I hope not," Condor said. "I don't want to die."
     "Yes," the crone said, her voice deadly, deep, serious. "He is our lord and we must follow him, regardless of the cost. We bow before his power. He is stronger than we."
     "But strength on the part of another does not diminish the power of personal choice, even in those who are weak," Deirdre said. "And I believe–due to no fault of his–that the owl, from the beginning, was doomed to fail."
     "Would you say that again?" another raven asked, and Deirdre took a deep breath, and calmed herself. Nothing would be served by her impatience.
     "Let me put it another way. The world is changing," Deirdre said, and waited for a moment to see if she'd be contradicted, but nothing was said, and she continued. "It's laws are not set. But we know one thing for certain. There is balance to our lives. Now tell me if I'm wrong."
     Around her, the ravens turned to one another and argued. What, she thought, is this all about? She hadn't said anything the faintest bit controversial. When they quieted, the crone said, "Of course there's a balance. Of power."
     "What do you mean?" Condor asked. Deirdre was afraid she'd lose the attention of the group, which swung between her and the old witch, if she didn't move quickly.
     "We are ravens," she said.
     "Go on, go on," the crone said crossly.
     "And we are not alone in the world. There are other animals besides our clan."
     "Of course, you stupid cluck," the crone said.
     "My dear," Deirdre said harshly, letting her anger show for the first time. "Keep a leash on your runaway tongue, I listened to you when you delivered up your apothegms. Kindly do the same for me. Or I will take umbrage at your rudeness."
     "What?" Condor asked.
     "She'll get mad, you fool."
     Deirdre looked at them imperiously. "As I was saying. There is a balance. On one side there is sleep, and on the other, wakefulness. We fly and we sit. We eat and we void. These activities balance each other. Can you imagine a life of endless flying?"
     "We'd get pretty tired," Condor ventured.
     "Shut your crooked beak," the crone screamed, and she hopped on the branch and flapped her wings.
     "Likewise," Deirdre continued, "other things balance each other. We have friends and we have enemies. The jay is our friend, the hawk our enemy. And though many of you may be too young to remember life anywhere but here in the Forest, I am not. When we lived in the meadowlands, many years ago, there were things called seasons. Spring was a time when earth came alive, flowers bloomed, trees put out new leaves, we raised our broods."
     "What are flowers?" Condor asked, for he had never seen one.
     "Please, Condor," Deirdre said. "Let me finish. And later came a season called fall when the leaves fell from the trees, the flowers withered, and the earth came to rest. Those seasons oppose each other."
     "Like life and death," Condor said.
     "Exactly," Deirdre said. "It is the way things are. East has its west, and north its south; everything is defined by its opposite. And finally, if you will allow me to finish, there is night, and there is.  .  .  ."
     "Day," Condor blurted, as if it were the most important thing he'd ever said. Deirdre was pleased. She'd gotten through to the dumbest raven in the group, and if he understood, surely the others did as well.
     "There are those who rule and those who follow," the crone said. "Do not mistake your station."
     There was general unrest for a minute, and then the group quieted down. They seemed not to have heard what the old crone said.
     From the air above them all, a great whoosh was heard, and like a thunderbolt a falcon fell and landed with a slap against a thick branch. His hood was black as the night, and his eyes shone, beady and evil. "The owl orders you to the clearing of last night's meeting," he said, his voice steady as rock. "What were you talking about?"
     No one said a word, and Deirdre felt fear seep from the group like a rank odor. "We were speaking of the sun today," she said, "and how it dimmed. We were saying how soon it would be that the sun was gone completely."
     She's telling the truth?" the falcon asked.
     "Yes," said Condor. "We umbrage the sun's demise."
     Everyone hushed, and the falcon looked at Condor keenly. "What is your name, young one?" he asked.
     Condor quaked on his branch. "He means nothing," Deirdre said. "He doesn't even know the import of those words. He heard them in our conversation this evening and he lacks the ability to use them correctly."
     "That's right," the crone said. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. He's stupid as a stone. All of them are."
     "Old one," the falcon said. "May your wizened heart fail if you lie to me."
     "In that case, I have nothing to fear," answered the crone, and she flew in a huff into the sky.
     "Be off, all of you," the falcon said, and he rose and headed east, looking for other ravens.
     "Thank you," Condor said to Deirdre when the falcon had gone. "You saved my life."
     "It's nothing," Deirdre said. "It is I who should thank you. Your felicitous questions aided the successful conclusion of my argument."
     "What?" Condor said.




                                                   *                         *                         *



     Apologies for not posting anything for 2 months, but I promise I will make this up to you!

The appeal of used media.

     First, yes, not everyone downloads everything on their iPads®™and consumes entertainment that way. Some people actually buy real books, and real CDs. And Blu-Rays.

     Second, you are probably reading this on your iPad. OH THE IRONY.

     Third, let's begin.

     Today, children, I would like to dedicate a few medium sized paragraphs to the appeal of used things. The things that are no longer new. The things that were owned by somebody else for years. Old used fabric will be worn out and faded and full of holes. When we are dealing with electronics, we have to be extra cautious: anything with moving parts wears out fairly quickly with constant use, and anything with lights, lasers, and built-in batteries wears out even faster. An Apple laptop that was used every day for a year might have its super-duper-long-lasting-battery already almost dead. Speaking of non-electronic electric-based technology, a light bulb under constant use dies within a few months.

     However, when we are dealing with used media, things start looking less grim. Having no moving parts, media ages really well. A book will live a life longer than of a human, providing it is not read daily, and is kept somewhere where it does not suck to be a book. A comic, being a book, is the same fucking thing. An old used vinyl record, providing it wasn't played often, will sound good, and plastic degrades extremely slowly. An old used optical disk (hint - that's what a CD or a Blu-Ray is) will live a long and prosperous life providing it was pressed well in the first place, didn't receive too many scratches, and was kept somewhere not too hot not too cold not too moist.

     Used media has more appeal though, in addition to often being cheaper. It is a testament to its strength. if a book or a disk managed to live for 20 years or longer, without losing its ability to function, it speaks to the high level of manufacturing. With books, if you have something 40 years or older, still intact, and still readable, it was really made well, and the book is really high quality. A piece of old media still functioning after all the years is like a skilled warrior who went through many battles and survived; must be a damn good warrior then!

     Magnetic tapes are easy to wear out with constant use, and even without use are easy to damage, and damage permanently. These little demon spawns are an exception to what I am trying to get across here. . .

     . . . and what I am trying to get across here is:

     DO NOT BE AFRAID TO BUY USED. 

     . . . if it's media.

     But be careful with cassettes. They are tricky.



     That's it, really.









     . . . except there will be a sequel.