American Fez

Summer Getaways In New England: Skullbury Village

Perched on the northwest shoulder of Hoosiwotsit Bay, the mist-shrouded town of Skullbury has long enjoyed an association with salty stories of pirate treasure, phantom ships, smuggling, sea monsters, murderous lighthouse keepers, and the extortionate cost of beach parking. Indeed, this former whaling community has become a major stop on New England's Folklore Trail, with only its lack of restaurants serving edible food, a poisonous plumbing system and an incurable bedbug infestation preventing Skullbury from joining the ranks of Verrucahasset, Scum Island and Garbageton as one the region's premier tourist destinations.
Nevertheless, Skullbury in summer does attract its fair share of detoured traffic, Hells Angels, pickpockets and people who like to urinate in the ocean. Consequently, the beer and pizza-perfumed streets in July and August are often overcrowded with sunburned families, their throaty conversations echoing off the abandoned warehouses, bingo shanties and tattoo parlors: "I hate this dump," "Let's go to Florida next year," and the ever-popular "Can we go home now."
But such festive scenes are a far cry from the Skullbury of yore; a dark and mysterious port reeking of spiced rum, whale grease, pirate blood, and Herman Melville's armpits. Fortunately, the Skullbury Historical Society has recently opened "Living Hell," a living-history museum devoted to recreating Skullbury as it would have appeared to weary travelers in previous centuries. Among the exhibits are several small children dying of rickets, a woman being burned alive at the stake, and numerous slaves getting whipped and beaten. Fridge magnets, candles, scented soaps and postcards made out of dried human skin can all be purchased in the gift shop.

Obamacare vs No-One Cares

As a frequent UFO abductee, I'm not bothered about Health Care Reform because I get all my blood-work done aboard ship for free; and what's more, I don't have to go through all the hassle of making an appointment either. Sure, I might wake-up the next day feeling violated and with a small alien transmitter implanted into my skull, but this a small price to pay when compared to the financial rape and pillage of HMO insurance and emergency room visit co-pays. In fact, if you ask me, there really is no difference between sitting in the doctor's waiting room for an interminable time, and having no memory of the last six hours because you've been kidnapped by little green men in their flying saucer. So I imagine that our medical bills will continue to rise unless Obama can combine his healthcare reforms with the NASA and SETI programs.

Mysterious World of Grapefruit Juice

Why do conspiracy theorists and paranormal investigators spend so much of their valuable time unearthing credulity-straining trivia about alien visitations, the Bermuda Triangle and Bigfoot when there are other, far more profound mysteries that require immediate elucidation?
I refer, of course, to the puzzling abduction of both fresh and frozen varieties of grapefruit juice from supermarket shelves across the United States and beyond.
Probe the chilly depths any store's refrigerated drinks section in search of Grapefruit Juice and you will return empty-handed. At best you may discover a dented carton of the so-called "ruby" grapefruit juice, but that is too much like settling for anemic blood-orange product, which isn't the same thing at all.
Perhaps there is a crashed vending machine in Roswell that dispenses small packets of grapefruit juice concentrate; perhaps deep in the dark Himalayan wilderness a satisfied Yeti sits sipping grapefruit juice through a yak-horn straw; in the bright fluorescent glow of our modern supermarket, however, grapefruit juice is only notable by its absence. The fresh-squeezed truth is out there somewhere, no doubt, hiding behind a cantaloupe.

Science Fiction is Old-Fashioned and Counter-Revolutionary

I suppose the most fantastic element of any sci-fi fantasy series is the persistent myth that all pointy-eared peasants are happy with their lot. Consistently depicted as hearty, ruddy-cheeked artisans, these happy-go-lucky bumpkins frolic in the muddy fields of their masters, drinking their mead and pinching the buttocks of their womenfolk until the inevitable shadow of the local "Dark Lord" descends upon them. Then they going running to Prince Hugh J'phallus or whatever other exiled royal hero happens to be combing the countryside for dewy-eyed damsels to seduce with his saccharine charms. In fact, the entire genre is still dominated by an especially pompous and self-regarding aristocracy who rule fairytale lands with absolutely no concern for the wishes or well-being of their subjects. In fact, the closest sci-fi fantasy ever gets to a proper, modern Democracy is an unelected and highly secretive "council" of hooded and lugubrious elders who shuffle about inside the roots of some ancient tree making gloomy decisions about the future. Why must it always be a Dark Lord who is the law-giver, never a Dark Prime Minister and his Dark Parliament? Why can't we have Congressman Sauron for a change? Or State Representative Gandalf ?
And so, considering that the inhabitants of these various Middle Earths must subsist under such feudal tyranny, it is really quite amazing that there is not even a hint of political activism; no Hobbit preaching Marxism nor Elf plastering his woodland bedroom with posters of Che. Socially-conscious readers can only hope that Perhaps there will be a people's revolution in sci-fi fantasy land one day, some golden armor-clad, broadsword-wielding Lenin will rise from his dreamless sweep and destroy the old order. Of course, that also means that he will be followed by a troll-like Stalin and his five year plan to collectivize the Shire farms - but what the Hell! - it'll be more interesting than yet another dreary saga about some long-haired, effeminate Earl's quest for a worthless goblet of fire or whatever he's be told to look for by a magical talking King of the Snails

Caliban's Isle

Losing interest in your own blog is rather like failing to maintain an acceptable level of personal hygiene: tired, old posts start to look wrinkled and bloodshot; overgrown comment spams desperately need cutting; your RSS is falling out; and all those dead and rotting links are beginning to smell bad. In fact, any day the entire thing might go wandering down the high street in its dressing-gown and slippers with a mobile Twitter app.
This always happens around August. Personally, I blame this high humidity that makes the brain sweat so much that all my ideas evaporate. Why does the dog-day weather outside always have to feel like the inside of an orangutan's anus?