A Dry Cough And Flash Gordon

Today I entered the third week of the curse I have named "A Virus Named Fred." I haven't named my affliction because of friendliness or familiarity. I have named it Fred because Fred is a prick, and the name fits, in honor of all of the pricks named Fred in my past and present life.

The virus is a shape shifter. It is like your alcoholic brother in law, who stays with you until the booze runs out, makes a blessed intention to leave, and then decides to come back and finish off the Lysol. Just when you think he's gone, Fred is horking up on the area rug.

Fred needs to leave. My patience is thinner than the hair on my head!

I have passed my sick time streaming serials from the 30s and 40s. Cheesy black and white crime and science fiction flicks, twelve or thirteen parts to each, made back in the day when a night out at the movies was a cartoon, a serial chapter, and the feature, instead of advertisements and CG kabooms.

My current serial is Flash Gordon. Not to be confused with Flesh Gordon, an even cheesier soft core sex romp from the 70s, although I believe the dialog and plot for the latter was robbed from the former.

Weird monsters. Laughable special effects. Buster Crabbe. Rocket ships that buzz like a lawn mower. The 1930s version is a hoot.

Honestly...

This isn't the fever talking.

Comments

Heartbreak Comes At Us From All Sizes

I'm going to blame it on the smoke, but in reality the smoke lifted early last evening, around the same time the rain that was supposed to fall didn't. I was choked up as I removed the nest this morning. I won't admit to having tears in my eyes, and if you had caught me I would have admitted to no more than smoke and allergies. Men don't cry over the most crushing of events. We certainly don't cry over the death of a baby bird. Allergies, you know. This spring a pair of barn swallows began spending time around the house, perching on the rope light above the deck, outside the kitchen window. My wife first, and then me, would chatter at them, try to imitate their language, through the window. When we sat on the deck we would talk our version of swallow as they flew by, and pretty soon they became comfortable, and would join us while we were sipping wine or having morning coffee. Them, perched on the rope lights, just out of the reach of the weird apes, and us down ...

DRIVING SASKATCHEWANDERERER STYLE (Episode 3: You are not really a driver if you can't drive a stick)

(I stole the photo from Facebook.) I learned how to drive on rarely used trails, and across stone free-ravine free fields, in a 1956 International Harvester pickup truck, with an oil bath air cleaner, hot water six cylinder motor, and three on the tree, with an non-synchronized first gear. The truck also featured a manual choke and a hand throttle, the throttle which was designed to keep the engine revs up during the start, but what also was used as a 1950s version of a horribly dangerous cruise control. (You needed to release it by hand. Touch the brake? Full speed ahead! And good luck to you.) Armstrong (no power) steering. Manual drum brakes. Frost shields on the side and back windows. (Ask Great Grandpa about them. Use a Ouija Board if you must.) My point is that with few comforts provided (or invented) you needed to learn about your vehicle, it's limitations, and, more importantly, it's feel. My wife has a nice vehicle. It talks. It beeps when you cr...

The Art Worlds Last Stand?

I was pissed off that the wait for a lumbering freight at a highway 7 level crossing, west of Saskatoon, was over 15 minutes, but I was entertained by the slide show that rolled past. I would have taken photos of the show but I wasn't prepared to enjoy an on my phone ticket from the officer in the RCMP cruiser that was waiting in the lane to my right. This blog is a fun mess, but there is no possible way I can afford a ticket just to enhance the visuals. Photos would have been nice. There are very talented people tagging the train cars. You will see the most colourful, most graphically precise work on a car. That is the Journeyperson tagger. And then maybe two or ten cars down, past varying levels of work and prose, you will see it in sprayed black scrawl. "Fuck" The apprentice speaks. Well, we all had to start somewhere. I give these people credit. It must take a considerable amount of hutzpah to hang out in rail yards, trying to find enough light to do your be...

The Church Of A Swift Kick To The Knackers

Search This Blog