November 27, 2011

Brain dead


To begin with, I finally did the revised cartoon for the tower—the membership drive* one.  Vicky has asked after its potential existence a few times over the last several months and last night sidled up to me at practise and said that it would be very nice to have it in time for the Christmas concert, when we can expect a pretty fair turnout of the local riffraff, and I winced and said yes, yes, certainly.  I have tended to claim that I’ve forgotten about it—and with Vicky staring at me I’m quite likely to have a blank about almost anything**—but the truth is that when it has crossed my mind I instantly order it back into its corner.  Later.  I’ll do it later.***  It’s going to be complicated, it’s for a public purpose†, and the reason I was having to do it over in the first place, instead of merely tidying up the original, is because it had to be smaller—A5 rather than A4††.  I don’t do smaller.  I especially don’t do complicated smaller.  So I’ve been putting it off.

            BUT I FINALLY DID IT.††† 


I know. But I couldn't face long (rope) tail ends. I did fix third dude from the left's missing hand though.

            And then, not content to rest on my laurels, chiefly because resting on laurels doesn’t pay very well, I ripped off a good two hundred and thirty-seven thousand words of THE ATTACK OF THE ZORGS—THE SCARLET PANJANDRUM—CHOLMONDELEY AND THE GOBLET OF RUM PUNCH‡—wait—I’ll get it in a minute—SHADOWS.  Well, nearly 237,000 words.  What, in my world of writing, where every letter must be chipped out of the granite cliff face with a blunt piton‡‡, counts as 237,000 words.

            So I’ve earned being brain dead.

            But I still need to sing.  And go to bed early it being Sunday tomorrow and service ring is earlier every week.‡‡‡  Saturday nights tend to be when I hang guest posts, supposing I have any available.  Not that I’m complaining or anything . . . §

 * * *

* Um . . . the membership amble.  The membership blindfold donkey-tail-pinning. 

** Name?  Name?  Do I have a name? 

*** I’ve had to learn to resist this impulse when I’m doing bell-fund doodles.  I’ll pull an order form out and it says ‘a Bactrian camel playing pinochle with a white rhinoceros’ and I go AAAAAAUGH^ and look for something less challenging.  I’ll come back to this one later.^^  As I keep saying, the odd ones are fun—it’s that frelling TIME ELEMENT^^^ again.  I don’t have to think about fanged muffins. + 

^ ONE hump and ONE horn are ENOUGH 

^^ Speaking of unusual requests, danceswithpahis has posted to the forum where the hellcat with platypus comes from.  And I forgot to mention when I hung the doodle that the hellcat was specified as fuzzy, which is why the hellcat in question is so . . . well, fuzzy. 

HorsehairBraider wrote

. . . Those are just my observations: that goats will pick up and chew on things, even though they don’t actually regard it as food. 

I’ve only known friends’ goats, never, unlike you, had any of my own, and what little I used to semi-know is decades old.  Different breeds of goats are—er—more and less robust in their ideas about food, yes?  And with reference to the poor goat you mention who died of eating baling twine, I did wonder about the shingle-eating goats of my acquaintance if they were getting a balanced diet.  Eating non-food makes most critter-owners think ‘deficiency’. 

^^^ which does not appear on the periodic table because no one has figured out where it fits.  

+ Please do not read this sentence out of context. 

† I know that doodle-buyers are more or less free to do as they like with their doodles, but I doubt anyone is going to make up several hundred copies and pass them out as flyers.  At least I hope not.  Furthermore, I’m very unlikely to meet any of you on the streets of New Arcadia. 


††† Not without language

‡ Name, name, does it have a name? 

‡‡ Which process is so laborious it is not unusual to have forgotten what the word is by the time I get to the end of it.  This is one of my better excuses for embarrassing spelling mistakes. 

‡‡‡ I swear.  One of these Sundays soon I’ll be able to ring before I go to bed. . . . 

§ I never know, when someone promises a guest post and then I never hear from them again, if they have fled the country, leaving all credit cards, passwords and internet facilities behind, or if they did send it and Outlook ate it.  This is on my mind a little more than usual—not that my email and I are ever on what you would want to call good terms—because a friend and I have just been emailing back and forth:  Did you get mine about —?  No, I didn’t, did you get mine about —?  Silence. 

            If we’ve discussed it and you send me a guest post and I don’t answer, SEND IT AGAIN.  I love guest posts.  Even if I don’t think I can use it or if I want to ask you to make changes I’m pretty sure you won’t want to make, I wouldn’t have ignored it, okay?  But since this is my blog and my problem I don’t feel I can chase the no-shows.  Very sensible of you, not wanting to write a guest blog, don’t blame you at all. . . .


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