Ten digits? Check. A keyboard? Yes. Still there. Mental tranquility? Nope. Nowhere around here. There's just a little bit too much tiredness in the old head, and so this is going to be... strange. It's always strange when you don't have a theme or idea to jump upon. To one side, the Dice Tower's 'Top 10 Games With Exciting Endings' is running and adding multi-tasking to the procedure.
It has been two weeks of heavy board game research at this point, with more than a hundred reviews watched and read, and many decisions made. Why on Earth so much effort is being made, I have no idea, but that wish list on BoardGameGeek was really groaning under the weight of hundreds of items marked 'Thinking About It', and there is a trip to a board game shop coming up soon. Hurrah! (Is it still worth a hurrah if your budget is two paperclips and a giant picture of Captain Kirk?)
Have you ever quagswagged? Really? Are you bluffing? It's supposed to mean 'to shake to and fro', according to the Phrontistery, that repository of wonderful arcane words that are mostly disused. Does to quagswag mean to yourself shake or to shake someone of thing else? I have no idea. There is not that much information.
Here's a less obscure word, 'quisle', which adds much context to the word 'quisling'. Yes, 'to quisle' means to betray. Whenever you see the epithet 'quisling' you now have the meaning! Except... it doesn't have an origin. According to the dictionaries, the term 'quisling' doesn't come from 'quisle', but from a World War II collaborator actually named Quisling. How bizarre! Presumably the verb came after the noun, in a highly unusual turn...
O.
Monday, 13 February 2017
Saturday, 11 February 2017
Story: My Life As A Yak, Prologue
I never used to believe in reincarnation, but then I changed my mind after my death. Yes, it was a bad day when I was locked up in that safe, and dropped out of a plane at twenty thousand feet by mistake. Sometimes I still wonder for whom the three men in suits had mistaken me. It doesn't really matter though, as I'm a yak now. It's a far more relaxing lifestyle. I especially like the fields on a cool Autumn evening, with the Sun setting behind the mountains.
They told me at the sorting office that we're not supposed to remember our past lives when we're born again, but I do. That past life as a wooden leg salesman seems so silly now, now that all I need is a good supply of grass and an occasional visit from the doctor. Sometimes the locals, a Tibetan strain, come and get me to help with some heavy task, but mostly I'm a happy and relaxed lounger of the mountains. I only think about wooden legs occasionally in the middle of the night. Would that deal have gone through with the Albanians, I wonder until falling back to sleep.
It could have been much worse. Some of the other yaks, not great chatters but pretty nice despite that, have been recruited into some new novelty human sports like yak skiing and yak-polo, which look like far too much hard work! I didn't like polo even when I would have been the one doing the riding. Fortunately, my hoof was a bit wonky and they passed on to yak in the next field, who's a bit of a bully.
Last week there was a great festival, which I watched from the pasture. Apparently the great wise man (The Dalai Lama) has passed on, and they had identified his new body. He is very lucky that he didn't come back as a yak as well... Or maybe he has? I'm not exactly a believer in the way they are? Maybe one of these yaks around me used to be the Dalai Lama, and is now sharing the greens supply with a humble shmoe from Long Island?
Now, isn't that a thought?
They told me at the sorting office that we're not supposed to remember our past lives when we're born again, but I do. That past life as a wooden leg salesman seems so silly now, now that all I need is a good supply of grass and an occasional visit from the doctor. Sometimes the locals, a Tibetan strain, come and get me to help with some heavy task, but mostly I'm a happy and relaxed lounger of the mountains. I only think about wooden legs occasionally in the middle of the night. Would that deal have gone through with the Albanians, I wonder until falling back to sleep.
It could have been much worse. Some of the other yaks, not great chatters but pretty nice despite that, have been recruited into some new novelty human sports like yak skiing and yak-polo, which look like far too much hard work! I didn't like polo even when I would have been the one doing the riding. Fortunately, my hoof was a bit wonky and they passed on to yak in the next field, who's a bit of a bully.
Last week there was a great festival, which I watched from the pasture. Apparently the great wise man (The Dalai Lama) has passed on, and they had identified his new body. He is very lucky that he didn't come back as a yak as well... Or maybe he has? I'm not exactly a believer in the way they are? Maybe one of these yaks around me used to be the Dalai Lama, and is now sharing the greens supply with a humble shmoe from Long Island?
Now, isn't that a thought?
Friday, 10 February 2017
Background To 'My Life As A Yak'
Having students in English is a great thing, as you can often get creative bursts while preparing their lessons and notes. This is inevitable when you have to prepare texts for punctuation and spelling correction exercises. One moment you're thinking about what to write, and then suddenly the proofreading passage has a title: 'My Life As A Yak', and something weird scrawls out beneath it. It may not be particularly good, but it's always at least interesting, and on this occasion will form the basis for the next post of the Quirky Muffin. It's a nice feeling that ensues when something daft pops out of the mind!
What does it mean, 'My Life As A Yak'? It's mightily complicated, and involves several balls of yarn, and a trip to the wrong dentist, as well as reincarnation from a wooden leg salesman into fairy flowers. All at once? Well, some of those bits may not make it into the final version, although the real world phenomena of yak-skiing and yak polo might. Yes, you read that correctly, there is such a thing as yak polo in the world! The world outside of the United Kingdom has some very different things going on it.
There are several things you might not know about yaks, but perhaps the most interesting one to me is that yaks will not eat grain, opting exclusively for growing green grass. As a result, yaks can not be migrated over deserts and wastelands, meaning they're only found in central Asia, where they are then used for nominal beast of burden work, for milk and dairy, and for... polo? Apparently, the central Asians have taken to the yak theme for attracting tourists, which is alarming. What else could be yak themed? They already have polo, skiing, racing and all the agriculture. What about yak dancing, where the dancers have to do their best to imitate yak patterns? Or yak Buddhism, a doubly local tradition of meditating exclusively with the friendly creatures?
There must be much more to write about with regards to yaks. Does anyone else have any ideas? Which aren't about yak carousels? Mwahahahaha.
O.
What does it mean, 'My Life As A Yak'? It's mightily complicated, and involves several balls of yarn, and a trip to the wrong dentist, as well as reincarnation from a wooden leg salesman into fairy flowers. All at once? Well, some of those bits may not make it into the final version, although the real world phenomena of yak-skiing and yak polo might. Yes, you read that correctly, there is such a thing as yak polo in the world! The world outside of the United Kingdom has some very different things going on it.
There are several things you might not know about yaks, but perhaps the most interesting one to me is that yaks will not eat grain, opting exclusively for growing green grass. As a result, yaks can not be migrated over deserts and wastelands, meaning they're only found in central Asia, where they are then used for nominal beast of burden work, for milk and dairy, and for... polo? Apparently, the central Asians have taken to the yak theme for attracting tourists, which is alarming. What else could be yak themed? They already have polo, skiing, racing and all the agriculture. What about yak dancing, where the dancers have to do their best to imitate yak patterns? Or yak Buddhism, a doubly local tradition of meditating exclusively with the friendly creatures?
There must be much more to write about with regards to yaks. Does anyone else have any ideas? Which aren't about yak carousels? Mwahahahaha.
O.
Wednesday, 8 February 2017
Television: 'The Invaders' (1967-1968)
It's over. All of 'The Invaders' has been watched, and it ended just as it was getting interesting... Blast you, infernal executives of cancellation! Ratings? Who cares about ratings?! Humbug! Well, I don't feel quite as strongly about it as all that but the idea of a television series from that era actually evolving its story as it goes is almost unprecedented. Yes, the earlier episodes were of a much higher quality, but the whole concept actually changed a little. It went from David Vincent, supposed architect and sometime nasty paranoid lunatic, erratically hunting down the incredibly disorganised and uncoordinated conspiracies of the alien invaders to him being part of an organised group, and then in the last episode the aliens ramping up their plans from reconnaissance to full scale invasion and extermination. Yes, actual story progression! And then cancelled!
'The Invaders' used to be the target of mockery at home, with much fun being had especially at the extremely fragile aliens, who seemed to burn up and die at the slightest provocation. Now, on rewatching, it seems a remarkably well done science-fiction drama of the time, while still being worthy of mockery on a regular basis due to the goofiness of the alien plans. It's well done, and very intelligently made, with excellent production values. The guest stars return fairly frequently, which is a problem if you watch it in a fairly short period of time, but at least they're solid actors.
Side note: There seems to have been a segregation in actors back in this period. Guest actors especially seemed to appear either in 'seriously played dramas' or 'goofy genre' shows and never crossover. For example, 'Star Trek' and 'The Invaders' has almost no crossover apart from Susan Oliver. How does that explain 'Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea', though, which attracted many of the serious types? Maybe it was more studio based, although 'Voyage' and the other Irwin Allen shows did play things utterly seriously, unlike 'Star Trek'. Maybe 'Star Trek' was looked down upon, and 'Voyage' and 'The Invaders' weren't?
Back to the main flow, 'The Invaders' could have many great games associated with it. You could score points for: Aliens being shot and burning up, David Vincent (the ever serious Roy Thinnes) being called a maniac, rogue aliens turning up and dying before they can be helpful, all evidence being destroyed during the climax of the episode, and allies dying (especially in the latter episodes). There is also the 'Is he one?' aspect of watching some of the more suspenseful episodes too.
A great and unwttingly silly series, which I have already written about once, and one which transcends all the other Quinn Martin feasts of grimness. Now it's over once again. Blast, blast, blast, Doom-Mongering Experts of Cancellation!
O.
'The Invaders' used to be the target of mockery at home, with much fun being had especially at the extremely fragile aliens, who seemed to burn up and die at the slightest provocation. Now, on rewatching, it seems a remarkably well done science-fiction drama of the time, while still being worthy of mockery on a regular basis due to the goofiness of the alien plans. It's well done, and very intelligently made, with excellent production values. The guest stars return fairly frequently, which is a problem if you watch it in a fairly short period of time, but at least they're solid actors.
Side note: There seems to have been a segregation in actors back in this period. Guest actors especially seemed to appear either in 'seriously played dramas' or 'goofy genre' shows and never crossover. For example, 'Star Trek' and 'The Invaders' has almost no crossover apart from Susan Oliver. How does that explain 'Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea', though, which attracted many of the serious types? Maybe it was more studio based, although 'Voyage' and the other Irwin Allen shows did play things utterly seriously, unlike 'Star Trek'. Maybe 'Star Trek' was looked down upon, and 'Voyage' and 'The Invaders' weren't?
Back to the main flow, 'The Invaders' could have many great games associated with it. You could score points for: Aliens being shot and burning up, David Vincent (the ever serious Roy Thinnes) being called a maniac, rogue aliens turning up and dying before they can be helpful, all evidence being destroyed during the climax of the episode, and allies dying (especially in the latter episodes). There is also the 'Is he one?' aspect of watching some of the more suspenseful episodes too.
A great and unwttingly silly series, which I have already written about once, and one which transcends all the other Quinn Martin feasts of grimness. Now it's over once again. Blast, blast, blast, Doom-Mongering Experts of Cancellation!
O.
Monday, 6 February 2017
One Lonely Beam In The Dark
It happens to everyone, inevitably. You arrive home one day and realise that something is missing. If you're lucky, it's something utterly invaluable and you carry on with your life, or you walk out the door and find the lost item on the doorstep. If you're not so lucky, then you have to go looking. In the dark, during a windy frigid drizzle.
Cut to black. You're retracing your footsteps along a dark and windswept path, waving your torch all around to ward off spooks and try to spot what you've lost. You're very thorough, even as rain blots out your bespectacled vision and your fingers go numb from the February cold. You just have to find it! Losing things is not to be permitted! You go all the way up, and then come all the way back down. The flashlight peers into bushes, patches of field through a barbed wire fence, and onto tops of hedges, and nothing is to be seen but stray beer cans and bits of wrapper. The cold seeps into your bones and you begin to give up. It would have been easier to stay in and relinquish it, and maybe watch 'Mission: Impossible' or 'Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea' instead of this.
Then, swishing your torch around all the while, you reluctantly wend your way home, resigning yourself to buying a replacement. What nuisance, what a typical event in what should have been a surplus week! Your front door looms our of the misty and rainy dark and you manage to click off your light and the red bike lamp you've been waving behind you as a warning. Then, you make it inside and wince in pain as your fingers begin to warm up, until you get them all back in working order. What were you doing before going on that fruitless quest? Oh, putting the things from your tutoring trip away. You go back to your bag, previously searched, and pull out a carrier bag with something mysteriously soft within.
What is in the bag? Is it the item for which you have spent half an hour searching in the frozen outdoors? It is, isn't it? You open the bag, and there is the scarf. The lost scarf. The scarf you never even had to buy as it was found one day on a bush in the middle of nowhere, near Aberystwyth.
Mondays have a reputation for a reason.
O.
Cut to black. You're retracing your footsteps along a dark and windswept path, waving your torch all around to ward off spooks and try to spot what you've lost. You're very thorough, even as rain blots out your bespectacled vision and your fingers go numb from the February cold. You just have to find it! Losing things is not to be permitted! You go all the way up, and then come all the way back down. The flashlight peers into bushes, patches of field through a barbed wire fence, and onto tops of hedges, and nothing is to be seen but stray beer cans and bits of wrapper. The cold seeps into your bones and you begin to give up. It would have been easier to stay in and relinquish it, and maybe watch 'Mission: Impossible' or 'Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea' instead of this.
Then, swishing your torch around all the while, you reluctantly wend your way home, resigning yourself to buying a replacement. What nuisance, what a typical event in what should have been a surplus week! Your front door looms our of the misty and rainy dark and you manage to click off your light and the red bike lamp you've been waving behind you as a warning. Then, you make it inside and wince in pain as your fingers begin to warm up, until you get them all back in working order. What were you doing before going on that fruitless quest? Oh, putting the things from your tutoring trip away. You go back to your bag, previously searched, and pull out a carrier bag with something mysteriously soft within.
What is in the bag? Is it the item for which you have spent half an hour searching in the frozen outdoors? It is, isn't it? You open the bag, and there is the scarf. The lost scarf. The scarf you never even had to buy as it was found one day on a bush in the middle of nowhere, near Aberystwyth.
Mondays have a reputation for a reason.
O.
Saturday, 4 February 2017
Story: The Ninja of Health, XXVII
( Part XXVI , XXVIII )
At the bed and breakfast that evening, the two ninjas of health lay, contentedly thinking about the day. Finally, the Man reached for the phone and dialled for home. The familiar voice of their mentor picked up, and quieted as he listened to their story until it was concluded. Then, Ken asked two questions.
"Are you sure the design was triangulated?" Was the first question.
"Yes. Rendered extremely jagged." His lady companion half-smiled at the technicalities.
"Have all the elements from the tablecloth been explained?"
"We don't have anything for the spaceship/lighthouse, but otherwise it matches." The ninja of health then added, hesitantly, "It has to be the right place. Everything points to something important here."
"Yes, it does. The last element will fall into place. Prophecies are inherently abstract. We have so little practical experience with them that it's difficult to explain."
"What about the Oracle? Any sign of improvement?"
"No, he remains out for the count."
The conversation then rambled for a little while, and we leave the two to their repose.
* * *
The world turned once again, and at dawn we find the two back atop the cliffs, with more bags of coloured sand than you could possibly ever count. The Woman casually gained access through the construction panels and began to slit open the bags, which her companion then poured down the side of the crater. Finally, the sand was a foot thick, streaked and layered in its many colours.
The two descended to the crater and settled into their classical poses of meditation. The sand began to swirl around them. The crater grew dark as the Sun apparently vanished, and the world became dimly distant.
More shall follow.
At the bed and breakfast that evening, the two ninjas of health lay, contentedly thinking about the day. Finally, the Man reached for the phone and dialled for home. The familiar voice of their mentor picked up, and quieted as he listened to their story until it was concluded. Then, Ken asked two questions.
"Are you sure the design was triangulated?" Was the first question.
"Yes. Rendered extremely jagged." His lady companion half-smiled at the technicalities.
"Have all the elements from the tablecloth been explained?"
"We don't have anything for the spaceship/lighthouse, but otherwise it matches." The ninja of health then added, hesitantly, "It has to be the right place. Everything points to something important here."
"Yes, it does. The last element will fall into place. Prophecies are inherently abstract. We have so little practical experience with them that it's difficult to explain."
"What about the Oracle? Any sign of improvement?"
"No, he remains out for the count."
The conversation then rambled for a little while, and we leave the two to their repose.
* * *
The world turned once again, and at dawn we find the two back atop the cliffs, with more bags of coloured sand than you could possibly ever count. The Woman casually gained access through the construction panels and began to slit open the bags, which her companion then poured down the side of the crater. Finally, the sand was a foot thick, streaked and layered in its many colours.
The two descended to the crater and settled into their classical poses of meditation. The sand began to swirl around them. The crater grew dark as the Sun apparently vanished, and the world became dimly distant.
More shall follow.
Thursday, 2 February 2017
A Brief Post
It's a little dubious to write while in an online tutorial. It's very much an illicit activity. There's just something about these sessions that triggers the 'write or flight' reflex. Long long minutes of passive listening to other people causes an excessive burst of boredom, surely indicating a serious personality disorder. That must be something serious, yes? A severe disinclination to pay attention to other people's questions or presentations? This is one reason why academic conferences were so unbearably tedious. Unending hours upon hours of talks and questions...
My apologies should really go out to those other people in the tutorial. Especially the lady who got a wrong grammatical hint from me. Sometimes these things just happen. Thankfully, it is now all over, and there were some good things to take away for next week's French assignment. It's a nightmare to be so far behind on all the work, after weeks of disruption and poor concentration. Now, weeks after the demise of our poor hound, and definitively past the darkest period of the year, it feels like things are going to start working again.
Catching up from a backlog of over a month is extremely difficult. All you can do is keep going, and triage wherever possible to save some time. It's amazing that anyone ever finishes Open University courses, but the writer of the Quirky Muffin will be on that august list somehow.
It is, however, far too late now to crank out a proper blog post. For the curious, the current books on the top priority are 'Riders Of The Purple Sage', 'Journey To The West', Freud's 'Jokes And Their Relation To The Unconscious', and Doyle's 'Brigadier Gerard' stories. Also coming up on the screen side, 'The Bachelor And The Bobbysoxer'. Now, to sleep, and perchance to dream.
O.
My apologies should really go out to those other people in the tutorial. Especially the lady who got a wrong grammatical hint from me. Sometimes these things just happen. Thankfully, it is now all over, and there were some good things to take away for next week's French assignment. It's a nightmare to be so far behind on all the work, after weeks of disruption and poor concentration. Now, weeks after the demise of our poor hound, and definitively past the darkest period of the year, it feels like things are going to start working again.
Catching up from a backlog of over a month is extremely difficult. All you can do is keep going, and triage wherever possible to save some time. It's amazing that anyone ever finishes Open University courses, but the writer of the Quirky Muffin will be on that august list somehow.
It is, however, far too late now to crank out a proper blog post. For the curious, the current books on the top priority are 'Riders Of The Purple Sage', 'Journey To The West', Freud's 'Jokes And Their Relation To The Unconscious', and Doyle's 'Brigadier Gerard' stories. Also coming up on the screen side, 'The Bachelor And The Bobbysoxer'. Now, to sleep, and perchance to dream.
O.
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