Robert Asprin, R.I.P.

The Science Fiction/Fantasy community took another hit yesterday, as pun-master Robert Asprin passed from this mortal coil.

He played in the SCA in its early years, being one of the founders of the Great Dark Horde. Supposedly he stormed off one day in a fit of pique, and never returned. Some who had met him say he was a real asshat, but that was his persona, and he played it well. I couldn't say, as I am among those who never did make his acquaintance. I did like his work, though.

He is best known for putting together and editing the Thieves World series, for his silly Phule's Legion series, and his pun-riddled Myth series. I've waded through all three, and enjoyed them thoroughly. He had a talent for mirth, filling his pages with puns so bad one would groan aloud. It is the mark of a great writer to be so gawd-awful painful, while entertaining so well.

G'night Mr. A. You'll be sorely mythed.

Olio

So many pieces of odd this week….

Todd Davis, the founder of “Lifelock”, the identity security firm, seems to be in deep dookey. You know the guy… The one in the commercials, running around showing off his Social Security Number, daring anyone to steal his identity? Well, apparently several folks have successfully done so, and now he is being sued for fraud. Sucks to be you. And you. And you…

Then, there is this. I’d heard they’d cloned a dog, and, jokingly, thought to myself, ‘How long before they offer this as a service for doting pet owners?’ “Not long at all” is the obvious answer. Yikes.

And so David is the big winner of American Idol! Yay! I was rooting for David. Or was it David? Either way, I knew David would win! Actually, I don’t give a flying fig, and haven’t watched a single episode, though, from what I hear, the whole season was, basically, a train wreck full of nuns. It was horrific, but people just couldn’t turn away…

From the “what the hell were they thinking” files, a couple of vandals hit Stone Henge this week. They were, apparently, looking for souvenirs, so they took to the 5000 year old edifice with a hammer and screwdriver, and were chased off by security guards. And here I was thinking that Ancient Artifact Defacement Day wasn’t for another month….

Speaking of morons, I worked at the bar last night. It is “Summer A” session, and things are about as slow as they get. I was working alone, as they’d sent my co-bartender home, for lack of business. By 11:30, after having been serving for 2 hours, we’d made $8 between the two of us. I’d like to say that it was busy enough to keep me hopping, but I was, basically, sitting around with my hands in my pockets for most of the evening. One “gentleman”, asked to close out his tab. I ran the credit card and handed him the slips. He picked them up and, being that he was somewhat intoxicated, not so stealthily turned around and ran out the door. What, precisely, were you trying to accomplish, Mr. Tard? All I need do is press a button to reprint the slips; I ‘swiped’ the card instead of running the numbers; and I have you on security camera making your orders. You *will* be charged for your purchases. The only thing you got away with was not tipping me, as I can’t add a tip onto the charge. But now, because of your slick maneuver, we are all aware of what a complete jackass you are and you’re banned from the bar. Nice work, ass-hat.

Last night was also the 2 year anniversary of Scout’s death. He died at a fighter practice in my backyard. I was pretty torn up over his death, and still have some lingering issues. Time heals all wounds, they say. They just don’t say how much time…

On a positive note, I shall be getting’ hitched this weekend, so the week should end on a upswing. Have a great weekend, everybody!

Keepin' it Normal...

I don't know why this has stuck in my craw the way it has, but maybe putting it in writing will be a catharsis.

I had stopped at Publix the other night on my way home from work. The Destructo-cats were almost out of dry food, and I needed to pick up something for dinner, anyway.

As I was walking out, I passed a father walking into the store with his young daughter. It was her query to her father that caught my attention.

"Can we, Papa? Isn't that what normal people do?"

Normal people? What's this all about?

"No. We're not normal people. Normal people serve people like us..."

And they walked into the store, and out of my life, leaving me standing there, agape, wondering WTF??

Perhaps I took the conversation out of context. Granted, I didn't know which activity the kidling wanted to pursue, and what their definition of normal people was as applied to her.

Yet, I just can't help but conclusion-jump to the whole superiority thing, and get a little miffed. Not terribly miffed, but enough to remember the issue a few days later... Who the hell does he think he is? How dare he pass on his "airs" to a a small child growing up in this society wherein we are all created equal and endowed with certain unalienable rights?

Oh, well. The eletists generally get their comeuppance, anyway. Don't they?

Loomis Re-visited

I suppose that I should start with a little background information, though I'm sure I've mentioned him somewhere in the dark ages of this blog. Loomis was my neighbor’s cat. He was old as dirt, and deaf as a post. He was skinny as a rail, and weighed next to nothing. He was very skittish, and unwary of new faces, but he took to me right away. He loved getting ear-scratchies from me. For whatever reason, he adopted me. Literally. You hear that all the time in regards to cats, but this couldn’t be truer. Even though he “lived” next door, and even though I didn’t feed him, he preferred to hang out on my porch. He would wait in the middle of the driveway for me to get home at night. I'd pull in and stop and wait, while he would get up from where he was lying, and pad softly to the porch. He decided that my porch was his home, and I was his “master”.

One day Loomis started making a ruckus. He had a rather loud voice, and used it well to get my attention. He started yowling at all hours of day and night. I was wondering what was wrong with him, and thought that I might want to speak with my neighbors, when I noticed that they’d moved. One day they were there, the next they were gone. And they'd left Loomis. He was yowling because his source of food had dried up, and he knew I was the one who should be feeding him anyway, so I started feeding him. Suddenly, Loomis was truly mine. Well, as "mine" as a cat like Loomis could get. He was a cat that made his own way in life.

I’d never let him in the house, as he’d been an outdoor cat all his life, and my other two were strictly the indoor variety. There was no telling what interesting kitty diseases Loomis might introduce…. Yet, still, he was my cat. Well, he was my “half cat”. When people learned I had cats, and would ask how many, I’d reply two and a half. No one truly owned a cat like Loomis. Not fully. Not all of him.

Even though he was old (he was 16 when the neighbors moved in, and stayed with me for about 6 years) and stone deaf, he was still a great hunter. He would, on occasion, leave me little bird trophies on the doorstep. A gift, if you will. And he was a scrapper. He couldn’t have weighed more than 5 pounds, but he was the toughest cat in the neighborhood.

Toward his latter days, all he did was, mostly, sleep. He no longer met me in the driveway. I no longer got a share of his spoils, as kibble was all he could catch. Then, one day, he just disappeared. I called animal control, to see if he’d been picked up, but he hadn’t. He was just gone. The most likely explanation was that he’d crawled off somewhere, went to sleep the long sleep. I’d searched around the yard and likely neighborhood spots, but could not find his body.

That was a couple of years ago. Fade to present day.

Some able bodied friends came over, and brought their trucks, so we were able to clear out the porch. It had been the storage place for some former roommates. They’d left several pieces of large exercise equipment, including a Soloflex and an all-in-one machine. We had the manpower, and the vehicles to transfer the equipment to the exes new place, and were taking advantage of the timing.

Four of us grabbed the all-in-one (it was quite heavy) and lifted it onto the truck. Sheeps was supervising, and gasped in shock. Between the weights and the frame of the machine was a small skull and a bit of fur. She deduced right away that it had to be Loomis. We quickly got the bones out of her sight and disposed of them.

I felt miserable for a little while, knowing that he’d died back there, alone, even though I would have never found him without moving the machine, which was too heavy to move on my own. It then occurred to me that even though he died alone, he did it in a place where he felt safe and loved. He curled up in a place he was comfortable, went to sleep, and never woke up. He chose to die in the place he chose to live. He made his own way in life, and made his own way in death. I suppose that’s not such a bad way to go…