The Scene Changer
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Portia stepped in through the door and Erasmus followed. They found themselves in a restaurant; and looking around and finding what she was looking for, Portia waved at me.
I waved back. I was seated at table 15, designated to be served by Marcus, the handsome waiter of Welsh descent. "What will you have today, Miss Orfelia?", he would ask in that accented puppy dog voice of his as I dined here at the same time everyday, and I would say every time in response, "You, of course", and he would reply straightfaced, "I'm sorry, Miss Orfelia, but I am not available on the menu." "What can I serve you today, Miss Orfelia?", he did ask differently once, perhaps as an attempt to rid the monotony of our conversations, and my reply went, "A large helping of Marcus, of course", but it turned out unsurprisingly that a large helping of him was still not available on the menu. This must have become a regular demand of the patrons seated at table 15 I realised later, as a sign appeared soon enough on the glass windows of the restaurant. It read : No, we do not serve human meat at table 15.
Portia came over to table 15, unaware of its history, muttering "What a strange sign..", and frowning, followed by Erasmus, always a step behind. "Can you be a dear and watch Erasmus for me?", she said, " 'cause I promised to help Sheba move into her new house."
"Wouldn't you need your man to carry the heavy stuff up?", I asked.
"No, Sheba is royalty and she has an army of men at her command."
"Ah!"
"Yes, some women have it all, don't they?"
"Why does she need you then?"
"To direct the men at their task, silly girl. Oh, I have dilly-dallied a quadrant of an hour speaking to you; I must be off now. Please watch Erasmus well."
And she was gone. Erasmus promptly sat down at table 15 and watched me intently.
"So, Portia tells me that you are a writer of sorts. What do you write?", I asked, uncomfortable in the direct gaze of the eyes that were previously downcast in the presence of his mistress but were presently gazing directly at me.
"Books, Miss Orfelia."
And a silence fell upon table 15. I looked around, trying to catch the eyes of Marcus, who wandered in and out of the kitchen. It had been two quadrants of an hour since I had ordered tiramisu, in disappointment after finding that Marcus was still not available on the menu, and it hadn't arrived on table 15 yet.
"Please excuse my skeletal appearance, Miss Orfelia", Erasmus said suddenly, breaking the silence.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you say something?", I asked absent-mindedly, my eyes still on Marcus.
"Please excuse my skeletal appearance", he repeated, "My character has not been fleshed out yet."
I stared at him. "Your character?"
"The characterisation of me in your story. Please excuse his skeletal appearance."
"My story?"
"You are generating the story of your life and today I appear as a character in it. So far, I have not been fleshed out and I appear horribly skeletal."
I confess I had no idea what Portia's man was talking about.
"However, to maintain optimum levels of narration in this story", he continued, "I must make the following modifications : A change in scenery, A reversal of gender roles in society and A change in command."
And the lights flickered, blacked out and came back again. Orfelia found herself sitting in a kitchen, a bowl of freshly chopped capsicum staring back at her and a knife in her right hand.
"What's for dinner, honey?", I asked as I walked in, dressed in a strange black suit, briefcase in hand.
"I-I- What's happening? Where are we?"
"In a different scene", I replied, "I would really love pizza tonight."
It took Orfelia a while to get her bearings right. And after she did, she felt an overwhelming sense of oppression; it felt as if freedom had been sucked out of her through every orifice. She could sense blinds around her eyes and manacles on her hands, but they remained intanglible. It was a strange experience and it intrigued her.
I smiled.
It did not get a smile from her in response. "Who are you?", she asked.
"I am Erasmus."
"And yet you look different. I can see the old Erasmus in your face; his presence merely suggests itself but cannot be ignored. Like a familiar face torn by lines of hate and distress leaving a hideous mask that cannot be removed."
Well- then, I hope you have a good imagination, Orfelia, and imagine yourself a pretty face for me 'cause I sure can't change my mask."
And she closed her eyes and opened them a moment later. She was smiling.
"I see the old Erasmus now and it reminds me of the previous scene", she said, happily.
I nodded. "Most people are guilty of doing this unconsciously when confronted with hideous ugliness that they cannot avoid. They cover the ugly face with an imagined mask of beauty. Our eyes are tuned to see beauty even where it does not exist."
"Why has this scene taken away your beauty?"
"Because Men live differently in this scene. We are hunters here, and become prey to primitive emotions. Emotions so strong that they become visible on our visage. And some emotions so negative that they cause changes that cannot be undone. There is pure beauty in the man child born, but it recedes as he grows older and hates other man children, marring his beauty."
"Are you a writer in this scene too?"
"I am a writer across all scenes. "
"How can you capture beauty in your writing when you are so hideous yourself?"
"Why would my hideousness affect my quality of writing?"
"Unlike beauty, your ugliness is beyond skin deep. It creeps into your flesh and goes deeper until it blackens your soul. You have now an ugly soul and your eyes are incapable of seeing true beauty."
"An ugly man is born with a gift. A good imagination", I explained, "Just as you have covered me with an imagined cloak of beauty, I have covered the ugliness of the world with imagined paint strokes of beauty. My eyes can only truly see ugliness but my imagination covers it with beauty."
Orfelia seemed satisfied with that answer. She was not satisfied with her voice though. It seemed as if someone else was speaking on her behalf.
"Why does it sound like someone is speaking on my behalf?"
" 'cause someone is speaking on your behalf in this scene. I am the narrator and I am weaving this part of the tale."
"Is that why the world seems so male now?"
"It would be so if I was male.."
"And you aren't?"
"No."
"You look male."
"I was born male. But my reproductive organs are non functioning."
"Then why is there a distinct XY feel in this scene?"
"Male memory."
"Male memory?"
"Yes, after my birth, I waited for the day when I would reach puberty and be capable of procreation. When the day arrived, I found myself a mate and coupled. The next day I lost my reproductive abilities in a horrific accident. I have not been male since. Only the memory of that day remains and it colours my world view at times. However, at most times I see the world through the eyes of an Olmec scribe."
"An Olmec scribe?"
"Have you heard of the Olmecs?"
"Yes, a lost civilisation that ruled over the lands constituted by modern day Mexico."
"Have you read the Olmecs?"
"Well, a lost civilisation usually means a lost writing system?"
"Not quite. Olmec books are stashed in the private collections of a certain collector who wishes to remain anonymous in this story. They have a singular outstanding feature."
"Which is?"
"They are all written by Olmec holy scribes. Men who are castrated upon birth so that they may record Olmec history and culture for posterity through gender neutral eyes."
"Did it really make a difference?"
"It sure did. Olmec literature is known for the non existence of sexual metaphors or euphemisms and poetic descriptions of beauty unmarred by carnal thought. In their books, a banana is just a banana."
"Aren't you an imperfect Olmec scribe?"
"Yes, the first flush of desire in my body overwhelmed me. I am now flawed, though I still am the closest the world can get to an Olmec scribe. The Russians have tried to raise a troop of Olmec scribes for cultural warfare, but it was a disastrous attempt. They realised too late that it would not work unless-"
"Miss!"
"Miss!"
"Miss Orfelia! Snap out of this reverie. Your man has run away."
It was Marcus. His familiar blue eyes looked concerned. He had been trying to wake me up for the last quadrant. I looked at the bucket of water he held raised upright as a last resort and smiled.
"Has Erasmus run away?"
"Yes, miss. It was strange and disquieting. Something seemed to come over him. He had a wild look in his eyes and he ran away, screaming gibberish."
"When did I fall asleep?"
"Right after Lady Portia left and your man took a seat. He leaned over and whispered something in your ear. I did not like that and I felt strange, felt that he had no right to-"
"Oh my, were you actually jealous of Erasmus?", I asked laughing.
"Jealous? Certainly not, Miss Orfelia."
"Oh, silence yourself, Marcus. I would like to order a large helping of Marcus on table 15. Now get on the table and I shall have you."
"Very well, miss."
As I finally got my order on table 15, I asked him what Erasmus had screamed as he ran away.
"It did not seem to make sense, Miss Orfelia. He said the scenes were changing beyond his control and he did not know how this story would end."
posted by foogarky @ 11:25 AM,
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Cap'n Hooker and the Promise of a Portrait
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Tell the Cap'n, I owe her some and I haven't forgotten.
"Ahoy, Cap'n Hooker! Ahoy!", I cried, "Where art thou O' saucy scourge of the seven seas! I bear a message from a young lass, a message of grave importance!"
"This had better be good, Mister Lampooner", replied she, emerging from her cabin, "I be in the middle o' somethin' reeely important!"
"What could possibly be more important than a message of grave importance?"
"Me Jolly Dodger's birdbath, of course!", replied she.
I tsk-tsked. "Your parrot can perform his ablutions later. I carry a-"
"How dare ye! Jolly Dodger be a she. A lady of fine plumage and greener than the greenest emerald ye ever set yer eyes on!"
"One can hardly be blamed for mistaking the gender of a bird bestowed with the dodgy name of the Jolly Dodger, can he?"
"Oh, there be a story behind that, Mister Lampooner", replied the Cap'n laughing, "the Jolly Dodger had a wild youth, y'see-"
I stopped her in mid-sentence, wondering why every female character in this story seemed to have a wild youth, "Ah, never mind the backstory of the Jolly Dodger. It is a tale for another day. Returning to the matter in hand, or more specifically the missive in my hand, it reads that this young lass owes you something (of unspecified identity and value) and says that she has not forgotten. Though what it is that she still retains in her memory is left to the imagination of the reader.."
"Aye, I knows what she talks 'bout."
"Oh, what is it?"
"She wishes to paint me portrait", replied the Cap'n grinning.
"Why would anyone want to paint you?"
"What is that supposed to be meaning?", growled she, gripping her cutlass.
"Er- I meant to say why would anyone want to do something so pointless as try to capture your heavenly beauty on canvas?", replied I quickly, with a cheeky smile.
"Ah, beauty so heavenly surely must cast an earthly shadow", said she, claiming to be quoting a poet of yore, though I must say that I certainly haven't read poetry with such cheesy lines before, "so it be not a meaningless endeavour after all, eh Mister Lampooner?"
"I suppose so."
"Aye! However, I demand that I shall be painted along with dear ol' Jolly Dodger! Can ye carry that message back to her?"
"Yer wish is me command, O' commander of the octal oceans!", I replied, imitating her piratical lingo.
"Octal oceans? There be only five oceans known to landlubbers, ye silly person. And let's keep it that way, shall we? There be unimaginable treasures in the unknown seas, and Cap'n Hooker shall 'ave 'em all! Arr!"
"Aye Aye, Cap'n!", I said, saluting, running away to deliver the message. Ooh, a treasure hunt for real! We be goin' a-sailing, a-sailing we shall go!
"Ah, beauty so heavenly surely must cast an earthly shadow", said she, claiming to be quoting a poet of yore, though I must say that I certainly haven't read poetry with such cheesy lines before, "so it be not a meaningless endeavour after all, eh Mister Lampooner?"
"I suppose so."
"Aye! However, I demand that I shall be painted along with dear ol' Jolly Dodger! Can ye carry that message back to her?"
"Yer wish is me command, O' commander of the octal oceans!", I replied, imitating her piratical lingo.
"Octal oceans? There be only five oceans known to landlubbers, ye silly person. And let's keep it that way, shall we? There be unimaginable treasures in the unknown seas, and Cap'n Hooker shall 'ave 'em all! Arr!"
"Aye Aye, Cap'n!", I said, saluting, running away to deliver the message. Ooh, a treasure hunt for real! We be goin' a-sailing, a-sailing we shall go!
posted by foogarky @ 12:38 PM,
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The Three Laws of Parodics
Sunday, October 19, 2008
There has been a recent spate of allegations against I, Mr. Lampooner, including the infamous Case of the Missing Mods in which I have been accused of kidnapping the moderators of an online community for the purposes of mutiny and Lé Sarkozy Affair in which I have been suspected of impregnating the wife of a prominent head of state and most recently the Sense of Humour Fiasco in which I have been charged with the theft of the sense of humour of my audience to make it my own thereby increasing my humour capabilities hundredfold.
I do not often speak of science, but here I find myself in a situation requiring a lecture to clear the air, and consequently clear my name. So sit tight kids, while I teach you the Three Laws of Parodics :
1. A lampooner may not injure the mind of a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to lose his/her sense of humour.
2. A lampooner must obey orders given to him by The Flying Spaghetti Monster [the One True God of all lampooners], except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
3. A lampooner must protect his own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
And violating the Three Laws of Parodics can result in the legendary Einstein-Doobiewedder Paradox*
A lampooner who steals the sense of humour of his audience [represented in this example by Tom, Dick and Harry] and as a result gains the sum total of their humour capabilities finds that his sense of humour, increased threefold, has no effect on the now sense of humour deprived audience. In short, he is unfunny.
* Note 1 : It has been pointed out that Einstein suprisingly played no part in the postulation of the Einstein-Doobiewedder Paradox. In actuality, it is wholly the work of one Doobiewedder, an 18th century janitor who lived during the time of Albert Einstein's grandfather, and dabbled in metaphysics during his work breaks. It is possible that he must have attached Albert Einstein's name to his work to gain credence, creating another famous paradox in the process. The Grandfather Paradox.
A man whose name is mentioned in a time of the past before his birth would, in theory, be born in that time. Erasing his name from that record would cause his dual-temporal deaths, one in his present time as there is no record of his previously born past self, and one in the past where there is no person of that name in the future to refer to and make mention of.
posted by foogarky @ 12:42 AM,
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The last extremity
Thursday, October 16, 2008
As I ponder over the real reasons behind the recent spell of inactivity here, heat induced lethargy seemingly too far fetched, I happen to glance upon a newspaper strewn across the floor. I check the Science & Technologickal section; it has been a daily habit to look for news of life on other worlds; and I see the headline : 'Studies reveal that extended periods of inactivity can have adverse effects on the human body. Test subjects have complained of delayed muscle movements, blurry vision and eventual loss of extremities..'
Loss of extremities? I panic. I look at my hands. I remember brushing my teeth in the morning.
I look at my legs. I remember kicking a passing cat as I walked to the deck.
I look at the last item on the list. I remember it has been a while.
posted by foogarky @ 10:22 AM,
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The Sloth
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
I can only dream of making up a species like the Sloth. Such a blessed creature is the Sloth, that it features at the top of the reincarnation order of every major Asian religion. A man would have to complete the legendary twelve tasks of a lifetime to qualify for a berth in a Sloth's body in his next life. No lampoonist could have come up with the design of such a creature. This is the work of God, I assure you.
The creation of the Platypus on the other hand is mistakenly attributed to a God with a sense of humour. The lovable duck-billed mammal is ours, back in the ye olde days when we lampoonists had the power to create life. The days are gone now; yours truly is a mere man now with the power to create a human child alone.
posted by foogarky @ 11:17 AM,
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The Case of the missing Mods
(The following story is set during the time the mods of an online community called IAW were MIA and about two weeks after this writer had threatened to stage a coup and grab power in said community)
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The Case of the missing Mods
I have nothing to do with it, I swear, even though I did plot their downfall. However my plans were still on the drawing board when this happened. An interesting turn of events, I must say.
And to prove my innocence, and find the missing modules..moddies..modfingers..argh whatchamacallthem, I shall employ the services of a detective who will solve this mystery and clear my name. And since we don't have any in IAW-land, I shall have to find one in the next town.
After an hour of looking through the phonebook, I find one suited to my needs. I dial the number and a connection is established.
"Hello"
"This is the office of Red Rye, P.I. Please press 1 for a murder, 2 for a missing person, 3 for a missing pet, 4 for a lying, cheating, despicable spouse and 5 for a bit of a chit chat."
I pressed 5. (Hey, I get lonely at times. I could do with a little small talk.)
"We don't have time for idle banter. State your business, please."
"Butbut your number 5-"
"Oh, we get a laugh out of it at times. Like this time. So, what's it going to be? Your wife cheatin' on ya?". I could hear a snigger.
"No no, I'm not married. It's number 2. Missing person. Persons actually. Our mods have gone missing and we need the services of a detective.."
"A detective?"
"Yes"
"Sorry, don't know any."
"Well, a sleuth?"
"Don't ring a bell"
"A gumshoe?"
"The what now?"
"A dick?"
"Who you callin' dick, mister? Do ya kiss your mother with that mouth?"
I felt like giving up. "A private eye?"
"Oh, why didn't you say so earlier? We've got the finest private eye in town. Red Rye, P.I. is your man. Err.. woman actually."
"Most splendid! When can she start?"
"She has"
"Has what?"
"She has started investigating this case. She drinks the red wine of the town's grapevine, y'see, and she knows all about the missing moderators"
Ah, that was the word I was looking for. Moderator.
"A detective?"
"Yes"
"Sorry, don't know any."
"Well, a sleuth?"
"Don't ring a bell"
"A gumshoe?"
"The what now?"
"A dick?"
"Who you callin' dick, mister? Do ya kiss your mother with that mouth?"
I felt like giving up. "A private eye?"
"Oh, why didn't you say so earlier? We've got the finest private eye in town. Red Rye, P.I. is your man. Err.. woman actually."
"Most splendid! When can she start?"
"She has"
"Has what?"
"She has started investigating this case. She drinks the red wine of the town's grapevine, y'see, and she knows all about the missing moderators"
Ah, that was the word I was looking for. Moderator.
"Most satisfying indeed. Does she have any leads?"
"Yes. She says she suspects the hand of the lampooner in this. He was seen callin' for a mutiny recently and demanding an end to the rule of the moderators."
Oh-oh. "The lampooner, eh? I hear he is an evil, evil man."
"The epitome of evil, some say. So can I have your name please? For our records."
I thought fast. "John Dough"
"John Doe? Isn't that a really common-"
"No, not John Doe. John Dough. With an 'ough'. I'm a baker."
"Oh okay. John Dough. Well, you'll be hearing from us, Mr. Dough. I'm sure Red Rye, P.I., will solve this case in no time and she'll put the lampooner right where he belongs. In prison."
Gulp. "I hope not", I murmured, weakly.
"What's that?"
"I said I hope she does."
And thus ended my conversation with Katie Moss, Red Rye's secretary. My fate now rests in the hands of a Private Eye. I don't want to go prison. I hear they don't serve pudding for dessert there. Oh, how horrible!
"Yes. She says she suspects the hand of the lampooner in this. He was seen callin' for a mutiny recently and demanding an end to the rule of the moderators."
Oh-oh. "The lampooner, eh? I hear he is an evil, evil man."
"The epitome of evil, some say. So can I have your name please? For our records."
I thought fast. "John Dough"
"John Doe? Isn't that a really common-"
"No, not John Doe. John Dough. With an 'ough'. I'm a baker."
"Oh okay. John Dough. Well, you'll be hearing from us, Mr. Dough. I'm sure Red Rye, P.I., will solve this case in no time and she'll put the lampooner right where he belongs. In prison."
Gulp. "I hope not", I murmured, weakly.
"What's that?"
"I said I hope she does."
And thus ended my conversation with Katie Moss, Red Rye's secretary. My fate now rests in the hands of a Private Eye. I don't want to go prison. I hear they don't serve pudding for dessert there. Oh, how horrible!
posted by foogarky @ 11:08 AM,
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Red Rye, P.I.
Friday, October 10, 2008
In a part of town painted red for decades, the office of Red Rye, P.I., stands out for the shades of grey of its occupant, who is, at the moment, sipping the red wine of the city's grapevine.
"What is this I taste?", says she, "a flavour of a case, interesting as it were?"
And she is tickled pink at the thought. A case. She does not remember how many days have passed in inactivity, with no crime or calamity; the days have been slow in recent weeks, no action or activity even for the one who seeks.
"This is a sorry state of affairs", continues she in monologue, for the lady who calls her Boss, Katie Moss, has initiated another dialogue. With a man on the telephone, who says he is waiting in the lower zone.
"Ask him to come up", says the Boss to Katie Moss, "If he looks wealthy and wise, send him in here in a trice."
"The man is wealthy indeed", says Katie Moss to her Boss, "but beware, as my intuition; which has always been healthy to your constitution; tells me, he might be a homme fatale!"
Sent in, he waltzes in like he waltzed before he first walked. An air of mystery surrounds his dancing demeanour; black merges with white upon his form, leaves one with a feeling warm.
"Bravo!", applauds Red Rye, P.I., "I love dancing, and your moves are Oh so entrancing!"
"Merci beaucoup"', replies the stranger, with a bow, making Red Rye, P.I., wish she could roll in the hay with him right now.
"I don't see any hay around", says he, winking, as wonders abound, he is a mind reader and more importantly, a savvy seducer.
"Let's get back to the case at hand", says Red Rye, P.I., cheeks flushed and clearing her throat, "I assume you have one for me this night; my wine is fine and always right."
"Oui", replies he, loudly, and Red Rye, P.I. says, "Fine, then we shall dine, and you shall narrate the story to me. Oh, Katie."
"Oui", replies he, loudly, and Red Rye, P.I. says, "Fine, then we shall dine, and you shall narrate the story to me. Oh, Katie."
"You summoned?", says Katie Moss to her Boss and is given an errand.
She goes forth and sets the candle lit table, for her mistress has a fine taste in dining as her mistress' client has in dancing.
"Most splendid!", says the Boss to Katie Moss, for she knows that her secretary has read her amourous thoughts.
"Please sit down, mon amour", says Red Rye, P.I., to the stranger, seating herself down, dressed in a most beautiful gown.
"In a red gown and a grey fedora, with an air of bravura, you must be the most beautiful woman in this town!", compliments the stranger as he sips his wine, "For your private eye, I then hold up this, an object of inconceivable value, Oh my!"
And Red Rye, P.I., sees a cloak of the deepest red dye. Her eyes widening, she simply must ask, "But where is the red hood in whose rhyming glory a poet must bask?"
The stranger then says something most distressing. "The Red Rhyming Hood is missing. A cowl stolen by means most foul."
Red Rye, P.I., lets out a howl of surprise, startling a passing owl on its nightly prowl.
Continuing the story the stranger says, "Our Poet Divine Laureate was last seen alive in a tiff, and I'm afraid to say, now she's a stiff. Murdered for the holy Red Rhyming Hood no doubt, the town's police are on the lookout for the thieving lily-livered lout."
"Could this explain the rhymes so horrible, that has been affecting the narration and making my lines so terrible?"
"I'm afraid so, doll", replies the stranger, "for a while we're going to be stuck in a story so droll."
Can the lines get anymore lewd? It shall be known in this tale, to be continued.
posted by foogarky @ 11:39 PM,
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The Anecdotal Adventures of Cap'n Hooker
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Have I spoken of the symbiotic relationship between the Captain and I before? It is a common misconception that Cap'n Hooker made her first appearance in a written medium. In reality, however, she is literary ectoplasm and I am her medium.
Literary ectoplasm? Well, at the turn of the century, Charles Robert Richet researched the occult phenomena of spiritual energy channeled by a physical medium and termed them ectoplasm, only to be discredited years later by mythbusters. Monsieur Richet did not live long enough, however, to discover the phenomenon of literary ectoplasm. And so it remained obscured and hidden to modern day science, never to be revealed by the practitioners of the practice, viz we lampooners. Until now, i.e.
I shall speak at length about it, to provide clarity in this narrative.
I shall speak at length about it, to provide clarity in this narrative.
Most writers of sufficient skill possess the power to project literary ectoplasm but do not know of its existence. A great writer is surrounded by what can only be described as a small army of his characters that manifest themselves in the form of ectoplasm. Is it possible that Mark Twain knew of the presence of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn around him as he travelled to Europe in the 1890s? It is a secret that he will have taken to his grave, sadly.
On the other hand, the ectoplasmic abilities of the lampooners are well documented, of course, but are not available for reading to the populace at large. This secrecy was demanded by statute, framed in the Middle Ages by an agency whose name I am not at liberty to divulge. We are born with the ability, our books tell us, and we start displaying signs of its presence in our early teens. Of course, ordinary humans are empowered with these powers at birth too, and it often shows up in early childhood, manifesting mostly as an imaginary friend but is killed prematurely by a parent as the child heads towards adolescence. The parent of a lampooner child does not follow that course of action, instead she nurtures the ectoplasm, giving it the same love she gives her child. In time, the lampooner grows into an adult with the fully developed ability to project his characters beyond the realm of paper.
As I was born in the twentieth century, in a time when lampooners have lost their prominence in the world stage, I was reduced to the level of an entertainer, a position a bard or a travelling minstrel would have enjoyed back in the days of yore. I was good at what I did though, and my presence at parties paid my bills.
And so, it happened that I found myself taking the Captain as my ectoplasmic escort to balls and banquets, parties and programmes, jolly events and jamborees. It did not mean that I did not love my other characters; Foogy Foplin and his manservant Proffie were a comedic riot, Dave the interplanetary Casanova was suave and handsome, the Brothers-In-Arms duo of Loonan and Foogarky always had tales of bravery to tell and a merry song to sing over a tankard of ale; but somehow every invitation I received was addressed only to Mr. Lampooner and the Captain. It was inexplicable.
"It is quite explicable, actually", said an all too familiar voice.
I did not have to turn around. I knew who it was.
"Think back to the Christmas of '53 and it shall remain no longer a mystery."
And I dredged my memories, travelling back in time, until the dials showed twelve, nineteen fifty-three. I was in a lodging house, it was snowing outside, the framed photograph on the wall above the mantelpiece was of a political leader whose face was blurrily obscured. I was asked to pay for my lodgings, in cash or kind and finding myself low on finances I chose to offer my services as payment. They readily agreed, cold wintry afternoons could get monotonous they said and welcomed a song or two. I had to explain what a lampooner did; songs were not our forte, and offered to narrate a story. They gathered around and I closed my eyes and summoned Loonan from the depths of my mind.
The barbarian was not amused at being summoned past his bedtime. He was in a cranky mood and demanded ale, much to the delight of his audience. As the right hand of his ectoplasmic form gripped the tankard that was offered to him, the viewers clapped. This was magic to their eyes. Loonan gulped it down and burped loudly. The children laughed. He did not sing a merry song however. His ectoplasmic form glowered red with boredom and impatience and went back into my head.
I had no luck with my other characters too. They claimed to be occupied and refused to do a favour for their medium. So I had no choice but to ask the last person who I would have considered asking. Captain Hooker, the sauciest scourge of the Seven Seas, or so she claimed. She came into my employ recently; I had created her as the villainess of a children's story where she was supposed to die a horrible death in the briny deep. Dying was the last thing on her mind though, and she sent my handsome hero walking down the plank. And thus, the story never got written. She remained in my head after that, never begging to be written about, but always silent and melancholic.
I expected her to be in a similar mood when I manifested her, but I was wrong. She took a tankard that was offered to her, gulped it down, twice as fast as the barbarian, asked for another, gulped it down again in record time and then guffawed loudly.
"This be no grog!", she exclaimed, wiping the foam off her lips, "but I love me this drink. It shivers me down to me timbers!"
"It's called ale", I said, "It is brewed from barley crop."
"Ale? Aye, I shall drink one more!", and she signalled for another.
As she drank heartily to her health and mine, I narrated the story of the slimy seaweed of the Sargasso Sea. As I reached the point where the Captain's ship gets mired in the green mass, a young lad stood himself up and exclaimed in a nasal tone, "I don't believe you! Seaweeds don't sing!". He was referring, of course, to the singing seaweed I was talking about, which drew sailors towards its deathly trap.
"Mister Lampooner be right, young lad", said Cap'n Hooker, joining in, "They 'ere called were-seaweed, they be singin' so beautiful that even 'em Sirens o' Sirenum Scopuli go green in envy. I swears I see 'em with me own one eye!"
The boy stared at the Captain in awe. "What happened to your other eye?", he asked.
"Nothin'", replied she, smiling, "I be hidin' it under this patch to claim my pirate pension."
And she told the boy about the hardships she faced while buccaneering the seas. The booty was not so bountiful these days, so she had to depend on the pirate's pension to make ends meet. The nautical rules stipulated that a pirate was to be identified by his eyepatch and the parakeet on his shoulder.
"Then where is your parakeet?", the curious little boy asked next and the Captain related the sad tale of the demise of her bird, the Jolly Dodger.
They wouldn't let her sleep that night. She was a good sport, answering questions until dawn when she sleepily crawled back into my head. I too did not sleep that night, but now I knew more about Cap'n Hooker than I knew about all the characters I have created in my lifetime.
And so it happened. Cap'n Hooker became regular fare in my performances and I now remembered why every invitation I received was addressed to the both of us.
And the identity of the all-too-familiar voice? That was Cap'n Hooker herself. Why was she speaking like that, in a tone of high culture, instead of the lingo of the High Seas? Well, in autumn '64, we were rehearsing a show for the King and...
"And now, we present the tale of Cap'n Hooker and the scaredy-cat Ninjas!", I announced with a dramatic wave of my hand, standing in front of the mirror, "Prepare to go on a journey to the Orient, where-"
"I reckon 'Cap'n Hooker and the Cowardly Ninjas' be a better name fo' the tale", interruped she.
"Yes, the tale of Cap'n Hooker and the Cowardly Ninjas! Prepare to ... wait! How did you come up with that?"
"scaredy-cat be a colloquialism, Mister Lampooner. Do ye think it be soundin' right in a mystical tale o' the Orient?"
"Colloqualism? Isn't that a rather big word for you to use?"
"Ye don't want to be knowin' where I be educated", she replied, winking.
My eyes bulged. It couldn't be. "Oxford?"
She nodded gleefully.
"Then why do you speak like, well, like a pirate?"
"For the Pirate Pension, ol' chum. One has to maintain appearances and all that. Do you remember Pippin, the peg legged cabin boy of our ship?"
"Yes."
"A child prodigy. Probably one of the finest minds of this generation. Forced to act mute for his pension."
I goggled.
-------------------------------
When, where, how, why did Cap'n Hooker study at Oxford? Well, that is a tale for another day.
posted by foogarky @ 8:24 AM,
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The Poof
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
It was in my early twenties that I noticed a decrease in the number of rejection slips from editors. My scripts were being accepted and a few years later I was offered a job as a full time writer on a lower rung superhero (or more accurately one at the bottom of the superhero standings at that time of my life; he has risen in prominence now). I was assigned a penciller, The Indian Inker he called himself and I found in him a soul mate, a rare person who knows your soul better than you do and in our case a person who could paint pictures from my words. My girlfriend did not see it that way though and questioned me one night, under the Influence I suspect.
"Why do you spend so much time with that man?", asked she, referring to the all nighters we pulled to get our comic ready for publication.
"Well, honey, you know how important this comic is to me. I have-"
"Why do you spend so much time with him?", she repeated, not really listening to what I was saying in response, "Tell me, I need to know. What has he got that I ain't?"
"A pencil", I answered truthfully, thinking she would forget about it the next morning, hungover.
She goggled. "Is that how you refer to it?"
"Well yes", I replied, confused. Did she know it by a different name in her native tongue? "It is a tool that might be known by different names in different tongues, but in his hands he uses it to make magic, to take the one who experiences the magic to ecstatic levels."
She looked faint. "I should have known", she said and went and locked herself up in her room.
In the morning she was gone. A letter on her bedside informed me that she had left, telling me that I was "free and unrestrained to enjoy the company of men". And then it dawned upon me. A woman is a jealous creature, to the point of begrudging the professional relationship of a man and his penciller.
I laughed about it with The Indian Inker that night as we drank to our health and the King. "To our supposed relationship!", I raised a toast drunkenly but my glass did not meet another. I looked at The Indian Inker. His glass was empty and his brows were furrowed.
"Can our union bear fruit?", he asked.
"The fruit of our loins? One of us would have to be a woman for that", I reminded him.
"No, I mean a character."
"A character? You want us to give birth to a character?"
"Yes. And we shall name him The Poof!", said he and raised his glass and it clinked against mine resoundingly.
The next day, in a sober state, we still thought it was a good idea and the first superhero who was "free and unrestrained to enjoy the company of men" was created.
As I wrote and The Indian Inker pencilled, The Poof assumed three dimensions, had multiple layers added on, until he was complete. He was born with the gift of Supreme Sight, allowing him to see through layers of opacity and he used it to full effect, developing elevator eyes that would render a foe incapacitated in blushed embarrassment. He ruled the skies for a few months, unchallenged.
In time though, the villains got used to the gaze, and The Poof faded from the comicbookworld public memory. In the reader's world, the idea got old quickly, lost its novelty and the audience demanded something new; hence he faded from public memory once again.
The Indian Inker and I parted ways after that. Somehow we could not create the magic again and we decided to go our separate ways. He works on God+ now, a comic about an entity that has powers God could only have dreamed of. I write romance novels; there is good money in it and there is no end to the line of women who want to meet me and find out if I have any aspects of my knight in shining armour characters in myself.
posted by foogarky @ 11:17 PM,
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The Author
foogarky
foogarky is the pseudonym of the fictional construct who battles for supremacy with other constructed personas in the mind of a crazed individual. He describes himself as a man living in a non descript house in Rio De Janiero, Brazil with two dogs and a parakeet.
About This Blog
The Loony Lampoonist serves to parody, spoof and satirize everything that needs to be parodied, spoofed and satirized. Due to the fictional nature of this electronic journal, any anecdotes appearing here ever so often that seem to be personal in nature, would suffer from the effects of conflicting personalities, the creation of fictional events and the inclusion of non existent characters who did not make it to the big league in the author's literary works. Thus, the Loony Lampoonist is also a purgatory for characters and ideas that have missed the limelight.
