Hi. You've been warned.

Warned of what? Not much, other than the fact that this is going to seem brutally amateuish at times, and that it'll probably have a lot more to do about my interests* and a lot less to do about my personal life. Not only do I find that sort of emphasis on minutiae rather pretentious, but it's also a good way to have 687, 456 scumbags (by my estimate - mileage on other LiveJounals may vary) you'd rather not know actually obsessing about you. 

It'll also come out whenever I can get around to it. Think about that for a minute.

With all of that baggage in mind, enjoy.

(* "Interests" include science fiction and fantasy and other forms of literature [both genre and "mainstream"], film, loud music, not so loud music, science, technology and various other things not having anything at all to do with alien autopsies, cannibalism of the remains of such autopsies and the like. Honest. I swear.)

Two passages that irritated the right sort of people, hopefully...

President #44,  during his inauguration speech:

"We will restore science to its rightful place and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality..."

Admittedly, the last part of that sentence probably isn't one too many people are going to be kvetching about, but I'll be entirely glad to see if any of the Intelligent Design/veiled creationist/"Goddidit" crowd currently infesting arguments about science and education policy were irked by the first part. If they were, good.

And then there's this:

"We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus, and nonbelievers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth."

I suspect that that little gem irritated a lot of Christian Nation types like David Barton as well. If so, that's also a big happy for me.

Reminders of an adequately misspent youth.

It hasn't been a particularly good time to be a favorite pop icon of mine. A few years ago, Hunter S.  Thompson unceremoniously blew his brains out and one of my favorite writers  -  regardless of his mediocre later output - was silenced forever.  Recently, Freddie Hubbard - a white-hot blowtorch of a trumpeter on tons of releases by the Jazz Messengers and VSOP, among others  -  passed away. And even worse, Ron Asheton - the incredible noise-making abuser of Fender Stratocasters who made The Stooges and Funhouse two of my all-time favorite LPs to aggravate my hearing to when I was growing up - died shortly after a recent heart attack.

Sometimes it just doesn't pay to have idols. 

Granted, I'm sure some dope out there is going to complain vociferously about how I would choose to lionize three different countercultural figures and not some lame choice of their own, especially since at least two of them (and HST would probably count as 1.5 all by himself) were hardcore drug abusers at one time or another. They would've said the same thing about Richard Pryor (another favorite of mine) as well, so screw 'em. People as mentally deranged as Pat Robertson, the Ayatollah Khomeini and Joseph Kony  -  the murderous freak who runs the Lords' Resistance Army in Uganda - have led far "cleaner" lives of supposed religious piety, and at least two of them have been directly responsible for murdering a slew of  innocent people. Give me the supposed degenerates any day of the week the likes of them.   

Many moons ago - actually, it was Reactor here in Chicago in October 2005 - I went out at bought a bottle of Austin Nichols' Wild Turkey 101 Proof to celebrate the life and passing of HST, and - unsurprisingly  - that bottle of Kentucky Bourbon made me and the friends I shared it with wince because of the a-yii-yii level kick.  It wasn't the first time I've ridden the Turkey,  but the fact that it stung like hell this time around was almost proof that Dr. Gonzo himself was having one serious practical joke on us for daring to drink his favorite and not have proper reverence for his memory. If my theory's correct, my ears will bleed the next time I hear Freddie's trumpet on "Green Dolphin Street" on Eric Dolphy's Outward Bound or the three fuzzed-out, snarling chords Ron plays at the beginning of "I Wanna Be Your Dog". Maybe I deserve it.

So Rest in Peace, all of you. And here's hoping that Khomeini's shade is being driven completely insane by having to hear "TV Eye" by the Stooges blasted over and over again somewhere in Hades*.

(*Actually, the thought of Khomeini ending up anywhere else beside 72 Virgins Land  - much less one dreamed up by Hellenic pagans, no less  - would nearly be enough of a rude shock to the miserable SOB. Nearly, but not quite.)           

Gaming, Shmaming

Local Fandom Question #1:  where are the Minions of Chaos and where is their web site?

Do they have a web site?

I mean, my club has a web site...sorta...

Witness the Promethean Gaming Cabal yahoogroup page and be overwhelmed, mortals!

(Okay, that was just a little over the top. But tireless self-promotion is the key to success, yadda yadda, yadda...)

"But I was a member of a club in college!" doesn't count

Local Fandom Question #2:

No local traditional SF clubs in Chicago, with the exception of ones directly involved in running cons such as Capricon (Phandemonium) or Windycon (ISFiC).

What to do, if anything?

(And "shaddup, Archfiend" doesn't count as a proper answer unless you're putting a bottle of a particularly good microbrew in my hand first as recompense for such insolence. You've been warned, you.)