My Damn-Fool Search for Religion

I was raised an atheist. Then one day when I was fifteen, my kitten died in the dryer. It seemed unfair to me that such a tiny, loving creature would die meaninglessly. Thus began my quiet quest for divinity.

I began very cautiously. I was already aware that organized religion was repellent to me. One only needs to learn about a single crusade to discover that there is a down-side to large groups of grouchy people who think everybody else should think the same way.

It was when I was playing the last movement of Beethoven's 5th Symphony in the Saskatoon Symphony's viola section that I was touched with the divine. Call it a chemical reaction in my brain if you must. But it started as a tingle that spread from my shoulders and filled me with euphoria. I felt something tug my consciousness upward. I soared even as my body played tremelo in place. It was fucking amazing.

While my search for the divine had been based completely in wishful thinking up to this point, I finally had some sort of indication. It was a physiological reaction of some sort. But I was unclear as to whether it was caused by Jesus, Mithras, a chemical reaction or midichlorians. (It was several years later that I learned of the existence of midichlorians from Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. My midichlorian count is unusually high, you know). Whatever this feeling was, it was caused by music.

I decided to do some actual scholarly investigation on the world's religions to see what everybody had to say on the subject. Fruitlessly did I learn, fruitlessly did I wander. Did you know that the holy books and traditions of all the world's major religions are chock-full of useless information, contradictions and commandments now irrelevant to modern life? It's all "don't cut the hair above your ears" and Jesus getting mad at fig trees and this or that makes you unclean and "women, don't you contradict your husbands" and "Allah hates it when you hitch your camel like that, you know" and "when you die there's nothing: hurray!" and "when you die you float up to the top of the universe's skull and bounce around" and "welcome to heaven: here's your virgins".

I know what some of you are thinking. Organized religion has good aspects, it teaches morals, it has community and charity. Much of the music I was listening to after university had religious lyrical content which made me yearn for a religious community all my own. This is exactly what I was pondering when a girlfriend of mine invited me to Catholic services at Saint Thomas More chapel at the University of Saskatchewan. With some trepidation, I accepted.

Well, Saint Thomas More was everything I hoped it would be. It had (and has) a community of intelligent, enthusiastic worshipers. It has thought-provoking sermons. It has music and solemn traditions.

I desperately wanted to be a Catholic then. But I could not. Here's why:
1. The Old Testament is senseless and insane.
2. The New Testament was written from decades to over a hundred years after Jesus died. His lessons were preserved (mostly) through oral tradition, which is like a decade-long game of telephone in which Jesus preached something like "be nice to everybody" and we heard "purple-monkey dishwasher". Then several hundred years later, a bunch of people Jesus never met picked through everything and removed anything they didn't like.
3. Even assuming everything Jesus said was accurately recorded in the Bible, the Catholic Church is a huge, bloated, worldly organization which has amassed immense wealth, all the while espousing the beliefs of a homeless guy who asked us to live poor.
4. A two-second glance at the history of the Catholic Church - with its crusades, antipopes, illegitimate children, schisms, wars of conquest, child abuse cover-ups and Nazi lovin' popes - confirms that it would be an agent of pure evil if it were not alloyed with hypocrisy.
5. As Christianity spread throughout the world in its infancy, it appropriated all sorts of unwholesome gods and traditions from pagans and turned them into saints and holidays. Old-Testament God does not approve.
6. Saint Thomas More chapel's worshipers are not actually Catholic. I could have gone through that crowd and asked people if they thought contraception was evil and homosexuality is a sin. The answers I would have gotten, from the priests included, would vary significantly from what the Pope thinks. You get different answers from Catholics in Scandinavia, Africa or South America. Back in the day, this was called Heresy. But now it's called, "believe whatever you want as long as you give us money on Sunday."
7. And most of all, the Mystery of Faith is anti-intellectual. How does Jesus' blood banish original sin? The answer is: nobody knows, don't think about it. Shut off your mind and accept it.

I apologize if I have upset any readers. I strongly considered going back and deleting that last section. It's mean. But they are my reasons for not being a Catholic. By listing them, I don't mean to challenge your faith or convert you. It's not about you.

They almost won me, those Catholics. When I list my complaints, it is with deep anger from betrayal. Their community enchanted me and made me forget that Catholicism is a teetering tower built on a delusion, built on a sham, built on a lie with a solid foundation of myth. Somewhere under that dark tower is buried truth, but to unearth it would topple the whole structure.

I pick on Catholics, but honestly every religion I've investigated is guilty. Where people congregate and organize, power appears. Power is the great corrupter and turns any religious bastion into a fountain of wickedness that spews lies and guilt into the world.

As I again found myself metaphysically adrift in a leaky boat of my own devising, a simple phrase illuminated my dark world like a lighthouse. "King Kong died for your Sins". It's from a document called the Principia Discordia, one of the holy books of Discordianism, a poorly-known religion created in the 1950s based on worship of the Greek goddess Eris, appropriated as a goddess of change and chaos. It has been called either a joke masquerading as a religion or a religion masquerading as a joke.

Remember: KING KONG died for your Sins. It was the first phrase I read from Principia Discordia and it made me laugh out loud. As such, it is the only sentence from a religious tract that has motivated me to do anything. Honestly, I was never able to get my head around what Jesus dying has to do with original sin, so honestly, King Kong makes about as much sense. The Principia Discordia contains many such laughs and a philosophy that made me think seriously about the role of chaos and discord in my life. It doesn't ask me to do anything I don't want to do.

Though I had first read it a decade earlier, I began to seriously think about Discordianism as my religion. Eris-worship does not ask me to surrender my mind, does not ask me to speak to her through a priest who leeches money from me, does not make me feel bad about myself and helps me accept change when it occurs in my life. I decided to investigate further.

I joined an online Discordian forum in 2006, expecting to have philosophical discussions with good-natured and inquiring fellows such as myself. What I discovered appalled me. Even on this simple website which should have been fun incarnate, rigid power structures existed. The most avid users had formed a clique and expected new users to undergo a hazing ritual. Rather than engage me philosophical discussion, the clique argued with me using name-calling and concluded their posts with pornographic images that they supposed were funny.

I'm sure that from their perspective, their antics were hilarious. But to me, they were cruel and snobby. The lesson I've learned from all this is that I will never find a community of people to share my worship. Even Discordians, when they congregate, become insular and intolerant. It doesn't matter if your religious organization operates from St. Peter's square, a single mosque or even an insignificant internet forum. Power crystalizes like a kidney stone, halts divine flow in the holy urinary tract and causes significant pain.

It's been five years since I learned this hard lesson. Now I have but one simple religious observance. As commanded in the Discordian Pentabarf, I partake of no hot dog buns. But every Friday at the Cook household is now Hot Dog Day, when I joyously partake of a hot dog as also commanded by the Pentabarf. By doing so, I remonstrate against Judaism and Islam (no Pork), Hindus (no beef), Catholics, (no meat on Friday), Buddhists (no meat of animals) and Discordians (no hot dog buns). But if I miss Hot Dog Day, it's no big deal. As a self-declared Discordian Pope, I can completely rework the Discordian church as I see fit. While I don't necessarily believe there's a crazy lady named Eris running the show, I am at least satisfied that if she exists she's not mad at me for doubting her.

And here's the point in all of this. The Divine is not something reserved for certain places or persons. As individuals, I believe we all have the power to commune with the Divine, whatever you believe it is. We need not go anywhere or ask permission from anybody, we need not consult a priest or give money to anybody, we need not worry about what the community thinks. If you think something holy is out there, you need only pick up a pen, a paintbrush, a musical instrument, or simply clear your throat or head. While there is nothing wrong with discussing religion with others to discover your truth, I say to you that those who ask you to surrender your will, your intellect or your money to them on God's behalf are scoundrels. You can be your own church.

For those of you interested in not taking religion so goddamned seriously all the time, there are a number of religions other than Discordianism available for investigation. Check out Zen, for instance. It's classic. Christianity is to Judaisim as The Church of the SubGenius is to Discordianism: it's not exactly to my taste, but sequels are usually worse than the original. And of course, whenever fundamentalist Christians attempt to impose creationism on the public school system, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster also desires its due.

Remember, religion is supposed to make you happy, right? As humans, we are never as happy as when we are laughing.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com

Review of "Insomnia" by Stephen King

Insomnia is a novel by Stephen King, one of many. King is one of the most successful novelists in history. He is maligned as a "popular writer" by literature-jerks. Yet despite their efforts, his books sell and sell and sell and get adapted for the screen and sell some more.

I also malign him, but for different reasons. I always enjoy the beginnings of his novels. I always get an inspired hope that this is going to be a great book. Then, suddenly, he drops the writerly ball. Either the scary thing turns out to be a dumb idea or the book wanders and meanders. His endings can be mindblowingly bad.

And yet I still keep reading. As each story ends, I emerge from it like a starved World War One soldier from a trench, my mind scarred and traumatized, the words "Never Again" wheezing from my quivering lips. But then I pick up another one, hoping that maybe, just maybe, this book will be everything the beginning promises.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? Because his prose is great. His dialogue is great. His setups are great. When he does it right, his monsters are frightening in unique ways. He is creepy like no other writer.

Okay. I got distracted there. This is supposed to be a review of Insomnia, not an anti-Stephen King rant. Insomnia is fantastically written, filled with superb dialogue. His protagonist, Ralph, is a wonderful character: old fashioned and quietly masculine in a way that begs the reader's sympathy. The suspense is wonderful. However, the supernatural world into which Ralph ascends isn't scary, nor really that interesting to me.
3 references to The Dark Tower and It out of 5

You know what else bugs me about Stephen King? I get the sense that he's making it up as he goes along. Yes, all writers do this. I could just have my head up my ass on this one, but I detect that he dislikes thinking about story structure, so he doesn't do it. He thinks of cool ideas, imagines awesome ways to get them rolling and then he starts writing without knowing how it's going to end. It would certainly explain why he rambles and his endings often lack lustre.

Also, he's a successful writer and I'm not. How dare he?

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/

Sex in Canada

...and the title of this blog post alone will give it more hits than any other I've written so far.

I recently watched a Canadian movie by the name of "Young People Fucking". Mini-review: it was hilarious, candid and touching at the same time. Four couples and one mismatched threesome have sex in five separate storylines. It's like a romantic comedy without the hokeyness or the predictability. The dialogue is fantastic. It's a wonderful movie for couples to watch, provided feigned sex and unclothed boobs don't upset you.
4 1/2 awkward interruptions out of 5

A few years ago, Young People Fucking was at the centre of a Canadian controversy. The Conservative Government was set to pass a tax bill by the name of Bill C-10. Buried deep in this document was a section saying that if the government decided that a Canadian-made movie was "contrary to public policy", they could retroactively yank its tax credits. Canadian artists and filmmakers, after the bill was passed, noticed the clause and rallied the troops. The artists (correctly) pointed out that the vague wording would make filmmaking more risky, therefore less-likely to be funded by banks, therefore less-likely to be financed, and therefore less-likely to be filmed. Obviously films of a certain subject matter, as in ones involving sex, are riskier than others. The word "censorship" was touted, a stink was raised and then the issue just kinda faded out. Did the bill get defeated or something?

Anyway, Young People Fucking became the target of the pro-censorship crowd, eager to make this film an example of the kind of pornographic filth that Canada ought not to support. It was an easy target because of its title. But, as is always the case with conservative censorship scandals, the pro-censorship crowd obviously didn't go to the theatre to watch the film and back their claims. If they had, they would have seen how the show was about relationships and communication.

One of the over-arching messages of Young People Fucking seems to be that communication is poor or absent in each of the trysts. If the people involved had engaged in truly open, honest dialogue before they hopped into bed, the sexual experience would be much more rewarding and less awkward.

What a useful moral! We Canadians can be a frigid people when it comes to sex. We possess the urge to hide our sexuality, to repress public displays of affection, to hide our nakedness, and most importantly, secret our feelings. The most conservative amongst us believe that sex is for procreative purposes only, and these people have somehow managed to convince society that sex is bad, naughty and not-to-be-discussed.

And yet surprise babies keep appearing. Unmarried couples retire to shared beds and do it. Half-naked women sing banal songs and advertise products to us. One in every four workers accesses a porn site on the job every day, and even more porn is accessed from the privacy of Canadian homes. The efforts of morally-decent folk to the contrary, sex for social and pleasure purposes is here to stay.

Why do religious people and their prudish allies hate non-procreative sex and the human body? What is the societal consequence that these people fear will happen when their gay neighbors get married and do each other up the poop-chute? What disastrous THING will occur when mothers can freely whip out their tits to feed their hungry babies in public? What cataclysmic event is coming as the result of the internet porn industry?

Honestly, it sure beats me. I'd like to think that if I was a Judeo-Christian religious man, my faith would be strong enough to survive any pornographic assault. But as far as I can tell, sex is viewed as a temptation by these people. The love of Jesus is not always enough to sustain them and sometimes they want to do naughty things. They feel that open displays of sex and nudity will call them to a life of shame and drag them to hell.

Fair enough. But that's not my problem. I'm not religious in that way. Society's mollycoddling regarding sex damaged me when I was growing up and, honestly, I'm still recovering from it. Sex still embarrasses me when I wish it wouldn't. My urge to hide my sexuality still results in misunderstandings, hurt feelings and arguments. It's not my parents' fault. They did their best. If I had to grow up all over again, I think I'd rather do it in a nudist colony than the public school system so that sex wouldn't be such a big goddamn deal.

Canada's absurd obsession and fear of sex is hurting us. The only answer is open, honest dialogue regarding sex between all of us. But that won't happen anytime soon. If all Canadians spoke candidly and truthfully about sex with each other, the prudes would come to the alarming realization that porn, premarital sex, prostitution, homosexuality and adolescent sex are an unchangeable reality of humankind, that indulging in harmless perversions, fantasies and wanking doesn't make you a bad person, and the sexual tastes of other people do not affect the ability of religious people to get into heaven.

Let's take porn as an example. You discover that the people next door filmed a porno flick in their basement and people worldwide are watching it. How does this affect you? It doesn't. It's their business, their everlasting souls and their bodies. They're not going to tunnel into your house and film down there, nor will they force you to have sex with a stranger. The world goes on and if you're religious, Jesus still loves you.

I'll take it a step further. Suppose you discover that a man down the road paid the pretty Ice Cream clerk to have sex. Is your family any closer to hell? Nope. Did he pay your wife to sleep with him? Nope. So who cares? And furthermore, why was their tryst an arrest-worthy crime?

Much of the time, the prudes swell their audience when play the "protect the children" card. Yes, I agree. Children need to be protected. This means stopping predatory pedophiles, pimps and child pornographers from exploiting your child. Kidnapping, sexual assault and fraud are all arrest-worthy crimes.

But when the censors ask us to "think of the children", they seem to be forgetting that, as adults, it is our responsibility not only to protect children, but to teach and nurture them. Sheltering them from sexual information, particularly when they hit puberty, is not the answer. When puberty arrives, children are hit with powerful instincts to have sex, and some will do it no matter how much they have been sheltered.

Consider this: you're watching a movie with your nine-year-old son, Junior. Then suddenly the scrawny heroine whips her top off and starts kissing the hero. Many parents would cover Junior's eyes. But why? He's too young to have sex. He can't even understand why sex is appealing. What harm are those too-perfect boobs causing him? He's not going to have nightmares about boobs stalking him in the forest. Are you protecting him for his own sake, or are you just concerned that if Junior watches the scene, he'll ask a question that makes YOU uncomfortable, like, "Why are those people doing that?" And furthermore, why will it hurt him for you to explain it? His head will not explode, nor will yours. He's going to find out eventually and it might as well be you that prepares him. Wouldn't you rather he found out from open, honest dialogue than from tittering rumours whispered amongst classmates?

I remember when I was a high school student, the Catholic school up the road had the highest teen pregnancy rate of any school in the city. Coincidence? No. This was back in the days when the prudes had convinced the Catholic school board that sex education was a bad idea. Why on earth would you deprive teenagers, once they become capable of having sex, with valuable information about their sexuality? They need to know about contraception and sexually transmitted diseases. Ultimately, as a parent, your child's decision to have sex is not yours. It's theirs. When they have the opportunity to have sex, if they have bad or faulty information, they will make equally bad choices.

I say these things as a new father. I know that much of the urge to protect children comes from a parental desire to keep their offspring innocent. When you raise a child from a baby, it's hard to see them grow up. But grow up they will. It's hard to believe that my little baby will be a woman someday. Honestly, I can't wait. As she becomes a toddler, a little girl, a big girl, a teenager and a young adult, I intend to help and inform her in every way I possibly can. If that means that I'm going to have to weather several uncomfortable conversations, I'm prepared. I will do my best to see that she does not join the ranks of the repressed.

So, dear Conservatives, mollycoddlers and censors: Canada is, or should be, a land of free speech. That means occasionally putting up with opinions, stories and art that you don't like. That includes stuff that's too violent, too sexy, too stupid, too smart and too gay for you. By all means create ratings systems and classifications that tell parents what their children will see in their entertainment. That's useful. Just never tell me what my kids shouldn't see.

If you inhibit entertainment so it fits your mold, you will inhibit open, honest dialogue. There are plenty countries of out there where the government stands for moral decency at the expense of free speech, and do you know what? They all suck.

Even Lot managed to raise a peaceful, God-loving family. That includes two daughters who stayed chaste, and they lived in Gomorrah of all places. If he can do it, so can you. In the meantime, quit trying to impose your primitive, early-agricultural religion on me and my family.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/

Review of "The Blue World" by Jack Vance

In early December I was going a bit crazy. I was writing and doing chores like a maniac. When I sat down to play video games, I wasn't enjoying it. Actually, nothing seemed to be enjoyable. My unborn baby had reached full-term and it was all I could think about. I voiced these concerns to my wife and she diagnosed the problem as stress. She insisted that I take some time off. After getting over the shock of this suggestion I said to her, "I would really like to read some science fiction from the 70s. That is exactly what will make me feel better."

She appeared moments later with "The Blue World" by Jack Vance. It was exactly what I was looking for. Sure, it was first published in 1966, but I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that there was a guy with big 70's fantasy muscles on the cover that would make Boris Vallejo proud. I was equally happy when I discovered that the material inside was of good quality. It is a short novel, perfect for reading over the course of a weekend off.

The story takes place on an ocean world. The humans of Blue World live with minimal technology on what are essentially giant lily pads. Food is abundant and the people have few cares. The only nuisance is that a giant, armoured, aquatic, semi-intelligent squid-ant thingy (a Kragen) is extorting them. Sure, he keeps their colony safe from other Kragen, but he also takes increasing amounts of their food to support his growing size. King Kragen is also worshipped as a god by many followers, particularly the men who can apparently communicate with it.

The hero, Sklar Hast, a communications tower operator, has a rotten day at work and returns to his lagoon to see a small Kragen snacking from the community food supply. His "god" is nowhere to be seen and Sklar decides to break the commandment that only King Kragen may harm another Kragen. This brings him into conflict with King Kragen itself. His decision sparks fear, persecution, societal schism and eventially war.

I'm not sure if the book could be considered to be allegorical, but the overarching theme seems to be that religious conservatism will always ignorantly attack novelty and free thought. Which team wins? You'll have to read the book to find out. All I'll say is that it isn't much of a fight. The team that wins steamrolls the other in every engagement. That's a bit of a problem with the narrative, actually. One team always seems to be really tough but is inevitably thrashed. It's a bit like an old Warner Brother's cartoon, really. Eventually you realize that Tweety Bird wins every time, despite Silvester's claws, wiles and plots, because Tweety has fate and absurd destiny on his side. Once you realize this, Tweety ceases to be an underdog and one starts to pity Silvester.

The book handles its exposition excellently. With a society so vastly different from our own, the tempation exists to front-end a novel with explanitory information. However, Vance manages to distribute only as much information as is necessary to understand the plot at each moment in the story. At no point was I confused about what was happening, nor was I bored with too much information. Huzzah! Pay attention, Terry Pratchett.

The book was everything I hoped it would be. My weekend was saved, I stopped worrying so much about being a dad, I drank some booze and life was good.
4 dopey priests out of 5

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/

Legend-haunted Saskatchewan

I was once riding a bus from Saskatoon to Edmonton. In my lap was a book of short stories inspired by The Shadow Over Innsmouth, by H.P. Lovecraft. After reading a particularly good one, I stared out the window at the summertime fields, imagining the rotting seaport of Innsmouth with its shuffling denizens. I imagined Lovecraft's Massachusetts: an ancient land with malicious things lurking in lonely places, a land where civilization is clapboarded onto a wild landscape and unimaginable creatures writhe at its edges. Here's a nice one of Innsmouth taken from darkmartin.net.

It is a compelling setting, one which easily lends itself to horror. Other writers have their own horror settings. Stephen King has his Maine. The early horror writers had scores of tumble-down European castles, mansions and abbeys for their ghosts to populate, settings which are now old-hat. But what about my home province, Saskatchewan?

This I pondered as the scenery whizzed past. I tried to see why Saskatchewan was scary. I imagined dark things lurking under the trees, creatures hiding in the fields, strangers gone missing, unspeakable acts committed in anonymity amongst the farmhouses.

I couldn't. All I could see was beauty. Everything was pleasant, canola was blooming, pollen was in the air, the sky was blue and golden. Outside, I knew a warm wind was tickling the aspens and if you strolled one of the dusty grid roads, curious people would wave from their trucks as they drove past. This land is inherently friendly.

Since then, I've been on a mission to find the scary in my province and mostly been frustrated. The scary is minimal or hackneyed. Nobody needs another Indian-burial-ground-ghost or squeal-like-a-pig-hillbilly troubling their literature. There are no abandoned castles here.

So after several years, here's what I've come up with. Rather than explain it to you in rant form, I'll use flash fiction. In no particular order, this is why Saskatchwan is scary:

1.
The orange farm light in the distance didn't seem to be getting any bigger. Daniel trudged along the bleak road. No moon lit his way, but the snow reflected cold starlight. The stars blazed innummerable and white above him. Cold wind blasted from them and stole his breath.

Daniel turned to shelter his bare face from the gust. The wind rattled the leafless poplars at the roadside and hissed in the snow. It leaked through his parka and chilled his legs under his jeans. He found his breath and stared to the indescernable horizon. He could no longer see his Toyota.

The wind passed over the wood and vanished onto the prairie, leaving figid silence. It blew still, but in a deadly whisper. The snow scrunched under his boots. In the dark, where his car should be, something black on the road moved.

He shut his eyes and spun back toward the farm light. He shielded his face, muttering, "I didn't see anything." But when he heard the echo of his snowy boots from the woods, the trees resounded another set of footfalls.
---
2.
The old wood creaked under Greta's step as her eyes adjusted. She was on a dance floor speckled with mouse droppings. An old stage loomed before her. Light spilling through broken panes revealed a pile of wheat husks at the far end of the hall where some farmer had stored grain. A podium was toppled against a dusty upright piano.

Here, decades ago, her great grandfather had tuned his violin. Her grandmother sat at the piano and her great aunt strummed a guitar in one of these overturned chairs. Where she stood, a vanished community had waltzed and jigged. It was a place of warmth and laughter.

The hall was not warm now. It was damp and musty. The only music was sung by distant meadow larks.

The roof creaked and settled in the prairie breeze. Greta rubbed her bare arms, flattening goose pimples. She felt like an intruder. She wanted to leave, but did not.

Instead, curiosity drew her to the piano. She lifted the lid from the keys. Real ivory shone in the dim. With a thumb, she played middle C. Her eyes widened. The note was in tune. Her fingers traced the first melody that came to mind, "The Blue Danube", each note well-tempered. She stopped when she felt something clammy clap on her shoulder.

A hollow voice asked, "Would you like to dance?"
---
3.
It wanders into town at night. When I first saw it in my headlights, I thought it was a bear. But giant eyes, round as the full moon, reflected back at me. It shuffled into the ditch and vanished into the endless forest.

When I see it, it makes no sound. It travels from house to house, wanders the landfill, opens sheds and outhouses and just looks. It rummages through piles of trash by the road to the airport and watches children on the playground swing set if they stay after dark.

It haunts certain people the most. It follows Wendy Bear every night, loping just beyond her vision as she staggers home from the hotel, drunk. It peeps in the Delorme's trailer window and watches Norman beat his wife. When I found that baby skeleton lying in the woods, it was crouched on a mound of moss in a nearby strand of jackpine.

I don't know if anybody else can see it. If they can, they don't tell anybody. Nobody tells anybody anything here. They just live with it.

I would leave town if I could, but I don't have the money. I never will. And every night as I light my glass pipe in the dark, I see the lighter's flame shining in its round eyes as it stares through my window.
---
That's what I've come up with. I'm sure this is not an exhaustive list. Dear readers, what do you find scary about Saskatchewan? I invite you to share. Relate a tale, post some flash fiction, or give me a mini-essay. Leave it in a comment, e-mail me or Facebook me. If I get at least three responses, I'll make a separate post and publish it here. Fire up your creative brains and let's hear it. Hokay? Hokay.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com

One year of Amusement and Mummy-Terrors

It has been a month since I posted here. I had a good reason, honest. I have a new baby daughter, Kara Eris Cook. Hurrah! The leadup to her birth and its aftermath have occupied me, but now I must impose some normalcy upon my life. That means writing again, tired though I am. Incidentally, I find fatherhood very agreeable. Life is better.

My friends, it has been almost a year since I started writing on this blog. What with my blog's anniversary and new fatherhood, this is a time of reflection. This post is going to be the equivalent of one of those cheapass sitcom clip-shows.

God bless Blogger's stats page. I love looking at it to see what people are doing on my blog and what search engines are leading to it. Perhaps this could be called navel-gazing, but I prefer to think of it as introspection.

Since last year, We Are Amused has racked up rougly 4600 page views, mostly from the United States, then Canada, then the UK. I sold out and signed up for Adsense in April and so far, my labours have wrought a whopping dividend of 89 cents. I've written 38 posts full of insightful reviews, unforgettable commentary, and of course, foul language. Five stars.

My blog is the world's source for this picture, which appeared in my post The Disaster that is Art: Part II. It's drawn a huge number of clicks to my site. Yes, amongst all this painstaking, mind-blowing intellectual poetry, the greatest draw to my site is an image of two 80's wrestlers. I admit it. It bugs me.

Another popular post is Ten Video Game Cliches that must be sent to Hell. I've revised it since it was originally published. So pack your pipe, boil some tea, relax by the fire, and adjust your reading glasses. Read it again, chuckle warmly at the delicious bon mots and when you're finished, exclaim, "How marvelous! I've shit myself laughing!"

In my Maiden Post I expressed anxiety that I would either neglect my blog or use it as an excuse to avoid writing that might actually make me money. I'm happy to say that neither of those fears has materialized. I love We Are Amused as a place to spout my bullshit. Writing here is the highlight of my week. It keeps me creative when my main projects are blocked and reminds me why I love writing.

So, for all of you who make this site a regular stop, thank you for reading. Comment often and let me know that you like what you read here. Your kind attention contributes to my mental health and keeps me from reaching for the shotgun. With your support in 2011, I'll make We Are Amused another non-stop action-packed thrill-ride that will leave you breathless.

http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/

Screenplay Breakthrough at Last!

I was planning on writing a post entitled "The Crime Against Robot Jox", about how the script for the film Robot Jox is actually pretty good once you remove the influence of director Stuart Gordon. However, I find that I am actually unable to do my research and unwilling to write. For once, my urge to write my screenplay is overpowering!

I have finished the beat-by-beat outline and I am in the extremely fun stage of actually writing in screenplay format. I am satisfied with the story and all that remains is to fill in the details that I've been longing to write. It is very freeing to be able to just write by my own guideline and know that everything is going to be okay, all the big story problems are already solved and nothing is going to confound me until I finish.

It's set in my Necromantic States of America universe in the year 1992, about a necromancer's sheltered daughter who is kidnapped by rebels and begins to learn the truth about her world. I'm looking forward to seeing what exactly it looks like when I'm finished this stage.

Gotta go. Writing now.

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