Stairway to Campy
 The other day we headed down to a medical establishment and took some shots of the being currently growing inside TAARG. Note that I have added an eye to personalize our fetus, so that onlookers might not mistake his reticence for inhumanity.
He is due August 29.
We have not yet arrived at a name, though having only recently arrived at a gender we are confident that the name will come in time.
Marisol, the soon-to-be-former American Crib Imp (ACI), when asked what we should name her little brother, immediately dubbed him "CAMPY."
This is why we leave the naming of children to professionals and law firms that specialize in branding.
"That's a really stupid name, Marisol," we said behind her back.
For a little extra cash that we paid to some guy hanging around the Beverly Hills clinic where this photo was taken, we found that the tot had no chromosomal abnormalities, aside from ZOSOmy 4, a variation of the fourth chromosomal pair that indicates young Campy will like Led Zeppelin.Labels: tot
H.P. Lovecraft: Still rocking eldritch non-Euclidean geometries from beyond Time
 The writer H.P. Lovecraft died 70 years ago last Thursday (the Ides of March), becoming more famous posthumously than he was in life. This is tragic, because I know a lot of people who would have given him their spare bedroom and taken him out to lunch every day of the week, were he still alive, because that is the way Hollywood is.
His native Providence, by contrast, is cold and heartless; just look at its strip clubs.
Lovecraft, like his contemporary J.R.R. Tolkien, created an immense body of work about a vividly-realized world, using language removed from the time their books were written. Tolkien lived to see his fame, whereas Lovecraft's fans saved up to buy him a headstone 40 years after his death (the epitaph reads "I am Providence.")
Among my prized possessions is a memento from my friend Paul's wedding. For services rendered (it wasn't Prima Nocta, sadly) he gave me a Swiss Army Knife from Miskatonic University.
One of America's greatest art forms is the Jack Chick tract parody. Here is one detailing what to do when Cthulhu comes back:
Here is the showstopper from my play, the Lovecraft-inspired "The Evil Horror of Madness"
In the cold grey wastes of madness
In the putrid depths of time
I will study evil Beings
Until I go insane
Behold the sentient rhombus
Behold the lum’nous gas
Of all that is unwholesome
Until I go insane
I'm in Love with an Incomprehensibly Evil Being
It's allright
It's allright
I'm in Love with an Incomprehensibly Evil Being
It's all I need tonight, yeah
When the fires scorch the chimneys
When the maggots eat my brain
In the realm of undead children
Until I go insane
Behold the crumbling altars
Of elder gods and cruel
I will quaff the nasty goblet
Until I go insane
I'm in Love with an Incomprehensibly Evil Being
It's allright
It's allright
I'm in Love with an Incomprehensibly Evil Being
It's all I need tonight, yeah
 We do our best to remember H.P. Lovecraft around our house. Our daughter keeps Cthulhu as a pet, and her favorite doll is named Brown Jenkin (read about Brown Jenkin and "The Rats in the Walls" here thanks to public domain-loving Australia).
See also: H.P. Lovecraft (Wikipedia); The H.P. Lovecraft ArchiveLabels: geekery
Mark (Matthew, Luke, John) your calendars
 This morning I met a woman on the subway who called herself "The Prophet of L.A." and she had a message.
She stood at one end of the car and announced:
"On July 7 at 7 p.m. Jesus will appear in the skies. It will be the end of the world but He will help the world."
She then made her way down the car, repeating the message in Spanish and English.
Because I have an apocalyptic air about me, she stopped in front of me.
"People need to be ready for the message," she said to me, though she didn't look me in the eye.
"7 a.m. or p.m.?" I asked, because one is the seventh hour of the day and the other is the nineteenth. I mean, Jesus.
"On July 7 at 7 p.m. Jesus will appear in the skies. It will be the end of the world but He will help the world," she repeated.
I had reached Wilshire Boulevard. March 7. It was the third stop on the seventh car, true, but it was nine o'clock in the morning.
(Regardless, the escalators ran with blood.)
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This fire, set yesterday by two bottle rocket-igniting Illinois teenagers visiting the city to engage in crimes, came perilously close to my bank. Thinking quickly, I overdrafted all my accounts weeks ago.
