What I'm Up To These Days

So I've been making all these vague references to "real life" issues, cryptic allusions to off-internet concerns. Well, I think it's time for me to explain just what I want to do with my life.

The Dweller in the Nasal Cavity

Some might say, sure, Al, everyone gets the cold, it's no big deal. And I'd agree. But this... this is no mere cold. It may have all the symptoms of the common virus, and it feels like it. But I know better: I know that there is something which has taken up residence in my head, and it means to torment and despoil my temperament.

Decription? One might as well ask to paint a picture of "irritation," or "subtle," or "mischief." It does not dwell in our paltry human dimensions, but in a veil between worlds, where it can exude its dripping malfeasance without physically occupying room in my brain: that makes it safe from prying foreceps and particularly violent sneezes. All the while wheezing and squeaking with unspeakable glee at the havoc It is causing.

But fear not: even as I type with my nose simultaneously blocked and running, even as a devilishly faint but maddening tickle in my throat conspires to elicit a coughing fit, even as my eyes stare bloodshot at the world, my forces are marshalling. Around the Lymph Node fortresses great armies are gathering. The fabled White Blood Cells, holy orders of warriors dedicated to driving out the heathen bacteria, the heretical toxin, and the insidiuous virues, have summoned the Immune System: the cunning Lymphocytes detect their foe, and the relentless Phagocytes consume and destroy them. Then a host which seems to encompass the membrane: the serried ranks of dendritic cells, the platelet clans, the bacterial foederati, the wild tribes of antibodies. Soon they shall march upwards to the battle, steel in hand, to expel the invaders...

(This extrapolation of the immune system brought to you by 8-year-old Aly, though by no means the only one) In other words, I have a cold, I'll get back to you, I really think someone could make a fun Sword-and-Sorcery story using the immune system as a setting. Educational and fun!

In lieu of new posts, some links

Once again, I apologise for the lack of activity on the blog. Essentially, I've been getting ready for a big project not related to Howard. I've been reticent in posting "real life" issues on the blog, since nobody's interested in that sort of thing, but I figure I might as well let you all know I'm still chugging along.

I don't think I realised just how ambitious "80 Years of Conan" really was. I'm only two stories in, and I'm in over my head: if I'm like this for "The Frost-Giant's Daughter," how on earth could I manage such meaty courses as "Beyond the Black River" or "The Tower of the Elephant," let alone the mighty "Hour of the Dragon"? So I'm going to scale it back a bit after this. Future instalments will probably not see quite as much detail as in the final two parts of TF-GD (if they aren't split further!), but will be more like starting points of discussion. Asking the questions without necessarily answering them, if you will. I'll endeavour to make them worthwhile reading, all the same. In the meantime, I offer a few links of interest.

First, I'll give some props to my literary colleague Ross Leonard, whose comic Maximum Alan (the grand saga of Alan Moore battling legions of his alternate universe counterparts, of course) was illustrated by my artistic colleague Brian Rankin. They were barely beaten out by another acquaintance's book, Gordon McLean's No More Heroes, for the top prize at the Scottish Independent Comic Book Awards. I thought it would be expedient of me to mention them since I'm hoping to work with these fine fellows in the future.

Keith Taylor's back in action with the second part of "If Wishes Were Horses." Part one can be found here. Anyone who's been over at The Cimmerian knows that the good Mr Taylor was a fellow blogger, and so it won't surprise anyone that I must admit that fact in any discussion of his fiction. Full disclosure, and all that. Nonetheless, almost despite my appreciation of his Howard scholarship, I can't recommend his fiction highly enough. A number of Howard fans and scholars have also entered the literary field, befitting aficionados of the great yarn-spinner, but that doesn't necessarily mean that their works are my cup of tea. Keith Taylor, dear readers, very much is my cup of tea. It took me a while to track down a copy of his Bard series, but they were well worth the effort, and I think the same could be said for yourselves.

"Gudrun Blackhair has returned."

Men said it all down both sides of the Narrow Sea. The Jutes of Kent said it with violent curses, and looked to their spears and their new king. When he heard the news he did not smile again for a full day.

Watchers on the white cliffs saw a ship pass by, a long swift ship bearing the emblem of a raven with spread wings on its crimson sail. Blackhair was flaunting. It was for show, that sail. She had two plain gray-green ones for business, but it was not in her mind to sneak home. Let them all know!

 - Prologue, Bard III - The Wild Sea

Being your usual stereotypical Scot, I eat stuff like this like salted porridge.

Although the Bard books are criminally out of print, Keith has returned to the realm of fiction with Servant of the Jackal God. Quite a change of pace from post-Roman Britain, but I don't doubt Mr Taylor's usual historical rigour would let up when his scribing hand turns to Egypt.

In a final tiny bit of REH-related news, I noticed that Gary Amdahl lists Conan the Barbarian among his literary pillars:

THE PILLARS OF ADOLESCENCE:
Conan the Barbarian
Harlan Ellison’s I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream
Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood
Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment

Would've been nice to mention Howard's name, and while I instinctively rankled at putting Conan in the "adolescent" category, it's alongside the works of Capote, Ellison and blasted Dostoevsky. How could I possibly fault REH's proxy inclusion among such individuals?

America, Och Aye

To Whomsoever finds this blog post,

Even though I’d been to this strange, otherworldly place before, the land has a strange habit of surprising you. Just as you think you’ve accounted for the climate, the wildlife, the flora and the residents, something you simply didn’t expect can throw you for a loop. I’ve been here for a few days, a week, I can’t tell with these strange days where the sun is shining and nary a drop of rain nor a tuft of cloud to offer shelter from its well-meaning but often destructive gaze. For two or three days I had internet access, but even that has confounded me. I’ve kept myself sane by working and reading,* and keeping myself cool and hydrated. Considering I had once been hospitalised for dehydration back home in Scotland, this is something of a concern.

Still, I managed being torn away from the beloved internet. After all, I managed for most of my childhood: 8-year-old Aly wouldn’t see the problem, and probably marvel at the tiny notebook computer I’m using. Indeed, it’s given me a chance to appreciate where I am more, and the things the locals take as normal which utterly fascinate me.

A message!

First, a sincere apology for the lack of updates.  A series of events behind-the-scenes have been mounting, particularly one situation which started in August (not what you think) but didn't really escalate until a few months ago.  It's a deeply personal family matter, so I won't get all morose or maudlin, but suffice to say I've been in a somewhat erratic and unpleasant state of mind.  I had hoped to keep this off the blog, but it spilled out in some unpredictable ways: again, I can only apologise.
Secondly, and more pleasantly, I have a renewed sense of purpose.  This is going to be the final post I make regarding the film for the foreseeable future.  I've said before that I felt a tremendous sense of futility when the film came out: all that time analysing screen captures, set photos, cast documents, script pages and magazine interviews.  Thousands of words of analysis and conjecture based on every morsel of detail I could get.  I must've written something like a hundred thousand words at the end of it all.  All for a film that I personally considered barely a Conan film at all.

I was distraught. Actually, it was worse than that: I felt destroyed. I felt like I had wasted over a year of my time on something that didn't deserve all that effort.  Look at all the things that fell by the wayside: my look at Almuric, the Hyborian Age Gazetteers, Barbarians of Middle-Earth, Frazetta & Howard, the Newcomer's Guide - how much more work could I have done in those series?  The Encyclopedia didn't suffer as badly since I was determined to work bit by bit on that every spare moment, but I certainly would've spent more time on it without the film.  All those posts, articles, essays, drawings and projects took a back seat to The Wrath of Zym.

If I found the film good enough on its own merits, that may have helped; if it was at least a box office success, I could take solace in the fact that many more potential Howard fans may use it as a gateway.  But it was a disaster critically and commercially.  It didn't matter that Howard fans and scholars whose opinions I respected enjoyed it, found it an enjoyable enough film, even found it better than the 1982 film - I didn't enjoy it.  I didn't see what they're seeing.  For all the good it did in being freer from the 1982 film's influence than the series or films before it, and for Jason Momoa being closer to Howard's creation than Arnold could ever be, I couldn't help but think: just how many people are going to go out and buy a Howard collection?

It may be that I'm being unfair on the film. The filmmakers seemed to be happy enough with the product despite the problems in the production.  I don't doubt that they thought they were making the best film they could.  Yet, well, the numbers speak for themselves.  If there's anything good I can glean from the experience, it's the knowledge that I felt I did my best.  I sought to mention or bring up Robert E. Howard as often as possible, explaining the divergences and similarities to his work, and bringing up all the books and essays I could.  I met a lot of new Howard and Conan fans, and I feel I must've done some good being one of the few blogs reporting on the film from a different point of view from the Remake Brigade.

But, as they say, onwards and upwards.  There isn't any upcoming news apart from the Blu-Ray/DVD/Digital release.  If a sequel's coming out, it won't be for a long time - and I honestly don't know if I'll be covering it if it does.  Solomon Kane fooled me once.  Conan fooled me twice.  I have serious concerns about Kull and Bran Mak Morn (if the latter's still coming).  And I'm absolutely terrified by what Christophe Gans might have in store for Sword Woman.  I just don't think I could muster the enthusiasm, knowing that any or all of those films could be at best as "good" as Solomon Kane, and at worst as bad as Conan.

But that's in the future.  For now, I have more time to dedicate to the Encyclopaedia, and I'm going to use the blog as the central news network: previews, sketches, queries, the works.  I may do cross-posts on other sites to maximise saturation and get the most possible feedback.  Since I'm kicking the Encyclopedia into overdrive, however, this means that the Blog may not be updated as often: I'll endeavour to keep you all informed, but if you don't see new posts for long stretches, know that this is because I'm hard at work on the Encyclopedia behind the scenes.

I may be knocked for six, but I'm not licked yet.  Conan didn't kill me, and it isn't going to kill the Encyclopaedia.

Good Scot/Bad Scot: Being in America

I figure I might as well give my thoughts on what I hate and love about America through the medium of flip-flopping Scotsman.  Now, some of these are only problems if you're a foreigner in a strange country: I can't imagine many Americans feeling the same, though hopefully they sympathize.  In addition, a lot of the Bad Scot entries aren't problems per se, more like culture clashes that the belligerent Scot in me treats as monstrous inconviniences (as is the way of the belligerent Scot).  Onward!

Day 365...

To Whomever finds this message...

It has been a year to the day since I was trapped in this strange, threatening place.  I cannot easily describe it, for it changes on a whim: some days it's a desert island, then after a night's sleep, it seems to transform into the surface of the moon. No rhyme or reason, no pattern, no predictions.  I could spend a day on the top of a freezing mountain, or weeks in a lightless subterranean cavern.  Most mysterious of all, I always find resources and supplies roughly nearby: whether they were left here by some predecessor, or placed here by whatever nameless presence is keeping me here, I cannot say.

Two hundred and thirty mission logs have been sent in whatever vessel I hope will reach civilization.  Since then, many things have occurred: I've been in contact with authors, journalists, artists and scholars; I've taken the banner of Howardom all across the internet; I've conversed with a little community of like minds.  On occasion, I've found that I can interact with the outside world, yet I suspect my messages are being tampered with, for in none of the responses do my contacts address my situation.  Something doesn't want the world to know I am here - but they will let people know I exist.  Why?

Currently, the place has the form of a jungle.  There is something in the bushes.  Big.  No telling what's lurking out there.  Better check it out...

---

So it's been a year to the day that The Blog That Time Forgot went online.  It's been great fun, and I'm immensely appreciative of everyone who's commented, read, linked or lurked here.

I think it's about time the place got a little decoration: I'll be overhauling the site over the next week.  It won't be too different, I hope, but it'll be nicer to look at.

Once again, thanks to everyone!

"click here for the scan you computer"

Despite being overly cautious (obviously not cautious enough) I seem to have fallen prey to that heinous Conficker scam.  This iteration of the detestable worm is called AV Live.  I'm currently working from another computer, but it drives me insane nonetheless, since the virus could well have my passwords.  Guess I'll have to change them again.

I wish Gypsy curses operated over the internet, because I would definitely curse the dastards who created this monstrous thing.

Leaving on a Jet Plane...

T-minus 1 hour before me & the gang drive to the airport. Stopping at London, Dallas, and Abilene.  Over 10 hour journey, and that's just the flights.

I'll be sure to take lots of photos for you fine folks.

See y'all later!

Well, the Sabretooth Cat's out of the bag.

In the second week of June, The Cimmerian will end its five-year tour of duty as Shieldwall for Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien.  The domain name will go, the old posts will be archived at a new site, but the days of new scholarly material and news is over.

I can't blame Deuce or Leo for their reasons, nor do I intend to (were I in their shoes I'd do the same), but I'm still very frustrated at the way events have conspired. Since Deuce took over as Managing Editor, Cimmerian readership shot from 10-20,000 views a month to the region of 50,000. May isn't over yet, and we might actually hit 100,000 within the next few days.  It's just over a year since I made my official debut (23rd May) and in that time I haven't missed a single week. Considering how difficult a time of it I had leaving college, I'm immensely proud of that achievement. Now The Cimmerian has no option but to drift into the night in its hour of triumph?  Damn right I'm angry.

I'll probably talk more about it on The Cimmerian itself, but man, I hate this.

Triangulation: Roy Thomas, Blood & Thunder, and A Personal Note

There were two pretty big pieces of news this week.

First off, Roy Thomas is returning to Conan. While I have many, many problems with Thomas' myriad adaptations, there are a number of considerations which make me cut him some slack, in comparison to the likes of Busiek and Truman. For one, Thomas was wrestling with the Comics Code Authority, the draconian institution dedicated to making comics safe for tiddlypeeps, and as a result, perpetuating the "comics are for kids" fallacy. (No medium can be restricted to a demographic, people.) He also had the De Camp juggernaut to contend with, where he pretty much had to use De Camp's existing pastiches for many stories, including the maligned "The Hand of Nergal" and "The Treasure of Tranicos."

Farewell Dan, Painbrush

The Robert E. Howard forum was shocked to learn of the untimely death of Dan, there known by the username Painbrush, from his girl Sheila.

I really can't think of what to say, or rather, how to properly encapsulate. This is going to be one of those stream-of-consciousness posts.

Dan was one of my favourite first memories of the community: when I introduced myself five years ago, I remember him welcoming me to the fold. I thanked him, and slyly mentioned how jealous I was that he picked such a great handle. I really was a little bit jealous: Painbrush is a great username.

Dan and I never butted heads over anything, but I remember he was involved in some legendary donnybrooks, be it over Howard's writing, his reputation, his worldbuilding, or even something daft. The man was one hell of a Robert E. Howard fan, and took no prisoners in that approach. Though Dan's unique typing fashion and fantastic comedy style made him a great figure of fun on the forum, he showed remarkable insights. For all his "caveman on a computer" persona, there was a fiercely intelligent brain in that noggin: his post on "The Frost-Giant's Daughter" was full of it.

I'm truly glad to have known Dan, even if only over the internet. His jokes always got a laugh out of me, his more serious thoughts were deceptively intelligent and well-thought out regardless of whether I agreed or not, and the forum will be a less colourful place without him.

I'm so sorry, Sheila. Rest assured, the Robert E. Howard forum are with you. As Howard would say, we will all drink to his shade.