Stratovania

Halloween is coming up, and we're in the midst of a pandemic, and there's still an inexplicable amount of support for our dangerously destructive president. Like Milhouse Van Houten said, I only like it when I'm pretend scared. But anyway, Beth and I went to the Creamy Acres Night of Terror on Friday night.

They had the haunted hayride, but I feel they didn't really maintain social distancing. They didn't pack people onto the wagon like they usually do, but it was still pretty crowded. The ride itself had some neat creatures and effects, including one part where you ride through a giant beehive. There were also a corn maze and two haunted houses, one pretty typical and another with a lot of creepy clowns and 3-D effects. Walking around wearing 3-D glasses is already difficult, and it's even harder while wearing a mask, as that can fog them up. And for some reason, I'm much worse than children at finding my way through what are supposed to be pretty straightforward mazes. I accidentally went through the wrong door at some point, and ended up in a back room, with nobody stopping me. It was a while before someone showed up to direct us back to the maze. Neat effects, but not all that well implemented. I think this was the first year they did this one, though, so maybe they haven't worked out all the bugs.

We've watched a few Halloween-related things on TV recently. I've written about a few of them on WordPress already, and will continue to do so. I've also written about my initial thoughts on Dragon Quest XI for the Nintendo Switch. I've recently finished with the tournament in Octagonia. And I've received my copy of the 2020 Oziana, which includes the first part of a story I co-wrote. I wonder if I should review it now, or wait until it's publicly available. I'm sure it doesn't make much difference overall, but I don't want to annoy the few people who might actually want to read about it. There's an online Oz event coming up on the twenty-fourth, which includes a costume contest. I haven't worn a costume in years, but I always used to like to. I do want to go to a Halloween store soon and get some accessories and such for costumes I've been wanting to do, but I don't know if I'll have anything ready by then.

We sent away for a DNA test for our cats, and fortunately they don't have any of the genetic diseases they tested for. I was hoping the results would be a little more elaborate, like how the 23 and Me results say whether you're genetically predisposed to like sweet or salty snacks. I guess with cats, it could be something like a preference for fish or chicken. Actually, Wally will sometimes lick salt from crackers and chips, and we still don't know why. We're taking the cats to the vet tomorrow. We changed from the pills we'd been giving Reagan to a liquid, which is easier to give her, but she still often tries to spit it out afterwards. I hope she's getting enough of it for it to help.

Last Wednesday was Rose Night at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, so Beth and I went there after work. They have so many different varieties there, and I have to wonder how people keep coming up with new ones, but I don't much about botany anyway.








They've reopened the Japanese Hill and Pond Garden, but it doesn't look like the fish are there anymore, or at least not many of them. And some idiot threw a bottle in there.

Friday was Beth's Uncle John's birthday (and also a certain president's, but the less said about him the better), and the family threw him a surprise party on Saturday. He says he was actually surprised, too. There were people there I hadn't seen in a while, and we got catering from Wawa. I hadn't even known they did that. And the day before that, we ate at the Olive Garden.

I've finished a few books recently, so I should put up some reviews soon. I have Marcus Mebes' The Haunted Castle of Oz, which I've already read in its earlier form, but this is an edited and expanded version. He's done a few of those, actually, including Lurline and the White Ravens and Mysterious Caverns. I've also been playing Golden Sun again after setting it aside seven years ago. I do that kind of a lot, but in this it isn't even like I got stuck or anything.

Beth and I went to the Monster-Mania Convention on Saturday. As usual, we mostly just attended the question-and-answer panels, rather than getting autographs or anything. There are occasionally guests there I wouldn't mind meeting, but it's always so crowded. Fairuza Balk was there, and she was in Return to Oz, a favorite of mine; but would it have benefited me much to get an autograph? I don't know. Anyway, the first guest we saw was Phil Fondacaro, whom I mentioned when I talked about his role in Ghoulies II.

He was in Return of the Jedi, Troll, The Garbage Pail Kids Movie, Willow, and plenty of other stuff. He talked about how most of his earlier film roles involved wearing full-body costumes, but he gradually became able to do speaking roles without the suits. Then came Monica Keena, who was in Freddy vs. Jason, and discussed how she was terrified of Freddy Krueger as a kid.

C.J. Graham, Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th, Part VI, who addressed his part as Jason's father (also a serial killer, apparently) in a fan film.

The late Steve Dash also makes an appearance in it as a sheriff. Then came the Soska Sisters, identical twins Jen and Sylvia, whom I'd never heard of but who seemed to be involved in a little bit of everything, particularly filmmaking and comic writing.

They have a theatrical release coming up with a remake of David Cronenberg's Rabid, and wrote a comic story about Black Widow breaking up a pedophilia and torture ring. After a break when they showed a few old movie trailers and Looney Tunes cartoons, came Dolph Lundgren.

I knew he was in Aquaman, but I hadn't realized he recently reprised his role as Ivan Drago in Creed 2. He also talked a bit about his part in Masters of the Universe, and did Sylvester Stallone impressions. The final panel had actors from the original Halloween film and from last year's sequel.

One was Jibrail Nantumbu, the kid who talked about cutting his toenails, who was pretty hilarious. He mentioned that he hadn't seen all of the movie, just his own part. Also there were Will Sandin and Sandy Johnson, the young Michael and Judith Myers from the first film. It was pretty fun, even though I was tired throughout most of it.

Speaking of conventions, I want Beth to come with me to OzCon in July, but while I'll hopefully have paid time off by then, she won't. That makes it difficult to plan summer excursions, when there are a bunch of things we want to do. It also means that, if we do go to Pomona, we wouldn't be able to participate in Disneyland Day. We were considering going back to Disney World in 2018, the tenth anniversary of our first trip there, but it didn't work out.

In honor of the ninetieth anniversary of Ruth Plumly Thompson's The Giant Horse of Oz, I started working on a story about Benny, the living statue. His back story was very rushed, so I wanted to expand upon it a bit, and hopefully make it somewhat more logical, if still rather convoluted. I'd also written about the warring Zurgors and Gurzors in an earlier story, and decided to use them again here. My original goal was to have this tale ready in time for this year's OzCon, but instead I ended up submitting one I'd started years ago but only just finished recently, "The Giant Weasel of Oz." It ended up winning second place in the fiction contest. I'm wondering if I should post that one as well, but for now here's the Benny story. Any feedback is welcome.

THE PUBLIC BENEFACTOR OF OZ

By Nathan M. DeHoff



“I’ll admit, Benny, I’m still a little confused by how you came to life,” said Dorothy. She was currently sitting at a table in the Scarecrow’s corn-shaped mansion, accompanied by the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, and a living statue named Benny. The last of these had mysteriously arrived in Oz from Boston some years previously, and claimed to be the statue of a great public benefactor.

“I’ve told you all I know,” stated the statue. “A man brought me to life with something he read from a book, but he didn’t seem to know that’s what would happen, as he ran away. Then I fell into a hole and ended up outside the Emerald City.”

“I’d sure like to read what was in that book. I mean, if it could bring you to life without any powder or anything, it must have been really powerful.”

“And probably dangerous,” added the Scarecrow. “I wonder if it would still be in Boston.”

“I have no way of knowing,” admitted Benny. “The man threw it into some bushes when he ran off.”

“It’s very curious. I mean, Nick was a meat person before he had his parts replaced with tin, and the Scarecrow had sort of a transferred spirit,” said Dorothy.

“Dr. Pipt did think he recognized traces of the Powder of Life on my body, but he wasn’t quite sure,” said the straw man.

“Scraps, the Glass Cat, Jack Pumpkinhead, the Sawhorse, and the Gump were all brought to life with the powder. Prob’ly some others I can’t remember now, too.”

“That phonograph, Victor Columbia Edison.”

“Right.”

“And Glinda and the Wizard think there was some powder involved in bringing the houses in the Emerald City to life,” put in Nick Chopper.

“Oh, yes. They’re mostly quiet now, though. Leon the Neon and Flicker were meat people first, too. And I brought Humpy to life with sand from the Wish Way.”

“Then could wishing sand be used to bring anything to life?”

“Don’t ask me! I’ve only ever been there by accident. Even when Ozma and I tried going back to where I remembered it being before, it wasn’t there. Of course, there are a lot of communities around Oz where we still don’t know how they’re alive. I know Bunbury and the Cuttenclips were Glinda’s work.”

“The Loons looked to be made of rubber, and I don’t know how they came to life,” said the Scarecrow.

“Yes, and so was the Rubber Band, and those rubber dolls who live in the Gillikin Country. Squee Gees, I think they’re called? And that bear who lives with John Dough. And he was brought to life by an Arabian elixir, right?”

“And the last of it, if I recall correctly.”

“Wasn’t there another living statue in Oz?” inquired Benny.

“The giant one who tried to turn the Cowardly Lion to stone. That was also the Powder of Life, or something a lot like it.”

“What about the Lavender Bear?” asked the Tin Woodman.

“I think he and his subjects were created by fairies. I guess that could be true of other places, too. Benny, the man who read that book wasn’t a fairy, was he?”

“I’d never heard of fairies when it happened, but from the ones I’ve met after that, I can’t say he looked like one,” answered the statue.

The Scarecrow was about to say something, when a loud clanking noise came from outside. The four friends ran out of the building to see a metal device come to a landing.

“It’s an airship, but not an Ozoplane,” said Dorothy.

“It looks quite rickety,” observed the Tin Woodman. “Fairly sleek design, but in bad repair.”

A hatch opened, and three men emerged. They were tall, with gray skin, and wore gray jackets and pants with thick boots. When they saw Benny, one of them exclaimed, “It’s you!”, and all three began bowing to the statue.

“Well, I’m certainly myself, but I’m not sure who you think I am,” stated Benny.

“Why, the great General who led our forces to victory!”

“I’m pretty sure I never did that. Nick here led an army before. Maybe you’re looking for him?”

“You DO appear to have a different body. Rather harder material, it looks like,” said one of the other men.

“The prophecy said he’d come back in a different but recognizable form, you know,” declared the third man, who had a long beard.

“Well, THIS sounds familiar,” muttered Nick to the Scarecrow.

“Believe me, Benny, you don’t want to get mixed up with past lives,” stated the straw man. “I didn’t much care for being Emperor of the Silver Island.”

“Benny? Is that any way to address the General Benvolio?” asked the first stranger.

“I didn’t know I HAD another name,” stated Benny. “I got my name because I’m the statue of a great public benefactor in Boston.”

“That’s in the Outside World, in the United States,” explained Dorothy.

“Never heard of it,” said the second stranger.

“You see, he can’t be your General, because he’s from Boston.”

“I see no contradiction,” declared the third gray man. “When the General disappeared, he must have somehow arrived in this Boston place, and been turned into a statue.”

“Wouldn’t I remember having been human before?” questioned Benny. “Nick does.”

“But I don’t,” said the Scarecrow. “So it’s possible, but I don’t know why anyone would want to be a general in…where did you say you were from again?”

“The nation of…Zurgoria,” said the second man, with a groan. “Gurzoria by rights, but the Zurgors are in charge now.”

“You were the one destined to conquer the Zurgors and take back our rightful place as rulers of the country,” put in the third man.

“But I don’t know how to be a military leader,” objected Benny.

“Oh, it will come back to you eventually,” declared the second gray man. “You were one of our finest guerilla leaders.”

“Are you saying Benny was an APE?” questioned Dorothy.

“No, I think he means someone who keeps his troops hidden in battle, so as to take the enemy by surprise,” explained the Scarecrow.

“But isn’t the whole point of an army to look impressive?” asked Nick, obviously confused.

“Look, enough of this!” shouted the first man. “Let’s get him into the plane and back home!” And with that, the three men grabbed the statue, who immediately swung his arm and knocked them over. As they were getting up, a claw emerged from the airplane and grabbed Benny, who unsuccessfully struggled to get away. The three men crawled on board as well, and the craft took off with no runway, flying straight up.

“I wonder what it runs on,” said the Tin Woodman. “There isn’t any balloon, like with the Ozoplanes.”

“No time for that now!” shouted the Scarecrow, running back into his home. He emerged with a small rug with a Persian-style design of yellow, blue, green, purple, and red; and called to Dorothy and Nick to get on. He then yelled, “Follow that airship!”, and the carpet soared into the air and toward the west.

“Where did you get a flying carpet?” asked Dorothy.

“Ozma gave it to me. It used to belong to her great-grandfather, back in ancient times.”

The rug pursued the plane over the Winkie Country, then the Deadly Desert, the Land of Ev, and the great Nonestic Ocean. “I figured they were from outside Oz,” said the Scarecrow, “but not off the continent entirely.”

“I must say that plane can fly quite fast for being so rickety,” observed Nick. “I suppose it’s some sort of jet.”

“Benny and the jet, eh?”

After flying across the ocean for about an hour, the airplane and the carpet finally reached land, which the Scarecrow said, “Doesn’t look like Ot’samaland, does it?”

“I think Ozma said there was another cont’nent to the west, but I don’t know much about it,” admitted Dorothy. “I think it’s where Handy Mandy’s sister comes from.”

The land where the Ozites now found themselves was largely forested, with patches of tall grass in between. As the plane began to descend, the Tin Woodman called out, “We’re under attack!”

Sure enough, a cannon was aimed straight at the carpet. In order to avoid the cannonball, the Scarecrow steered the rug toward a nearby stone castle with high turrets. They came in for a landing in the courtyard, where a group of gray-skinned people with spears rushed out and surrounded them. They were followed by a tall woman, who exclaimed, “You’re not Gurzors!”

“Why would you even think we were?” asked Dorothy.

“Because those lowlifes are always attacking the castle. Well, if you’re not Gurzors, then you might as well swear your undying loyalty to Roz, Great Leader of the Zurgors and the Nation of Zurgoria.”

“We can’t do that. We already have a ruler.”

“I’m an Emperor,” declared Nick proudly, “and Dorothy here is a Princess. We’re loyal subjects of Ozma of Oz.”

“Wait, this Ozma of Oz is more powerful than an Emperor?” inquired one of the guards.

“We’re a bit loose with the titles in Oz,” admitted the Scarecrow, “but all of us respect the rule of Ozma.”

“Have you ever heard of this Oz?” questioned the tall woman.

“It’s one of the countries on the east side of the ocean,” declared a small man in a tall hat, who emerged from behind a door. “An enchanted fairyland, if I recall correctly.”

“Oh, one of THOSE places. All lollipop trees and eternal sunshine and lions and lambs living together in harmony.”

“Oh, we don’t have eternal sunshine,” returned the Tin Woodman. “It still rains, much to my chagrin. Of course, if it weren’t for the rain, none of our beautiful flowers would grow. Or the lollipop trees, for that matter.”

“Wait, there really ARE lollipop trees?”

“They have them in the Candy Country in the Gillikin Country,” answered Dorothy. “And lions and lambs don’t always get along, but some of them are friends. The Cowardly Lion gets on with Lambert. ‘Course, he IS ‘ceptionally gentle for a lion.”

“So is this a non-magical country?” inquired the Scarecrow.

“Oh, we have magic, but only for practical purposes,” stated the short man.

“Lollipop trees aren’t practical?” objected Nick.

“I suppose there might be situations when they would be. Too sweet for my taste, though. Now, a mutton tree might be nice.”

“Why? The Gurzors would just burn it down,” said one of the guards.

“So what are we going to do with these strangers?” asked the woman.

Before anyone could answer, a man in armor came running into the courtyard, yelling, “The Gurzors are attacking!”

A group of other gray man came marching toward the castle, holding pitchforks and torches. They began surrounding the building.

“Pitchforks and torches? Aren’t those a little primitive?” questioned Nick.

“Speak for yourself!” shuddered the Scarecrow. “Those torches could reduce me to a pile of ash!”

“Not from in here, though,” said Dorothy.

Just then, however, the invading army waved their pitchforks, firing beams of light, while the torches threw flame toward the narrow windows. The inhabitants backed away and began preparing to retaliate. When the Tin Woodman noticed a few men placing a ladder against a wall, he alerted the Leader to this fact, and Roz commanded, “Prepare the boiling oil!”

“But oil is no good when it’s too hot!” objected Nick.

“It is for repelling invaders,” explained another one of the Zurgors. “You don’t seem to have much military experience.”

“I DID lead the Army of Oz in the mission to rescue the Royal Family of Ev!”

“Yes, but—” began the Scarecrow, before the Tin Man raised a finger to his mouth.

A loud thumping at the door indicated that some of the Gurzors were using a battering ram. They succeeded on smashing it in, and one soldier shot some fire toward the Scarecrow, but the Tin Woodman promptly stepped in front of it. He then used his axe to chop up the weapons of the nearby invaders, causing them to retreat. Although he was hit with a few light beams, they did nothing to slow him down.

“Wow! Fireproof AND laser-proof! We might have to sign him up as a mercenary,” advised a Zurgor officer.

“Well, technically, but they really did a number on my finish,” said Nick, as he examined his body. Still, he and the Scarecrow both agreed to sign up as mercenaries, swearing to a large, hairy man who did not have gray skin to pledge allegiance to “the Gurzors…um, I mean the Zurgors,” as long as there was money in it.

“They’re coming back!” exclaimed Dorothy.

“Come with me and man the cannons!” shouted an officer.

“I hope we’re getting paid extra for this,” said the mercenary commander.

The Ozites joined several of the Zurgors and mercenaries in climbing the steps of a tower, where a cannon was situated. After the cannon was aimed and the fuse lit, it fired out some artillery shells, which landed on a few of the Gurzors and trapped them inside what appeared to be giant seashells.

“They’re not going to die, are they?” questioned Nick Chopper.

“No, more’s the pity,” replied the officer.

“Well, that’s good.”

“Who invented these weapons, anyway?” asked the Scarecrow.

“They’re sold to us by the Ristillians,” stated the officer.

“And what about the Gurzors’ pitchforks and torches?”

“Probably also the Ristillians. There aren’t a whole lot of other military suppliers in the area.”

“So the Ristillians are the only ones profiting from this war?”

“We don’t need profit! We fight for glory and honor!” shouted the officer, as he stormed off in a huff. One of the mercenaries, however, winked and quietly said, “That’s pretty much the all of it. I’m Ristillian myself, y’know, and we’re always looking for opportunities for profit.”

“So how do they have the money to pay for all of this?”

“I wish I knew! They seem to have a lot of mineral wealth, but you never see anyone mining it.”

*******************************************************************************************

The rattle of the plane had prevented Benny from talking to his captors, and when they had landed, a group of people surrounded him and began asking questions before he could. “Is this really him?” “It certainly LOOKS like Benvolio!” “He even has the mark in the right place.” “How did you find him?”

“So who do you think I am?” questioned Benny, as soon as the commotion had died down.

“Benovolio, the guerilla leader of the Gurzor Resistance,” explained one man.

“But how can that be, when I’m the statue of a public benefactor?”

“Look, I don’t know much about magic, but the wizard we hired said he’d bring you back in some form, and you look exactly like Benvolio.”

“And what’s this about the mark on my face?”

“You mean he doesn’t know?” asked one of the bystanders.

“Why would he? He’s obviously lost his memory,” said the man who was answering Benny’s questions. “You see, all Gurzors have a mole on the left sides of their noses, and all Zurgors on the right side. In this case, the right side is not the correct one.”

“What if they have a wart on their nose and a cleaver in their neck?” asked Benny, who was thinking of a resident of the Isle of Phreex he had heard of. The man was confused by this, and simply replied, “Then he’d be dead, wouldn’t he?”

“I always wondered if the mole was just a mistake by my sculptor.”

“No, and they even gave you the right color skin.”

“Yes, but that’s just the color of granite, isn’t it? Are you Nomes?”

“No, we’re Gurzors, but we DO have an affinity for minerals, so maybe we’re distantly related. I am Maz, Prince of the Gurzors, at your service.”

“So why have you brought me here?”

“To fight the Zurgors, the fiends who have taken over this land!”

“And why can’t you just share it?”

“SHARE? Share with those right-moled monsters?” There was a muttering in the crowd after this. “If you hadn’t lost your memory, that could be considered blasphemy.”

“How do you know I’ve lost my memory? I was carved to be the statue of a person, a great public benefactor in the city of Boston. Are you sure he’s not the one you’re looking for?”

“Oh, he probably was, but his spirit has entered into you. Something like that, anyway. As I said, I’m not an expert on magic.”

Not knowing what else to do, the statue joined the Gurzors on their march to the Zurgors’ castle. On the way, his companions filled him in on his past exploits, the general history of the country, and the weapons they had purchased from the Ristillians. You have already read about the attack, which ended up not going so well. After the Gurzors were forced to retreat, one of them said, “Well, Ben, YOU’RE the great guerilla leader, so maybe YOU have some ideas?”

“Look, don’t be too hard on him,” said another. “He’ll come to his senses eventually.”

“I certainly hope not,” muttered Benny. Then, out loud, he said, “What if I go into the Zurgors’ castle to investigate it?

“And how do you plan to get in? Some transportation magic from the magical land of Ozton?”

“No, Oz and Boston are two different places. Very different, in fact. But the Zurgors don’t know I’m alive. If I just pose as an ordinary statue, a gift from a surrendering enemy, I should be able to get in.”

“I don’t know,” said another Gurzor. “They’ll probably be wary of Gurzors bearing gifts. Still, it’s worth a try.”

So Benny stood perfectly still, holding a white flag and with a note attached to his chest that read, “Please take this statue as a token of our surrender.” The Zurgors were indeed suspicious, but when Roz said, “It’s not like they could fit their army inside of one statue,” they brought him in and placed him in a supply room. As Nick Chopper noticed this, he quickly brought Dorothy and the Scarecrow into the room.

“Benny!” whispered the Scarecrow. “How did you get in here?”

“Oh, I just used a trick from that story about the giant wooden horse.”

“There’s a bigger version of the Sawhorse?” asked the Tin Woodman.

“No, this was in Troy, back in the age of myth,” explained Dorothy.

“Anyway, the Gurzors think I’m their leader in a new body, and this was the only way I could think of to get away with them. I wondered if the Zurgors would be able to see reason.”

“From what we’ve seen of them, not at all,” said Nick sadly. “I’ve tried to reach out to them, but they insist on fighting.”

“If only we could get to the carpet, at least we could get out of here,” observed the Scarecrow. “But they’ve locked it up in a vault.”

“Maybe if you could convince them it’s vital to the war effort?” suggested Benny.

*******************************************************************************************

In the Emerald City, the Wizard of Oz ran into Betsy Bobbin, Trot, and the Patchwork Girl, who were playing ozball outside the palace. When they noticed him, Betsy asked, “Wizard, wasn’t Dorothy supposed to be back today?”

“And the Scarecrow, too!” added Scraps. “You need more players to really get a good ozball game going.”

“I think they were, at that,” replied the Wizard. “Maybe we should check on them in the Magic Picture.”

The three girls followed the magician inside the palace and to Ozma’s sitting room, where the Picture, set in a greenwood frame, hung on a wall between a curtain. A command to this magical device to show Dorothy revealed that she, along with the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, and several gray-skinned men were inside a castle that appeared to be under siege.

“Looks dangerous,” observed Scraps. “Where is that, anyway?”

“It doesn’t look like anywhere in Oz,” said Trot.

“You know, those people look a lot like statues, but don’t move like them,” stated Betsy.

“Yes, sort of like Benny, except they all seem to have the mole on the other side of their noses.”

When the Wizard ordered the Picture to show the outside of the castle, Trot suddenly cried out, “Wait, that one IS Benny!”

“Are you sure? I don’t think any of them are really statues.”

“That one is! Just look at how stiffly he moves.”

“I believe this calls for more investigation,” stated the Wizard, who then rushed across the hall to his laboratory and into the elevator to his tower room, closely followed by the girls. Scraps flopped down on the floor, while the human girls sat in chairs that walked up to them. After a bit of fussing around with his Tattlescope, Searchlight, and Question Box, the magician said, “It looks like they’re in Zurgoria, a country on the other side of the Nonestic Ocean. The Box also says that Benny has come home, but it’s often cryptic.”

“Come home? I thought he was from Boston, not Zurg-whatever,” wondered Trot aloud. “He’s the statue of a public benefactor who was brought to life from a spell in a book, or something.”

“I’ve always wondered about that. It’s difficult to bring life with nothing but words, except possibly for a fairy.”

“There wasn’t any Powder of Life involved?” questioned Scraps.

“I don’t think so. There are other ways to bring things to life, but they generally all involve some sort of physical property. Let me see.” Taking a volume from a nearby bookshelf, the Wizard paged through it and said, “According to the Royal History, this Irishman who owned a second-hand shop just read from a small leather book, and the statue came to life. Even if it was just the words that did it, what are the chances he would have opened it to the right page?”

“Maybe the book turned there itself,” suggested Betsy.

“That’s not impossible, but it would still be an amazing coincidence. I have to wonder where the Royal Historians got their information.”

“Wasn’t it from Shaggy’s radio telegraph?”

“Some of it, yes, but they sometimes seem to have access to information that even Ozma and Glinda don’t.”

“Or they just make it up,” suggested the Patchwork Girl.

“That’s possible, but they’ve been known to show uncanny knowledge of things none of us knew before.”

“Like how you were a tyrannical dictator and the Wicked Witch of the West your daughter?”

“I know what you’re talking about, but that wasn’t by a royally sanctioned historian. I hear they made it into a musical, by the way. That might be interesting to see, as long as no one in the audience knows the villain was loosely based on me.”

“So where was the book from?” inquired Betsy.

“I haven’t seen anything about that.” The Wizard continued to read, and observed, “The Historian really doesn’t seem to think much of this Irishman, Danny. I’m mostly Irish, you know. Ah, here we are. ‘The owner of Danny’s dress suit must have been a powerful magician to bring this cold statue to life.’ She apparently didn’t have an actual source on that, though. It just looks like an assumption. Earlier he’s called…er, let me see…’a dusky gentleman in Grant Street.’ From Africa, perhaps? Or India?”

“No, dusky because he’s one of the Wizards of Dusk,” said a mysterious, deep voice from the other side of the room. Looking over there, the Ozites noticed a man whose skin really was dusk-colored, and who wore a gray sweatshirt and pants. “Ah, it’s good to be back in an uncivilized land again! That transportation takes a lot out of you.” And with that, the stranger collapsed on a table and immediately fell asleep. The table promptly shook the man off, and he woke as he landed on the floor. “I’m sorry. It was rude of me to use your furniture in that way.”

“I don’t really mind, but I don’t think the table likes it. So who are you, and how did you get into my tower?”

“Teleportation, naturally. Or unnaturally, as the case may be. My name is Twilor, and I’m one of the Wizards of Dusk from the west coast of the continent of Boomdeeay, not far from the estuary of the River Dee.”

“So you’re wizards of the coast?” inquired Scraps.

“I suppose so, but so are the Wizards of Dawn on the east side of the continent. There’s a bit of a rivalry between us.”

“Like the Sunrise and Sunset Tribes on Sky Island,” said Trot.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been to Sky Island, as far as I can remember.”

“So why teleport here?” inquired Betsy.

“It wasn’t really by choice. I can never be totally sure where I end up, although it’s often in some concentration of magical power. Not too many of them in the United States, mind you.”

“The United States! That’s where we’re from!” exclaimed Trot. “Well, not Scraps, of course.”

“Yes, I’ve been there for some time, transporting myself from one place to another, but none of them were fairylands.”

“How did you end up there in the first place?” questioned the Wizard of Oz.

“That was the result of a commission by the Gurzor leader Maz.”

“Gurzor? Isn’t that where Benny is?” asked Betsy.

“Zurgoria, I think,” corrected the Wizard.

“They’re from the same country,” explained Twilor. “The Zurgors and Gurzors have been at war for centuries, and the Zurgors currently have the upper hand.”

“What are they fighting about?” asked Trot.

“Nobody really knows anymore.”

“So they’re like you and the Wizards of Dawn?” questioned Scraps.

“There was a time when our tribes were at war, but now it’s more of a friendly rivalry. Not so with the Zurgors and Gurzors. Anyway, one of the Dawn Wizards had been paid by the Zurgors to get rid of one of the Gurzors’ top generals.”

“To kill him?” asked Trot.

“No, our magic isn’t used for killing. It turns out he was transported right out of the known world, into your United States. So I went there to bring him back. It turns out he’d had a lot of precious minerals from Zurgoria when he left, so he was able to become a public benefactor in the land of Massachusetts. But I didn’t find that out until much later, due to how many teleportations it took me to get there.”

“Maybe your magic is local instead of express,” suggested the Wizard.

“That could be. But anyway, by the time I got to this Boston place, the general had died. Fortunately, I have skill in necromancy.”

“So you brought him back to life?” asked Trot. “Was he a walking rotten corpse?”

“Oh, no, it doesn’t work that way. Instead, I was able to return the spirit to a likeness of the person. Since there was a statue made of the general, I thought it would be simple. But after I got there, I needed some money to get food, so I sold my suit. And it turns out my book of spells was still in there.”

“Then the statue must have been Benny!”

“Yes, his name was Benvolio, if I recall correctly. I had even come up with a way to transport him back to fairyland. I found the book in the bushes, but the statue had disappeared, and so had my transportation. I suppose the salesman I sold the suit to must have done the spell without knowing.”

“And then he ended up here in Oz.”

“Oh, so this is Oz? I’ve been here before, but that must have been years ago. Someone named Klestro wanted me to bring back the king.”

“Klestro? I knew him back in Morrow!” exclaimed the Wizard.

“Yes, Morrow. Definitely sounds like a place more fit for a Dawn Wizard than a Dusk one, but it’s where I ended up. I was able to make a stuffed figure of the king, but there was fairy magic mixed up in it, so my spell wouldn’t work. I’m not sure where it ended up, but I think the magic formula was written on it.”

“That must have been Pastoria, Ozma’s father!” said Betsy. “He’s actually living here in the Emerald City now, and so is the dummy. They have a tailor shop together.”

“Wait, the dummy came to life separately? I suppose that’s what happens when the fairies get involved.”

“Well, if Benny’s in Zurgoria, we have to get him back,” said Trot.

“Not to mention Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and Nick,” added Scraps.

“I’d do it, but I’m low on power right now,” stated Twilor.

“We can be there in a flash with my Ambassa-Door,” said the Wizard. With that, he led the way to a door that he opened, transporting everyone in the room into Roz’s castle. People were hurrying past, and one of them turned out to be the Scarecrow, who lost his balance and fell over upon seeing his friends, dropping a carpet in the process.

“Scarecrow!” called Scraps.

“Scraps? And Betsy, Trot, and the Wizard!” exclaimed the straw man.

“We’ve come to get you out of here. Where are Nick, Benny, and Dorothy?”

“They’re placating bombs.”

“What do you mean, placating bombs?” asked Betsy.

As if in answer to her question, the Tin Woodman walked into the hall holding a small, red, furry creature with sharp teeth. “This is one of the Gurzors’ bombs. They can be quite dangerous, but will calm down when shown affection.”

“The only problem is, with the aerial bombardment, we can’t get our carpet in the air,” added the Scarecrow.

“Well, we can leave with the Ambassa-Door,” stated the Wizard. “Let’s just get the others and go.” Searching a few halls found Dorothy surrounded by bomb-animals, many of which had rolled over and exposed their bellies. Meanwhile, Nick and Twilor made their way to the storeroom where Benny was still waiting. As the Ozites were rushing back to the Ambassa-Door, they suddenly ran right into Roz.

“Oh, so you’re still here, unlike those other cowards?” asked the Leader. “It’s time we took this fight to the Gurzors.”

“Now, look here, Mr. Roz,” said Dorothy. “We’ve helped you to defend your castle, but we don’t approve of your killing anybody. Besides, you should be able to share this land with the Gurzors, and end this fighting.”

“End the fighting? But it’s what we’ve been doing my whole life! I don’t know if I can even handle a peaceful life! Besides, the Gurzors will never go for it.”

“You have that right, which is about the only thing you ever have other than that ugly mole!” shouted another man, who rushed over to the Leader. It turned out to be Maz, Prince of the Gurzors.

“How did you get into my castle, Your Leftness?” demanded Roz.

“Through the air,” answered Maz, showing his parachute. “I don’t intend to stay, but you have our General Benvolio as a prisoner here!”

“What? The only thing we have from you is a statue.”

“That’s him! Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Who’s playing?” asked Roz. Upon realizing what he said, he corrected himself with, “If your general is in here, it’s no doing of mine.”

“It’s all right,” said Benny, as he turned a corner accompanied by Nick and Twilor. “I’m about to leave with my friends.”

“So you HAVE remembered us?” inquired Maz.

“No, I mean my friends from Oz. I’ve had enough of this warfare, and think you should learn to get along.”

“I see your transformation has made you soft.”

“If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s soft,” said Benny, clapping a stone hand onto his chest. “I have learned compassion, though, and you two both seem to be lacking in that respect.”

“There must be something we can do to stop them from fighting,” advised Trot.

“Maybe you should switch their moles to the other sides of their faces,” suggested Scraps.

“It’s been tried before,” said Twilor sadly. “They just ended up fighting both each other AND themselves.”

So the Ozites just left the two leaders arguing and worked their way to the Ambassa-Door, through which they entered the Wizard’s workshop. Upon arrival, the Scarecrow asked, “Can’t the Gurzors just track Benny down again?”

“Yes, but I doubt they’ll want to. I wasn’t much of a guerilla leader.”

“Probably not even a chimpanzee leader!” teased the Patchwork Girl.

“I have a spell that should make it more difficult for them,” said Twilor. “You may be the reincarnation of a Gurzor general, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be your own person.”

“That’s something I came to realize during my visit to the Silver Island,” observed the Scarecrow.

“Oh, were you also reincarnated? That might be worth examining. I can’t say I’ve ever been to the Silver Island, but maybe they have access to similar magic.”

After a bit of discussion of the Scarecrow’s past, Trot said, “We can’t just let the Zurgors and Gurzors keep fighting, can we?”

“There’s little we can do, since they don’t live in Oz, but we can certainly try to help them negotiate. I’ll talk it over with Ozma, and perhaps she can send an ambassador.”

“Like the one we traveled through?” asked Twilor.

“No, with only one O.”

“Well, I’m just glad to be back in Oz, where things are peaceful.”

“Not the Hoppers and Horners,” said Scraps, as she turned a somersault.

“Yes, but even they rarely hurt each other,” said the Scarecrow. “I don’t know that any place is totally free from conflict, but I’ve seen some other countries, and Oz is relatively quite peaceful.”

“There were always wars back in the Outside World,” said Trot.

“It may be the lot of humanity,” observed Benny.

“In that case,” said the Patchwork Girl, “it’s a good thing you and I aren’t really human.”

“Not anymore, at least,” put in the Tin Woodman.



THE END

Okay, so what is there to say? I'm nervous about moving, which we're going to have to do soon. One of our friends, one of maybe three people in the city who ever invite us to anything, is moving across the country. We went to her farewell party at a karaoke bar last week, but neither of us sang anything. I wasn't really that fond of the setup or the selection. Speaking of performing, I've been asked to participate in a few panels at the upcoming OzCon, which is cool. It's weird because I'm really socially awkward but don't so much mind public speaking. I'd rather not watch any audio or video of myself, though. I was thinking recently how I don't do well with embarrassment, and I guess nobody does, but some people can laugh about embarrassing moments in their past. For me, even if it's something fairly minor, it still usually bothers me when I think of it later on. I'm pretty open about my flaws, but I don't like to give specific examples. I've made thoughtless offhand comments in the past that really bothered people, and I do genuinely want to be liked. I guess even more than that, I want to be appreciated. Whenever I see comments about cutting out toxic people on social media, they have a valid point, but I tend to be worried I'll be one of the ones cut out, and it bothers me more than it probably should. Not that I think I'm toxic, but nobody thinks that of themselves. Even Britney Spears was singing it about another person. I've occasionally been blocked on Twitter, not realizing it until I replied to something. I've never known it be by someone who actually has any idea who I am, but it still bothers me that I'm apparently that annoying. Or are they just the sort of people who overdo blocking, or who have been trolled so much that they just do it without thinking? I wouldn't be offended if Donald Trump blocked me, although he's apparently breaking the law by doing so, at least if he does it with his presidential account. It shouldn't amaze me how many people still support him, or at least don't actively oppose him, but it's really depressing.

I probably would have gone to the Mermaid Parade on Saturday if I'd been in town. Amanda Palmer was the Queen Mermaid, which I still kind of think should be Queen Salacia, although that makes her sound like a salty bitch. I was away, however, celebrating my uncle-in-law's seventieth birthday by visiting the Cape May Zoo and eating at Red Lobster.





That night, Beth and I watched the XTC documentary This Is Pop, but I think I'll make that its own post. I also finally beat that smug jackass Marcello in Dragon Quest VIII, and I think I'm near the end of the game.

That doesn't necessarily mean I'll finish soon, though; there are several games where I basically gave up after repeated deaths in the final dungeon. I started playing Final Fantasy IX on PC, but haven't really gotten anywhere yet. It's weird using keyboard controls since I'm so used to playing RPGs on consoles, even though they were on PCs first. And it seems like my characters are dying a lot, although resurrection isn't that difficult. I'm probably going to get Dragon Quest XI for PC, since there isn't going to be a 3DS release outside Japan.

Here's a Halloween-themed Oz story I wrote, largely inspired by Joe Bongiorno mentioning that he didn't like the Scares from Jack Pumpkinhead of Oz. I tried to give them a little more of a background and motivation, but you'll have to see whether I actually succeeded.




THE SCARES OF OZ

By Nathan M. DeHoff



The creature crouched in the woods, being careful not to step on any of the fallen leaves. He flexed the claws on his hands and took a look at the small group in front of him. It looked to be two stuffed people riding on a donkey, one male in form and stuffed with straw, and the other appearing to be a large rag doll with yarn hair. He pounced out at this group, howling and shrieking the whole time.

“Oh, my stars! You startled me there, young man. Be more careful next time,” scowled the donkey. The two stuffed people seemed totally unfazed.

“Young man? You don’t think I’m a perfect fright, then?” asked the creature.

“You’re a little scary, I suppose, but mostly kind of cute,” stated the rag doll. This being was mostly human in form, except with a hairy body partially covered by clothes with eyes on them, and claws on his hands and bare feet. He had three eyes, set in a circle, with what appeared to be bird beaks between them. The hair on the top of his head was slicked into a point. He had two ears similar to those of a cat, only bigger.

“Yes, I get that a lot,” sighed the monster. “It’s difficult to inspire fear when you’re cute, even if you are a Scare.”

“A Scare?”

“Yes, from Scare City.”

“Oh, yes,” said the straw man. “My friend Jack Pumpkinhead was there once. I understand you kept the Iffin prisoner.”

“If so, that was before my time, back in the days of plentiful fear, before the scarcity.”

“You mean it wasn’t called Scare City then?” questioned the rag doll.

“No, I mean scarcity, all one word. We live on fear.”

“You live on fear? With or without salt?” asked the donkey sarcastically.

“I can’t say I find eating fear any stranger than stuffing yourself with hay, as you do, Mr. Hank,” said the woman.

“I’m stuffed with hay. Well, straw, actually. There’s a distinct difference, but people call it hay anyway,” explained the man. “I don’t need it for energy, though, just to keep myself in shape.”

“Well, we live on fear, and it used to be easy to get. Whenever anyone wandered into the city, they’d either be scared stiff or turned into Fraid Cats. Then they’d remain and we’d feed on their fear. Then, the stories say, after a boy and a pumpkin man, maybe the friend you mentioned, arrived in town and swallowed everyone into a bag. We were released and sent back, but without any of our statues or Fraid Cats. We were able to gather up some more, and that’s when I grew up. Not that I was very good at scaring, but there was enough to go around.”

“Scaring and sharing, eh?”

“Yes. But eventually, we lost our power to transform people, and it was too easy for them to just leave again.”

“I’m sure that was Ozma’s doing. After all, we can’t have you being bad neighbors.”

“But that means we’ve all been going hungry. Many of us have had to leave town entirely and seek fear elsewhere. And there really isn’t a whole lot of it around. I occasionally manage to obtain some from students who have tests the next day or animals being chased, but it’s not as high quality. I even tried Flutterbudget Center, but that’s very cheap and empty fear.”

“I can see that would be a problem,” said the straw man, scratching his head as needles protruded from it.

“So are you friends of the Ruler of Oz?”

“Yes, I’m the Scarecrow, Her Majesty’s Chief Counselor. This is my good friend, Miss Scraps Patches. And the mule here is Hank.”

“Mule? I thought he was a donkey.”

“A mule is half horse and half donkey,” explained the animal. “I’m from the United States originally. When I first came here, I was the only mule, at least as far as I know. There have been some born since then, though.”

“We’re out here to find a present for our friend Betsy Bobbin, whose birthday is on the thirty-first,” said Scraps.

“That’s my dad’s birthday, too! He’s very proud of it, seeing as how it’s Halloween and all.”

“Yes, we’ve had some Halloween-themed parties for Betsy,” stated the Scarecrow. “We had a few masquerade balls.”

“Like the one where Scraps here managed to mix up everybody’s minds,” said the mule.

“Now, now, Hank! We’ve all made mistakes occasionally. And remember that year Betsy found her old doll and her parents?”

“And was almost trapped in a volcano with a giant silkworm, I hear.”

“Maybe we can find something for your pop, too,” suggested Scraps.

“We don’t really talk much anymore,” admitted the Scare. “It has to be embarrassing to be Chief Scarer and have a son who isn’t even scary. But I suppose you wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

“I know something about it,” said the Scarecrow. “I was made to scare crows, and was never able to.”

“Which is why he had the motivation to leave his plantation, take a change of occupation, and become ruler of the nation!” shouted the Patchwork Girl, leaping over Hank’s back as he did so.

“If there’s anyone scary here, it’s you, with your failure to sit still,” complained Hank.

“Did you really rule a country, Mr. Scarecrow?” asked the boy.

“Oh, yes. When the Wizard left for the first time, I was Ruler of Oz for a few years, before Ozma came back.”

“Don’t forget that you were also Emperor of the Silver Island and King of the Munchkins,” put in Scraps.

“And YOU were Queen of Patch, if I recall,” said Hank.

“Yes, but the less said about that, the better. For such a beautiful country, they sure don’t know how to treat a lady.”

“So what’s your name?” asked the Scarecrow.

“Nerverax, but you can just call me Rax,” answered the monster boy.

Rax joined the others in walking through the forest, which was showing autumn foliage. The Land of Oz has a very even climate where it never really gets cold, except in certain spots on high mountains or affected by localized magic. The trees still tend to lose their leaves, though, out of habit and because children like to play in them. After about an hour, the group came across a battalion of spoons marching through the forest, all carrying tiny guns.

“Halt in the name of the King of Utensia!” shouted the leader.

The travelers halted, and the Scarecrow said, “Why, if it isn’t Captain Dipp!”

“Oh, you’re Queen Ozma’s friends, aren’t you? What are you doing out here?”

“We’re looking for a gift for Betsy’s birthday,” explained the mule.

“I can’t say I know much about gifts. I suppose Betsy wouldn’t want any silver polish, would she?”

“I don’t think she’d have any use for it,” answered the Scarecrow.

“By the way, Dipp, why does your kingdom use spoons as soldiers instead of knives?” inquired Scraps.

“We did use knives once, but they quickly lost their edge.”

With that, the small party continued through the woods, eventually coming across a line of yellow tape marked, “CAUTION.”

“I think I see a house behind it,” stated Rax.

“Then I suppose someone named Caution must live there,” suggested Hank.

“No, this is the sort of tape the police put up when there’s been a crime,” said the Scarecrow.

“Well, we don’t want any criminals to bother us, do we?” asked Scraps.

“No, but the whole place is quiet. If there were actually an investigation going on, wouldn’t it much noisier?”

“Let’s just go through,” said Hank. “What could really happen to us regardless?”

The Patchwork Girl bent over backwards and performed a limbo move under the tape, while the others just ducked walked under it. The house was a fairly small one, rectangular in shape rather than the more common dome found throughout Oz. It was made of a dark brown substance that Scraps thought must be gingerbread, but Hank took a bite of it and declared it sour. Rax also took a bite, declaring it to be pumpernickel bread.

“Like the place in the Gillikin Country where Kabumpo lives?” asked the Patchwork Girl.

“No, it’s a variety of rye bread,” said Rax. “I’m not sure why anyone would build a house out of it, though.”

Hank banged his hoof on the door, which had a look of cracker about it, but received no answer. Scraps turned the knob and found that the door was unlocked, so the travelers walked inside, where they found a woman sitting at a chair. She wore a long red dress with a white gown and a peaked hat covering gray hair tied up in a bun. The woman was not moving, but simply staring straight ahead. Noticing a cauldron in the fireplace and jars of herbs on mantle shelves, Scraps called out, “She must be a witch!”

“What? What was that?” asked the woman, coming to her senses.

“Oh, so she’s alive after all!”

“Yes, I must have just been lost in thought. You wouldn’t happen to have seen my husband, have you?”

“Not that we know of, Miss Caution,” said Hank.

“Caution? No, my name is Bleakie.”

“Bleakie? That’s a lot like the name of a witch I encountered in Jinxland,” said the Scarecrow.

“You mean Blinkie? Yes, she’s my sister, although I haven’t been part of her coven in years. How many, I couldn’t say. My trance states can last for years sometimes. Anyway, my husband is the magician Jakgar. I haven’t seen him since he said he was going to the Gillikin Country to take care of Old Mombi.”

“Mombi? Why, that must have been ages ago!” observed Scraps.

“Not necessarily. She’s come back a few times since Sir Hokus and I melted her,” said the Scarecrow. “Once was as a painting that Jack Pumpkinhead made, and the other time was when the troll Tekrouri brought her back with a careless wish.”

“I haven’t heard of either of those, or of her being melted. I didn’t even think she was the sort of witch who could be,” said Bleakie. “She turned one of our friends into a copper-plated lobster, and Jakgar was insistent on stopping her once and for all.”

“Did he say where he was going?” asked Hank.

“To where she lived, presumably, but I don’t know where that was.”

“She’s lived in a few different places, as I recall,” stated the Scarecrow. “There was the farm where she brought up Ozma, but before that she lived in the hut that Tattypoo, I mean Orin, drove her out from. And after leaving the farm, she worked as a cook in Kimbaloo.”

“There was also the time when she was hit with Youthing Powder, and lived with the people with the giant flea,” put in Scraps.

“Yes, the Clambakes. I suppose we’d need to know around when this was.”

“I’ve never been much for keeping track of time,” said Bleakie, “but I know it was when the Wizard was ruling in the Emerald City.”

“Then that probably narrows it down to either the farm or Orin’s old hut.”

“I’ve tried to find him through a trance, but while I do know he’s still alive, I have no idea where.”

“Her old farm isn’t too far from here. It might be worth checking out.”

“Then I’ll come with you. I haven’t eaten in a long time, though, so I’d better have something before we go. Would any of you like anything?”

“Scraps and I don’t eat, and I think Nerverax lives on an intangible concept.”

“I’d like some oats if you have them, though,” said Hank.

Bleakie did have a box of oats, which fortunately had not gone bad, as it was affected by the same magic used to preserve the house itself. She then took pulled some bread from the wall, made a sandwich with salami from a window curtain, and spread on some mustard from a plant in the window.

“I know it’s more common for witches to have gingerbread houses, but I’ve never really liked sweets that much,” explained Bleakie.

“So you are a witch?” asked the Scarecrow.

“Yes, but it’s been a long time since I’ve practiced.”

When the witch and the mule had finished eating, the party left the house. On the way out, Nerverax remarked, “I think I’d like to make a model of your house, Mrs. Bleakie.”

“Oh? Do you make models?” asked Scraps.

“I used to. I’ve sort of fallen out of practice, but maybe I should start again.”

The party journeyed out of the woods and to the Yellow Brick Road. Scraps asked if they should stop by the Emerald City, but Hank advised not doing so, as they did not want Betsy to find out about their search for her present. So instead, they cut around the green territory toward the west, passing near to Jack Pumpkinhead’s house, which was abandoned at the time. No one was totally sure of the correct route to Mombi’s farm, but the Scarecrow remembered the general direction, leading the others over the plains of the Winkie Country and the overgrown fields near the Gillikin border, then skirting the forest where the Loons live. Once they had come back into more cultivated land, the straw man noticed a building with a sign reading, “CAT CAFÉ.”

“Even if I ate meat, I don’t think I’d want to eat cats,” said Nerverax.

“They used to eat them on the Silver Island,” stated the Scarecrow, in a disgusted tone.

“Are we sure that’s what it means?” asked Scraps. “In my experience, cats are more likely to be predators than prey.”

When the party checked out the building, they found that it was not a café where cats were eaten, but rather one where they were the staff and customers. Cats of all shapes and sizes milled around inside, some resting in the light from the windows, others scratching old furniture, and still others being scratched by posts with arms and hands. Bleakie immediately started petting the cats who would come up to her. A few cats were chasing mice that turned out to be made of yarn, but not alive like Scraps, just animated to a limited degree. When Scraps knelt down to get a closer look, some kittens began grabbing at her hair.

“Have I lived this long to become a cat toy?” inquired the Patchwork Girl.

“My apologies,” stated an old tabby cat. “They’re not used to living beings made of yarn. Am I correct in assuming that you’re the famous Patchwork Girl?”

“Right on the nose, kitty.”

“I’d still prefer real mice to these yarn ones,” said a white cat with purple patches.

“You know we can’t do that, Violetta,” said the tabby. “The mice have a powerful organization, after all. The mice allied themselves with the Queen before she even took the throne. The first cat to gain any significance during her reign was accused of eating one of her pets, hardly an auspicious start to things.”

“Well, she DID want to eat Ozma’s piglet,” said the Scarecrow.

“Yes, not an intelligent move, certainly, but instinct can be quite powerful, even when there are meat plants available. We cats are wired to hunt, after all.”

“I thought it was the mice that were wired,” said one of the kittens.

“It’s a metaphor, young Belissima. So, what brings you here?”

“We were looking for my husband Jakgar,” explained Bleakie. “He went off years ago to find Mombi, and never came back.”

“What did Jakgar look like?” asked a scrawny black cat who was eating from a plate of tuna fish.

“He was tall and thin, with short red hair, and stooped a bit when he walked.”

“Oh, I think I saw him before! I don’t know what happened to him, though. He came to the house and talked to Mombi, who shooed me away.”

“Did you live with Mombi, then?” asked Hank.

“Not all the time. There were a lot of strays who went to her house. At least, they did until she starting sending us away because she was stockpiling mice, and didn’t want us to bother them.”

“Was this her house at the farm?” inquired the Scarecrow.

“No, it was the other one, on the other side of the Mauve Mountains. She abandoned it after it exploded.”

“I’m not sure I’ve heard of that one. Do you remember the way there?”

“Oh, yes! The only problem would be getting over the mountains. There are a lot of monsters lurking there.”

“Lurking? They can’t even skulk like respectable monsters?” asked Rax.

“I believe there’s a new route through the mountains, Daniel,” said the old tabby.

“Very well, then. Come with me, and I’ll lead you to Mombi’s old house,” declared the black cat.

The mule, the Scarecrow, the Patchwork Girl, the witch, and the Scare followed the cat, who was a bit unsteady on his feet, but still moved rather quickly. The Scarecrow asked the feline, “So your name is Daniel, then?”

“It’s not my ineffable, effable name, but it’s what I go by. I lived in a lions’ den, you see.”

When they had reached the base of the nearby Mauve Mountains, Scraps asked, “So where’s this route through these mountains?”

“Are we sure there really is one?” inquired Hank.

“I don’t think Lord Leviticus would steer us wrong,” said Daniel.

“Oh, so you want to cross the mountains, do you?” laughed a booming, hearty voice. Around the corner stepped a giant with a bushy purple beard and three-cornered hat, dressed in a large kilt and belt with several pouches attached to it. “You’d be well advised to try my new bullet train.”

“Well, I suppose so,” said the Scarecrow, who was a little nervous, if not as much as you might think when faced with a giant. He had seen many in his time, and few of them ate straw anyway.

The giant pointed to a train near a dark tunnel through the side of a mountain, and directed the others to enter it. They did, all sitting in the seats, with Hank taking up two of them. The giant then lifted the train and placed it inside an enormous pistol he drew from a pouch, and fired it right through the tunnel. It moved along at an incredible speed, through a passage that was pretty much entirely dark except for the occasional glimpse of glowing pink slime or flaming eyes. Finally, it began to slow down and exited the other side, hitting a giant cloth target and knocking the passengers around. When Rax, Bleakie, and Hank had recovered, everyone left the train.

“When he said a bullet train, I didn’t know it would be so literal,” said the witch, whose head was still spinning from the trip.

“Well, it does appear that we’re close by Mombi’s old house,” observed the cat, sniffing the air and the ground.

This side of the mountains was heavily forested and dark, but Daniel somewhat nervously led the way, past trees on which eyeballs appeared to be growing. In a nearby clearing, the cat entered a maze of corn, which the Scarecrow said made him feel at home. He felt less so when a giant crow flew down and grabbed him, but the bird was quickly scared away when Daniel let out a roar like a lion.

“Thank you, but how did you manage that?” asked the Scarecrow, as he picked himself up and dusted himself off.

“I told you I lived in a lions’ den,” explained the cat. “Sometimes nurture can be just as good as nature.”

“I don’t think the Cowardly Lion could have done any better, Danny Boy,” said the Patchwork Girl.

When the group had reached the end of the maze, Bleakie screamed when she saw a purple tentacle emerge from the ground. She muttered something that sounded like “soul eater” and began to run. Other tentacles grabbed the feet of the Scarecrow and Patchwork Girl. Since the Scarecrow was, to the best of his knowledge, animated by the spirit of the late Emperor of the Silver Island, he wondered if this would be the end of his life. As it turned out, though, the tentacle only sucked up the bottoms of his boots with some little mouths, then went underground again.

“Oh, curses! They got me!” exclaimed the witch, as the tentacles ate the bottoms of her boots as well.

“So this monster only ate part of our shoes?” asked Scraps.

“Yes, they’re Sole Eaters. It’s too bad, too, as I don’t know that they even make shoes like these anymore.”

“It reminds me of when the Heelers attacked the Emerald City,” said the Scarecrow.

“The Heelers ate shoes?”

“Well, technically, they ate votes. It’s just that we were using shoes to vote.”

As the Scarecrow had nothing between his straw and boots, he rode on Hank’s back, along with the Patchwork Girl. Bleakie made her way as best she could in her stocking feet. As Rax and Daniel did not wear shoes, and Hank’s shoes did not have soles as such, they were unmolested by the creature. The party came out of the spooky woods into a field of tall grass, where a pumpkin-shaped cottage with no roof stood.

“That would be Mombi’s old house,” declared Daniel.

“Looks a lot like Jack Pumpkinhead’s,” said Scraps.

“Yes, but it doesn’t look to be made from an actual pumpkin,” stated the Scarecrow.

“Please be quiet for a second,” said Nerverax, as he sniffed the air. “I think there’s a large deposit of fear around here. Underground, perhaps?”

“Maybe the well has something to do with it,” suggested Bleakie, as she walked over to a nearby well and tried to draw up the bucket. It was very heavy, however. Daniel jumped up to the edge of the well and looked in, making sure not to fall in.

“There’s a man down there,” said the cat. “And I think it’s the same one you told me about earlier.”

“Jakgar? Jakgar is in the well?” And with that, the witch recklessly jumped in, landing right on top of her prostrate husband. The Patchwork Girl began running around frantically, and the Scarecrow sat down to think of a solution, but the witch and the magician floated out of the well.

“How long have I been asleep for?” asked Jakgar, whose hair was quite disheveled. “I had terrible nightmares down there. I think it must connect with some sort of fear stream.”

“So what happened to you?” inquired Bleakie.

“I tried to cast a spell on Mombi to put her to sleep, like Glinda did with the Wicked Witch of the South. It backfired somehow, though, and I put myself to sleep instead. She must have thrown me in the well after that.”

“Do you know if there’s any way to access the fear stream?” inquired Rax.

“I would imagine it’s possible, if we set up some kind of system. Why?”

“We Scares live on fear, and we’re not getting enough these days. Maybe this stream could solve our problems.”

“I don’t see why not. It might take a little doing, though. Would we have to reroute the stream?”

“Couldn’t you put it in bottles?” suggested Scraps.

“Interesting possibility. I’m not sure where we’d get the bottles, though.”

“You need bottles?” squawked a voice. And, as the Scarecrow ran into the roofless cottage, leaving wisps of straw behind, a giant crow descended from the sky. “There’s a bottlefield not far from here with a whole lot of them.”

“That would be very helpful, birdie, but why did you try to take the Scarecrow?” asked Scraps.

“You mean the great symbol of the oppression of our kind?”

“Oh, he hasn’t tried to scare a crow in years, and even when he did, it was just his job. He’s never had anything against crows in general.”

“Well, then I apologize. He can’t help being what he is any more than the rest of us.”

With that, the crow flew away again, soon returning with some others of his kind, all carrying bottles. Jakgar and Bleakie combined their powers to bring the fear out of the well and into the bottles, finally amassing quite a significant amount of them. Nerverax tried one and found it quite satisfying. At the magician’s request, the crows agreed to take everyone to Scare City. The Scarecrow had emerged from the house from this time, wearing another pair of boots without intact soles over his regular ones, and quickly made peace with the leader of the birds.

“So, did you really have a lion along?” asked the crow leader.

“No, that was me,” said Daniel, who was held in the talon of this crow, with the Scarecrow in the other.

“You have quite an impressive voice for such a small animal. It’s good for us there aren’t any giant cats.”

“There are in Catty Corners, but they’re nowhere near your size. Lord Leviticus thinks they might have gotten that way from magical catnip, although there’s also talk of giant cats living in Merryland.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of catnip that causes growth, but I HAVE been asleep for a long time,” stated Jakgar. “I did once use magic to enlarge a tribe of Reddies. I wonder what happened to them.”

“My friend the Frogman ate some magic skosh that made him grow large,” said the Scarecrow, “but I believe it only grows on one mountain in the Winkie Country. And there are the magic muffins in the Hidden Valley, but they only work for a limited time.”

“Are any of you crows the one that frightened Tweedledum and Tweedledee?” questioned the Patchwork Girl.

“Not one of us, but perhaps one of our tribe,” answered the leader.

Taking a route as the crow flies (because they were), the birds soon alighted outside Scare City, a place of smoky air and cliffs lit by hundreds of goblin head lanterns. At the gate stood a six-foot-tall man with noses, eyes, and mouths all around his face.

“Nerverax? Is that you?” questioned the man, speaking with all of his mouths at once.

“Yes, Father,” responded the boy. “I have returned with a cure for our lack of fear.”

Jakgar handed the man a bottle, which he drank with his front mouth, while Scraps commented that Nerverax had his father’s eyes. When he had finished, the gatekeeper said, “This is the best early birthday present a Scare could ask for! Do you have any more of this?”

“Yes,” replied Bleakie, holding up several bottles, “and there’s plenty more where that came from.”

“Come with me to see the King!”

The group, not including the giant crows who remained outside, followed the Chief Scarer through the eerie, rocky city. When they had reached a courtyard, he blew a red whistle, and the King stepped out on top of a flat stone. This monarch had a human-shaped body, but with the eyes of a pig, the ears of a donkey, the beard of a goat, the mane of a lion, and a horn for a nose.

“Your Majesty,” said the Scarer, “my son and his friends have solved our hunger problem!”

“Oh, they have, have they?” asked the King, honking through his nose as he spoke. “Do they volunteer to serve as sacrifices?”

“Even better,” stated Rax. “The substance in these bottles is pure fear, and there’s enough to go around.”

“Fear from a bottle? What in monsternation is this? Is this why we were given our wonderfully horrendous forms and powers by the Witch Queen?”

“But we’ve lost much of that power,” argued the Chief Scarer, “and people aren’t all that scared of us anymore either.”

“Never!”

“Well, it sounds like a good idea to me,” said a woman with four clawed hands and white hair with black streaks in it. Soon, other Scares had gathered, forming two distinct groups, one for and one against the new means of obtaining sustenance. At a few blasts from the King’s nose, the two sides began battling, with the visitors helping out on the Chief Scarer’s side. Hank kicked a few of the opposing Scares, and the Patchwork Girl let loose with her fists, although they did not have much force behind them. The Scares, however, were much more used to frightening others and not to fighting, let alone doing so to each other. When most of the horrors had collapsed on the ground in exhaustion, Bleakie waved her arms and shouted five magic words. The King and the other Scares on his side promptly vanished.

“What did you do to them?” asked Nerverax.

“I sent them back to my old place in the forest,” explained the witch.

“What, that one house?”

“No, there’s plenty of room there for them, and it’s spooky enough for them. Jakgar and I talked it over, and we’re going to start living in Mombi’s old pumpkin house.”

“Without a roof?” inquired the Scarecrow.

“That won’t be a problem. If there’s one thing my magic is good at, it’s restoring things to previous states.”

“Like Oklahoma?” asked the mule.

“No, like a previous condition.”

The arrangements were soon made for Jakgar and Bleakie to stay at Mombi’s old cottage bottling fear, which the crows distributed to Scare City. The crows had become friendly with the Scarecrow, and asked him and the others to join them in a crow-kay game sometime. Not too much longer after that, King Harum Scarum sent a two-headed raven as a messenger to ask if his followers could also have some of the bottled fear, as they were tired of starving and ready to negotiate, and the magicians were glad to oblige. Some of the Scares who had been sent to the forest returned to the city; but others, including the ruler himself, liked the atmosphere and remained there.

“There’s nothing like a job well done,” remarked the Scarecrow, as he and Scraps rode on the mule’s back toward the Emerald City.

“Job well done? What do you mean? We never even found a present for Betsy,” declared Hank.

“Oh, right! Wasn’t that stupid of us?” asked the Patchwork Girl.

“Wait!” called Rax, running toward the mule and the stuffed people. “As a reward for saving Scare City, my father wanted you to have this.”

The boy handed the Scarecrow a small globe with a carving of Scare City inside. When shaken like a snow globe, the city lit up, and tiny Scares emerged from behind buildings.

“Who made this?” asked Scraps.

“I did, actually, years ago. My dad told me it was excellent work, but there was no real use for in the city itself, so he would give it to someone who did a great service for our community. I don’t know of anyone more deserving than you. The only problem is that it fell from a shelf and broke during one of our scaring sessions. So I had Jakgar restore it for you.”

“Well, I think this would make an excellent present for Betsy.”

“Then I suppose all’s well that ends well,” admitted Hank.

“And this one really did end with a well.”



THE END



REFERENCES



Donald Abbott’s How the Wizard Saved Oz for Mombi’s old pumpkin-shaped house and the Mauve Mountains. This book is difficult to fit into a larger sense of Ozian history due to a take on the situation with Mombi, Pastoria, the Wizard, and Ozma that does not square with the canon; but I still liked it, and perhaps some version of its events took place even if some parts have to be disregarded.

L. Frank Baum’s Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz for the trial of Dorothy’s kitten

Dot and Tot of Merryland for giant cats living in Merryland

Emerald City for Utensia and the Spoon Brigade

Lost Princess for the introduction of the Frogman and the magic skosh

Scarecrow for the Scarecrow’s meeting with Blinkie

Bill Campbell and Irwin Terry’s Masquerade for establishing Betsy’s birthday. It’s also the story where Scraps accidentally mixes up everyone’s minds during a masquerade.

Rachel Cosgrove’s Hidden Valley for the magic muffins

Chris Dulabone’s Dagmar for Mombi living with the Clambakes and their giant flea

Greg Gick et al’s Bucketheads for Tekrouri Troll bringing Mombi back.

Greg Hunter’s “Betsy Bobbin” tells how Betsy found her old doll and her parents.

Philip John Lewin’s Witch Queen for the story of the titular character and her creations

John R. Neill’s Lucky Bucky for Jack Pumpkinhead’s painting of Mombi coming to life and giant crows playing crow-kay

Wonder City for Heelers eating shoes and the Scarecrow as King of the Munchkins

Susan Saunders’ Dorothy and the Magic Belt for Mombi being youthened

Jack Snow’s Who’s Who for establishing the Chief Scarer’s birthday as Halloween

Ruth Plumly Thompson’s Giant Horse for the story of Tattypoo driving Mombi out of her old house

Gnome King for Scraps as Queen of Patch

Jack Pumpkinhead for the introduction of Scare City, as well as the Reddies Jakgar mentioned. Their story is told in my “Reddy and Willing.”

Lost King for Kimbaloo and Catty Corners. It’s also where the Scarecrow and Sir Hokus melt Mombi, or at least they think they do. See David Tai’s “Executive Decisions” for another possibility.

Royal Book for the Scarecrow as Emperor of the Silver Island

The temp job I've been doing since the beginning of March ends this week. I'm not sure what I'll be doing after that, although I do have plans to do some volunteer/internship work and can hopefully go back to the freelance data entry stuff. The job is eight hours plus an hour lunch, and I have to commute to Manhattan and back, so I'm sure it will be nice to save that time. Still, money is also important. I have to admit I feel rather incompetent for being thirty-eight and never really having worked full-time.

I've been playing The Sims 4 recently, since it was on sale and I can't get Sims 3 to load anymore. The newest installment runs much more smoothly, but that's partially because it doesn't have the open world that the previous game did. I wrote a little about how it differs from earlier versions, and mentioned how I like to make Sims of characters I've made up but haven't really done much of anything with. I have drafts of Oz stories that involve a dimensional traveler named Xornom and a witch named Myrena (daughter of Medea from Greek mythology), and while I have details of their backgrounds planned out, I haven't actually written them yet. It seems to be a thing on the Internet for people to come up with their own characters, even if there isn't actually a story for them yet. I was just thinking that it's kind of weird, because interactions between characters are often my favorite parts of a story to write, but I'm a socially awkward shut-in who has no idea how real people generally interact. In fact, I suspect quite a few writers are. So does it come across as phony, or is it one of those cases where nobody expects fiction to be totally realistic? Maybe I'm just writing versions of myself, although I don't buy that because I'd never do most of what characters in my stories do. L. Frank Baum allegedly once complained that his characters wouldn't do what he wanted them to, but I can't recall ever feeling that way. That said, I DO sometimes have trouble figuring out how a character would ever get into a certain situation, but that's not to say they really take control.

I've been working a bit on a follow-up to "Prince Pompadore in Oz," which was published in the most recent issue of Oziana. I already had the main idea, about Evered's father Asha (who is mentioned in passing in The Hungry Tiger of Oz as having retired from ruling Rash to study radio) returning to his homeland and finding his missing wife, but I've expanded it a bit and introduced other plotlines. It's probably going to be pretty short overall, but much longer than my original take. I'm also probably going to take another crack at The Giant Rabbit of Oz soon, but while there's a lot I like about that one, I really can't work out an ending that makes sense to me. I also tend to disappoint myself because I'm always coming up with ideas when I'm in a situation where writing them down is pretty much impossible, then when I actually do have the ability to write I'm too tired or just not in the mood. And how many people read Oz stories, anyway? I also have a bunch of Web browser tabs open that I have to look at, and some games that I want to try out. It's sad when you feel like you have to force yourself into doing something that's only for fun anyway.

Speaking of Oz, the convention in Portland, Oregon is coming up soon, and I might be participating in a panel. I haven't been to one of these in sixteen years, so I'm pretty excited, although I haven't been thinking that much about it because there's so much else going on. I've participated in costume contests at earlier conventions, but didn't have any ideas for this one, or at least none that seemed realistic. I'm not going to have time to do anything else in the area while I'm there, which is kind of a shame, as I wouldn't mind visiting Powell's Books again. I bought a pretty cheap paperback of Grampa in Oz when I was there before.

Today, Beth and I went to the Pride March in Manhattan, and stayed about an hour and fifteen minutes before she started feeling crappy from the heat and lack of sleep, and had to go sit down. What we saw included commemoration of the Orlando shooting, but also some fun costumes.

I'd never seen so many rainbow socks in my life. Honestly, I don't think I knew what I was missing.

And while I don't like being in a crowd, I'm glad it draws a lot of people. After leaving, we ate lunch at the Heartland Brewery at the Empire State Building, then stopped by Nintendo World.

We didn't buy anything, but there were stuffed Boom-Booms that I thought were cool. His female counterpart Pom-Pom was also there, and while I'm not really familiar with the game she was in (Super Mario 3D Land, I believe), I like the idea.

I haven't written a post here in a while, and I'm not sure many people even remember that LiveJournal still exists, but I thought I might do a life update of sorts. For one thing, I received the pictures I commissioned from Becca, who's really cool and has been having a difficult time of things recently. She drew a picture of Beth with Wally (who's actually sitting on me right now, but I don't know how long he'll stay), and one of Glinda and Ozma.


Yesterday, I went with Beth and Tavie to the Guggenheim Museum, where today is the last day you can get a free year-long membership with a New York City ID from 2015. They're currently renovating a lot of it, so there were quite a few closed spaces, and you couldn't go all the way down the spiral. I'm sure that, as a kid, I would have just wanted to run down that without more than a cursory glance at the exhibits. My parents won't let me forget about the time we went to Ausable Chasm and I ran through as much of it as possible, heedless of the fact that this was really dangerous. I did get some pictures of people working on exhibits down on the bottom floor.

I have to wonder what the purpose of the decapitated panda is. They had a Kandinsky exhibit that I quite liked; I'm not always that big on abstract art, but his paintings are just so colorful and active.

I also thought that this water fountain looked like something from a fairy tale castle.

Yeah, I know the fountain wasn't on display, but I tend to notice side details like that. It's like how, when I'd go to theme parks as a kid, I was fascinated by how minor aspects were made to fit the theme of a particular area, and somewhat bothered when they didn't fit. I remember reading that one reason Walt Disney insisted on the underground passages at Walt Disney World was that it took people out of the fantasy when costumed employees had to walk through the wrong part of the park, like an astronaut in Frontierland. Honestly, though, that probably would have just amused me, like when people wear Starfleet uniforms to the Renaissance Faire and pretend they've gone back in time.

After the museum, we met Stephanie at a Greek restaurant and had dinner there. I had seafood and pasta with tomato sauce, which kind of seems more Italian than Greek, but they are pretty close to each other. There are a lot of similarities between food from different Mediterranean nations. My taste in food is mostly pretty mundane. I like pizza, pasta, shrimp, and hot dogs. I'm not as big on burgers as my wife is, but I still enjoy them, especially when I can get them with a cheese other than American. I can usually find something I like at just about any restaurant, though. My main issues are that I won't eat anything too spicy, I don't much care for onions and peppers, and potatoes and rice aren't that agreeable to me unless they have enough other flavors mixed in (which means I'll generally eat them fried, because pretty much all fried food tastes about the same). I realize I'm a really picky eater, but I think I'm getting better. I gave Beth part of the salad that came with my meal (hers didn't come with one), but I actually thought it was pretty good for a salad. Pretty much everything came with feta cheese, which has a good flavor to it.

I just recently learned that there's an Oz Convention in Philadelphia this year, so it would be kind of silly if I didn't go to it. I'm seriously considering going to the one in Oregon as well; the rates actually went up today, but not by that much. A bigger concern is whether I should take Beth, who's not into Oz stuff, but I do like sharing my interests with her. I go to the Monster-Mania Convention with her, and have learned to appreciate the horror genre, but those conventions are a lot cheaper. On the other hand, you don't get meals there. The last time I went to one of the Oz Club's conventions was in 2000, and I enjoyed them a lot back then. That's not to say there weren't slow parts, but usually I could find something to read or otherwise check out during those. There are so many stories I started reading at conventions that I wish I could find again.

While I read all of Mari Ness's Oz reviews and am currently keeping up with her write-ups on Disney animated films and their source material, I wasn't aware until this week that she reviewed the Chronicles of Narnia five years ago. Reading her thoughts and the comments made me want to write some more about Narnia, but looking back through my previous posts on the series, I've already covered just about everything I can think of. It happens to me every so often that I think I have a good idea for a post, then I find I've already written it. The Narnia series is one I grew up enjoying and still do, but I've also found quite a bit about it objectionable or just plain sloppy. It was pointed out a few times in Mari's posts and the comments on them how small Narnia is, both in terms of land area and how long it lasted. While not explicitly stated in the books, C.S. Lewis' timeline indicated that the entire world lasted a mere 2555 years from creation to destruction. I noted in my brief review of The Last Battle when I re-read it ten years ago that the Narnian apocalypse came across as fairly small-time and unnecessary. The ape and his donkey partner in a lion skin were not at all threatening, but apparently Aslan thought their playing a trick was enough to wipe out the whole place. But then, attempts to end a popular series are rarely very convincing to the fans. Just ask L. Frank Baum or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (you know, if they were still alive and able to be asked anything).

I had an interview on Thursday for a temporary assignment, and while I don't want to go into too much detail on a public post, it sounded promising. Most of the snow in the area has been cleaned up by now, but the intersections always seem to be particularly bad. There was even a New York Times article about it. Oh, and I guess this Thursday is when I'll see Jenny Lewis, so that's something to look forward to.

Beth and I actually went out tonight and the past two nights. While I don't regret it, I do appreciate days when I don't have to get dressed. Actually, I guess I should take this back to Monday, when we went to Coney Island and rode a few rides at the Wonder Wheel Park. There were hardly any lines there at the time, and I think we were the only ones on the Scrambler.

We ate at Wahlburgers, the restaurant owned by Mark and Donny Wahlberg that has kind of a Boston theme. The waitress had a Boston accent, although I don't know how authentic it was. Beth had a burger with some weird sauce on it. Okay, it wasn't that weird, but most sauces are weird when you're a picky eater like I am. I had a fish sandwich. The upstairs part of the restaurant was open-air dining, so I'm not sure what they'll do when it's too cold for that. Like tonight, for instance.


On Friday, we saw Rasputina at the Highline Ballroom. I don't think they'd played any shows in some time, and there was a different lineup on this tour. The second cellist was Carmella Parvo, whose real name I don't know, but I think parvo is a disease puppies get. Luis Mojica played keyboards, although on some songs that just meant a programmed beat. The band played a mix of older and newer songs, but sounded really good throughout. The opener was Daniel Knox, who had a good voice, but his music didn't really grab me.

Oh, well. After the show, we ate at a nearby diner. On Saturday, we saw Dave Fox's band Dead on a Friday at Grand Victory in Williamsburg. It's annoying that the only way (or at least the most convenient way) to get there from where we live involves riding the subway to Manhattan, then back to Brooklyn again. The show was fun, though. We ate at McDonald's that night, and I have to say I'm much more amenable to that since they started serving breakfast all day. The breakfast items they serve are limited, with the bagel and biscuit sandwiches not being includes, but I do like Egg McMuffins. I'm not sure how much longer the extended breakfast will last, so I should take advantage of it while I can, right?


Tonight's excursion was with Tavie and Stephanie to Randalls Island for the New York Haunted Hayride, which might be the only one they have in the city. It was pretty fun, but I didn't expect it to be as cold as it was. I had wanted to wear my 1998 Munchkin Convention T-shirt, which is somewhat appropriate as it has a picture of Mombi stirring a cauldron.

I did wear it, but I had to put on a jacket on top of it, which rather spoiled the effect. The ride was enjoyable, but it was weird that they didn't have any chainsaws. Aren't they required to be part of every haunted hayride? There was a van that transported us to the island and back for a nominal fee, but we had to wait a long time for it to arrive after the ride.

Last night, we watched a few Halloween episodes of old television shows, including Mr. Belvedere and Punky Brewster. What's annoying is how many results there are on YouTube where they don't show the entire episode, or it isn't in English. They've also started putting pay content on YouTube, which I'm against. There are already plenty of sites where you can pay to watch video. We did see a Raggedy Ann and Andy special from 1979 with a really annoying jack o' lantern. The voice cast was small, but it did include Daws Butler and June Foray. I have to wonder if they got drunk before recording, however. For that matter, the Raggedys even LOOKED kind of drunk.

I went to the doctor (but not to the mountains) on the Friday before last because they wouldn't let me get a refill on my medicine otherwise, even though this doctor didn't prescribe it for me in the first place. Then, due to some kind of mix-up, I wasn't able to get the prescription until Tuesday anyway. It's very frustrating that the doctor, insurance company, and pharmacy can't work these things out amongst themselves. I signed up to get my medicine by mail order, but even though the doctor said he okayed it, there was no record of that at CVS Caremark. I ended up having to give them all my information again. I like my current doctor pretty well, but I hate that a doctor visit is inevitably going to include someone asking if I check my blood sugar, which I haven't been doing. I know I should, but I don't want to be shamed for not doing it. The doctor's assistant also mentioned last time that I'd gained weight, but my weight fluctuates a lot without any noticeable catalysts. And I was a scrawny kid, so I'm not really all that concerned about it.

On Thursday, Beth and I went to see our friend Dave's punk band, Dead on a Friday, perform at a bar in Williamsburg (the one in Brooklyn). Here's a picture she took:

It was for the release of their new album, which Beth bought there. Also in attendance was Emmy-winning writer Matt Koff. Two days later, we visited the Museum of Natural History, which has free admission for the year with a New York City ID card. It still costs extra to see special exhibits, though. We weren't able to spend more than three hours there, but we were able to see most of the stuff they had, and we can always come back later. The planetarium is currently closed, but it's scheduled to reopen in late November. (By the way, was actress Hayden Panetierre named after the Hayden Planetarium?) Here are some pictures I took at the museum:
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You can find more at my Flickr account and my Facebook.

I haven't been writing much about dreams recently, but there have been some recurring themes as of late that I thought would be worth mentioning. I've had a few where I was carrying around a big stack of magazines, often including pornographic ones, and not knowing what to do with them. I had a dream a few nights ago about going to an Oz Convention where no one would talk to me and I couldn't find the merchandise. It wasn't really a bad experience, but those things frustrated me. I haven't been to an Oz Convention since the big one in 2000. I'm debating whether or not to go to the Winkie Convention next year, which is in Portland, Oregon. I kind of wish I'd gone while they were holding it in San Diego, since I've never been there before, but I have been to Portland. And last night, one of my dreams involved being at my dad's house while he was playing some game with a bunch of guests, and even though I wasn't playing, he wouldn't give me any straight answers and I kept running into people even when I was trying to use the bathroom.

Tonight, Beth and I are seeing They Might Be Giants at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. I bought a ticket to see Robyn Hitchcock at the City Winery in November; and I wanted to get one for Jenny Lewis in February, but it sold out when I wasn't really paying attention. There's going to be a second show, and I hope to remember to buy a ticket for that one.