Dear Blog:

I wholeheartedly apologize for my absence of near on five months. I was sidetracked while thwarting a nefarious scheme of world-domination by a dimensional hopping race of hyper evolved foot-fungi, with the help of a most unlikely companion: a talking, homicidal salamander named Dr. Skallymagtanomous. I would have been here sooner, but he insisted I accompany him on further adventures across the omni-verse, and…well, he has a laser scalpel. Sorry I’ve been away. But now I’m back!

your friend,

-Joshua

P.S. Unless, of course, the good, scalpel-wielding doctor has a penchant for wearing other people’s faces, and I never did come back.

sincerely,

-Dr. S.

P.S.S. Like a glove.

Five Months Gone & the Fjords

Hey everyone!

I’m back and in the process of building up my brand new blog (smell that new blog smell) over here at: https://joshuadoetsch.wordpress.com/ having uploaded about 8 years of bast blogage.

If you are reading this at another blog, worry not, there is a good chance that shouldn’t change and I’ll find a way to forward posts there via client, cut ’n paste, messenger pigeon, or by carving it with my laser scalpel upon the flesh of those who cross me. But…if I’m absent again from here (wherever that is), then go to the above link.

Now…the last five months could use a lot of elaboration. There have been multiple continents, projects, and alcoholic beverages made out of distilled metaphors. But there is no time! Inigo, what should we do?

“We sum up!”

Right. So last we left off, I was still in Norway, a year into my gig writing video game dialogue for Funcom. I was getting ready to hop countries, again, this time to Montreal, Canada, to write at Funcom’s new studio there. But there were things to do before leaving Scandinavia. One was to go with Oliver, a British buddy from work, and take a backpacking week through the Norwegian Fjords. This deserves its own post (and perhaps it will get one), but for now, let us say it involved rescuing a caterpillar; drinking in a meed hall; having a Nordic epic about brown cheese read to us by an Icelander and a Norwegian; a terrifying man pointing at us, in the cemetery, and shouting, “Mr. Inbetween!”; and seeing lots of scenery like this:

Norwegian fjords (2010)

An Interlude Home

Before reaching Montreal, I took a month of vacation at home, and made a mad dash to see as many of those I missed as I possibly could. I went to Island Lake, to Chicago, to Milwaukee, to Springfield, to Indianapolis, and other places besides. I also visited GenCon 2010 to get a nice injection of my gamer roots. So much to tell here…but time is short…and my new face itches!

But perhaps I could take a moment to elaborate on…

“Sum up, damn you!”

Right! Moving on.

Montreal: Real Women Wear One Painted Boxing Glove

I moved to Montreal. Much to say. But there is no time! Let me hit some random highlights. I got an apartment and I adopted a one-eyed black cat named Raven.

At a party, a girl from work mixed metaphor drinks. That is to say, there was a large and varied supply of drink accouterments, and she would not accept regular orders. Instead, you had to give her some image or idea and she would make the drink to fit it. I ordered two drinks that night. They were as follows:

DRINK #1: Flying and skidding across rooftops, like a skipping-stone, across the night city-scape sky, powered by wind and umbrella, kicking up roof tiles along the way.

DRINK #2: A dwarf sits in a graveyard, atop a mausoleum, playing sad, plastic kazoo nocturnes to the love he never had, interred within.

Both drinks tasted spot on. We drank metaphors and we were merry.

On more than one Sunday, I visited the park and the Tamtams. It’s a wonderfully gypsy collection of people organically gathering, drummers and other musicians, vendors, and an assortment of others. They play by the statue and if you wander in the woods you come across folks having medieval battles with foam weapons.

One day, while walking down the street, I came across a very long patio that ran the length of what I thought was an apartment building (but now suspect is some kind of hospital). A woman in a bathrobe marched up and down the patio, very officially. A set of giant headphones connected her to a discman. As she marched, she shook a pair of maracas to the beat of whatever she was listening to. A single boxing glove, decorated with very bright paints and designs, hung from her waist. She stopped me to ask the significance of my T-shirt (it was my I’M A NEIL GAIMAN CHARACTER shirt). I said he is an author. She nodded knowingly. “Spiritual books.” No, I said. He’s a fiction writer. At this she shook her head, realizing there were graver duties to be getting to, and she put back her giant headphones and went back to her maraca marching, the super technicolor boxing glove bouncing at her waste. I wish I’d asked her what she was listening to.

That’s all for today, lambkins. The little hand says it’s time to skedaddle.