Tag Archives: odin

Allfathers

25 Saturday Jun 2011

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Last Sunday was the day of fathers—the Zeus to the Hercules, the Odin to the Thor, the Heathcliff Huxtable to the Theo. I would sing the praises of my Allfather. Why deserveth he of mention? Well, good pilgrim, pour yourself a tall, frothy glass of SHUTUP AND LISTEN and I will count the ways…

To the man who, to impress my mom on a date, froze an escalator by kicking it in a secret place (known only to him and Erasmus of Rotterdam). That is some serious fucking Fonzie mojo! Despite what she says to this day, I think my mother was impressed. As physical evidence, I submit my existence, if it pleases the court.

To the man who, when I was a boy, would ask questions like, “What were you thinking about just then?” in such a way that it somehow projected admiration for the fact that I often get lost in my own head. Not everyone in my life has projected admiration for that particular character trait.

To the man who introduced me to story. He did it in a number of ways. There were the bedtime readings—sadistic cliffhangers in Hardy Boys novels that would have to wait until tomorrow night. He introduced me to audio fiction. I remember the first audio book I listened to (on a family road trip to Florida), Darker Than Amber, by John D. MacDonald. Then there were the movies, countless classic movies. He introduced me to Aliens when I was maybe just a little too young, and chestbursters became part of pantheon of childhood thrills (a childhood without the occasional sharp spikes of terror cutting through the happy line…would be a sad and boring thing to look back on).

To the man who worked hard, at jobs he did not always like, to support us, and the man who never let his day job define him. Mark the photographer. Mark the magician. Mark the jolly pirate (200 years too late).

To the man who took me on countless photo safaris into the Everglades. Some of my earliest friends were alligators—God’s consolation prize for not keeping the dinosaurs around.

To the man who introduced me to Key West.

To the man who is the model for how I deal with the world. I don’t always get it right, but I at least have an outline.

To the man who taught me how to make a tastier daiquiri than the one you’re drinking now.

To the cool Dad. That is how he was known. That is how he remains to be known. They say he’s the cool Dad. They say mom is the hot mom. They say he’s the cool dad who married the hot mom. So…king’s to you, good sir!

To the man who serves as a model of fatherhood to friends who were less fortunate in that department. It’s been brought to my attention, more than once, by independent parties. He should know that.

To the man who (among others) showed me, by example, that some angels have course mouths, and some devils have perfect, politically-correct vocabularies. You have to separate the stuff from the stuff.

To the man willing to go to the last place on earth he wanted to be. It’s easy to fantasize about finding oneself interceding in a child abuse scenario—rescuing the child—kicking the abuser’s ass. The reality is much messier, when it is unclear who is at fault or if abuse actually happened or if something’s been exaggerated. I remember the night when all he wanted was to stay in bed, but when a friend of one of his sons (someone he didn’t really know) showed up hysterical on the doorstep, he got us all in the car and we went to somewhere he really did not want to be. This was in my head the night, years later at a Buffetf concert, my brother and I stepped between a very huge, very violent biker (who had no neck) and the man he was beating senseless. It was the last place I wanted to be (but that’s another story, and I only mention it for my own self-satisfaction).

To the man who taught me that fault is the thing others assign to you and responsibility is the thing you assign yourself. He never put it that way, but showed me by example.

To the man who taught me some of the most virtuous things you’ll do in this life are not the big, theoretical, faraway ones people shriek shrilly about on Facebook (when everyone is looking)—they’re often the things no one will likely ever notice.

But I noticed, Dad.

It’s one of the things I was thinking about when I was lost in my head.

D’em Coffins What Float On d’e Ocean

14 Monday Sep 2009

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“Oslo is a city without a city culture. Nobody here comes from a city. Everyone comes from somewhere small.”

This was told to me while we were ordering drinks at the bar at Dr. Jekyll’s Pub. I found the idea intriguing, but also, I really had to pee.

Eventually, we got our drinks and made it back to the table with the others. When I finally got to the bathroom, I was greeted by wide-mouthed gargoyle-headed urinals, and I thought, “I’m home—jiggity-jig.”

These are the palpitating jubilations one feels before paying a bar tab in Oslo, not after.

*Absence Makes the Grinch’s Heart Grow Three Sizes Fonder*
So I haven’t updated the exploits in a while. The excuses shall be presented in alphabetical order:

-”A” is for apathy.
-I was sick with what may or may not have been the swine flu.
-Funcom quarantined me in my old apartment for a week.
-My old apartment lost it’s internet connection.
-Was then busy moving into new apartment.
-Zebras ate my homework.

We’ll get back to all those points…but I wasn’t really suffering from apathy. But then I only said that “A” is for apathy, so the statement remains correct.

*The All-Father Has a Bus Pass*
When I met the god, Odin, I was waiting for the bus and in between tracks on my iPod.

He was the only other person at the bus stop. He was dressed in a ragged, colorless coat of oily textures. Maybe homeless looking…maybe not. Greasy, tendrils of gray-white hair hung off his head and a beard to match.

One eye was alright.

One eye—the left eye—was dead.

Something awful happened to that eye. Either that, or he lost his original eye and H.R. Giger is on the Norwegian health plan for fabricating prosthetics.

I say dead eye, but not dead like a shark’s—this eye could still focus, or more accurately, point. I was looking him over because he looked like an interesting character (and you have to keep a hidden Rolodex for things like that) and he looked up with his good eye and pointed the dead eye at me.

Eyes are a favorite descriptive point for storytellers, used and overused (kind of the “Stairway to Heaven” of character description), so I hate to use a cliche involving eyes piercing me…but dammit that dead eye was very stabby—like rusty-coffin-nails-jabbing-your-skull sort of stabby.

He stared at me and I tried, but I couldn’t maintain the gaze and had to look away. Something was inexplicably disturbing about him, beyond a messed up eye. And he kept staring at me, more and more rusty coffin nails puncturing my periphery.

Then I got on the bus.

There were ravens cawing. I don’t know if they were his. Or maybe they were crows—I’ll have to look that up—corvids anyway. Here they have black heads, tails, and wings, but bodies the color of ash.

*Viking Ships Down the River Styx*
Funcom has stacks and stacks of a handy little pocket book to hand out: Oslo – A Poor Man’s Connoisseur Guide to Happy Living in One of the Most Expensive Cities in the World. The book is only slightly shorter than the title. There are a lot of nifty locations listed. I’m kind of making it a mission to visit all of them.

A few weeks back, I visited the peninsula of Bygdøy which juts into the water south of where I work. There are beaches there and other attractions. First stop…a viking ship museum!

There are three ships there, all wood, all well over a thousand years old each, all incredibly well made, and all more or less preserved because when a ship was retired, a some person of importance was buried inside of it, beneath protective layers of clay. And so the ships become interesting to both history buffs and sepulchral enthusiasts. To prepare a soul for the Afterlife journey, they are buried in a fine ship, with treasure, weapons, food, supplies, and even dogs. That’s going to the Underworld in STYLE. Some cultures only give you two coins in the eyes for the public metro.

I saw various interesting artifacts including a pieces of wood with nordic ruins meaning “unwise person” and a glass cup that was already an antique when it was buried over a thousand years ago.

*No Tan Lines?*
After the viking ships, I took the bus to the end of the line to explore some of the beaches of Bygdøy. Rolling topography and trees make it so that you really can’t see the beaches or ocean from where the bus drops you off so I just picked a random path and walked. Trees gave way, salt filled the air, and I walked right out onto…a nude beach!

What happened to puritans?

The vikings ate them, you say?

*TO BE CONTINUED…*
Stay tuned for the rest of my misadventures during my blogging hiatus—they involve swine flu, drama, boat trips, islands, a 12th century monastery, cemeteries by night, and an attack by a plastic bag…honest.