Shoon's Bloog

Cenfus

2006-12-01T12:53:00.000-05:00

The tale of Cenfus, successor to Seaxburh’s throne, is a tragic one indeed. It’s also very short, so luckily one doesn’t feel too bad after hearing it.

Born sometime in the 650s, Cenfus was the son of Cenwalh and Seaxburh. He had a troubled childhood, his father insane and his mother a tyrant. Things became much worse for the young prince in 659, when he was kidnapped by elite mudskipper assassins and brought deep into Wales to be brainwashed by the evil squid David. David, his years advancing and his powers declining, had come up with a plan to use Cenfus as a sleeper agent within the kingdom of Wessex. The young boy endured horrible torment, as all of the dungeon masters in Wales at the time possessed large pinchers. He fiercely resisted David’s manipulations, however, and the squid eventually lost interest in the poor boy. At some time during his stay in David’ dungeons, Cenfus fathered a child named Escwin.

Cenfus was to be executed in 666 as the finale of a grand ceremony commemorating the 30th anniversary of David winning the lottery. His luck finally took a positive turn, however, when the stage collapsed during the performance of an unusually hefty dancing troupe. In the madness and confusion that followed, Cenfus noticed that his cage had never actually been locked and was able to flee into the Welsh wilderness with his son.

After a full decade of hiding and hoping, Cenfus was able to escape from Wales and return to Wessex in 676. He quickly learned that his father had died two years before and his mother’s death had come only a few days ago. Cenfus was discovered by a group of nobles who promptly declared they had found the new King of Wessex. Cenfus’ first decree was to make 666 (the year of his escape from Wales) the luckiest number in the entire kingdom, then died suddenly from an aortic aneurysm. Cenfus’ reign had lasted 17 seconds, and his son promptly succeeded him.

Escwin’s first decree was to make 666 the most unlucky number in the entire kingdom.

Harthas Bird Prequel 3

2006-08-10T11:22:00.000-04:00

The sixty or so Aviati that engaged Droigan's army had no intentions of resorting to unorthodox tactics, and indeed they had no reason to. Most of the human commanders were impaled in a few minutes, and the mercenaries fell into chaos quite quickly. An unexpected development was the difficulty the Wing-Demons had in killing the large, dark-haired man who appeared to be in charge of the mercenaries. Harthas Droigan was far more nimble than his size would suggest. One Alu warrior, after two earlier misses, finally struck the big man and was convinced he would fall. When she turned to confirm her kill, however, she discovered that Droigan was not only alive, but that he had returned her spear with alarming force. She was one of two Aviati warriors killed in the entire affair.

Harthas Droigan managed to survive the rain of spears and watched as the Aviati began their lethal descent. He later came to believe that the Aviati had grown fearful of his apparent invincibility, but a more likely explanation for their change in strategy involves their realization that Droigan no longer had any control over his soldiers.

As his soldiers were routed around him, Droigan found himself ignored for quite some time. It was only in the final throes of the battle that a Vwr fighter came across the solitary commander. A thrilling duel followed, with Droigan finding the Vwr too quick to assault and the Wing-Demon soon appreciating the human's brilliant swordplay. The stalemate broke when Droigan's patience and sharp eye finally rewarded him. The Vwr warrior lunged forward, and a quick sidestep and vicious slash from Droigan relieved the Aviati of much of his left arm. The Wing-Demon, Hafen his name, shrieked in painful rage and charged, but Droigan dealt his opponent a grave dishonor. He brushed past the outstretched talons of Hafen's remaining arm, grabbed the Vwr by the neck, and brought his opponent crashing to the ground. Hafen's skull was driven into a stone and the contents of his head spilled onto the battlefield. While the Vwr lay quivering, alive but dead, Droigan took a fistful of feathers and made an effort to scalp the bird. Unsatisfied with the defiling of his enemy, he hacked off the bird's remaining limbs, broke open its beak and pulled out its tongue. Hafen still lived, so Droigan began to drag the fallen warrior along by its eye sockets, but the bird died early in this final act of torture. This brutality would give Harthas Droigan the last satisfaction he would feel for a very long time.

Finding himself ignored again (the Aviati were amusing themselves with the men that had tried to escape back to Llamp), Droigan fled into the lower reaches of the nearest mountains and was able to survive there until a clear path to Llamp opened many days later. No other mercenary survived the battle. The Aviati returned to find Hafen's broken and ruined body in the dust. Had Droigan heard their cries of anguish, he may well have felt satisfaction again. The next discovery by the Wing-Demons, however, would have chilled the man's heart to the core. Though they searched long and hard, the Aviati could not find the corpse of the mercenary leader. Rudvas, mate of Hafen and a fearsome Alu queen, knew at once that it was Droigan who had defeated her love, defiling his body before fleeing. She took to the skies with a fiery wrath, but Droigan could not be found. Before leading her clan far away from the evil place of Hafen's desecration, Rudvas vowed to find Harthas Droigan, tear his asunder, and slaughter anyone protecting or being protected by him. This vow would later send the defeated mercenary's opinion of birds to a perilous low.

Starving and half-crazed, Harthas Droigan crawled into Llamp over two weeks after embarking on his expedition. While the town council was pleased that the raids on their convoys had stopped, the recently-arrived Otaceni Vozidel was far less impressed with Droigan's performance. Two hundred men had been brutally killed and the dried, feathered scalp Harthas presented to the general was not adequate compensation for such a devastating loss. Vozidel gave Droigan the courtesy of a day to escape before a bounty was placed on the former commander's head, but that was the last kind gesture exchanged between the former friends.

A day is hardly enough time for one man to escape an entire army, but Harthas Droigan was not harassed during his journey to the northern regions of Thot. This was due in part to Droigan's skill in avoidance, but Vozidel's mercenaries did not give a spirited pursuit; many of them still thought highly of the deposed commander. As Droigan traveled, his new distrust of birds developed into a bitter hatred. A call in the distance silenced his step, and a flapping of wings caused his sword to leap from its sheath. His nervousness, unpleasant as it was, would have paled against the dread of knowing that Rudvas, a winged angel of death, was also traveling north and did so with a thirst for revenge that could only be quenched by Droigan's dark blood.

Seaxburh

2006-08-10T11:14:00.000-04:00

Seaxburh was the first woman to rule Wessex, and she is the subject of Part 9 in The History of the British Monarchy. Never before had there been such a champion for women’s rights, while her catty remarks about poor fashion sense stung the ears of rag-wearers across the British Isles.

Born into an aristocratic family in 626, Seaxburh spent her childhood the way any good Christian girl should. She skinned squirrels to make absolutely divine boots and cloaks, wrestled bears and bear-like men, balanced various objects on her head, and practiced a stand-up comedy routine based on the menstrual cycle. Her life was like that of so many other girls growing up on the southern coast of Wessex.

In 645, Seaxburh was enchanted by the cat-like wailings of a man trapped in an enchanted, sea-borne barrel. Throwing caution to the wind, she adorned her hardiest boots and cloak and pursued the barrel across the seas. She lost track of the barrel in the jungles of Africa, but was able to follow the stories told by the locals about a barrel-clad detective traveling from village to village. At last, in 648, she caught up with her beloved (this took place back before people had to know each other in order to fall in love) and learned he was Cenwalh, King of Wessex. She converted the raving lunatic to Christianity, married him, and led him back to his kingdom. Cenwalh retook his throne and Seaxburh spent many years serving by his side.

During the later years of Cenwalh’s reign, Seaxburh showed her true worth as an advocate for women’s rights. Unlike many later activists, Seaxburh did not want women to enjoy the same rights as men; she didn’t want anyone to have any rights at all. She wanted to turn all of Wessex into a unisex forced-labor camp. She ordered random executions on men and women without discrimination. She feasted on baby girls as much as she did on baby boys. In a way, she was also an advocate for gay rights; she raped everyone. In short, despite her enlightened views on equality, she was an awful human being and was horrible to be around.

Seaxburh’s biggest contribution to history came early in 674, when Cenwalh of Wessex finally passed away. Instead of passing power over Wessex to her son, Cenfus, Seaxburh decided to rule alone for a while, making her the first Queen of Wessex. She had technically been a queen while Cenwalh was alive, but now she had undisputed power. A few weeks into her solitary reign, Seaxburh uncovered a plot by David, the aging squid that lorded over North Wales, to assassinate her and plunge Wessex into chaos. Though she narrowly escaped this attempt on her life, Seaxburh died in mid-674 by falling up a flight of stairs and out a window. It is the first recorded case of gravity adopting an unusual strategy to kill someone.

Seaxburh’s reign as Queen may have been short, but it was significant nonetheless. She proved that not only can women rule as effectively as men, they can be far more ruthless, cruel, and incompetent. Seaxburh opened the door for many other matriarchal tyrants in Britain’s long line of rulers. She was replaced by Cenfus, who had been forced to endure the death of his mother and his father in the same year. If only he knew what was in store for him…

Harthas Bird Prequel Part 2

2006-07-28T17:27:00.000-04:00

Two days into their journey, Droigan's men noticed a flock of large birds flying out from the looming mountains. Within half an hour of the observation, all but one of the mercenaries were dead. While they had indeed seen birds coming from the mountains, these birds were unlike any seen on Thot in nearly 2000 years. They were the Wing-Demons, as the trolls had once named them. They were the Aviati.

The Aviati are a race of beings that roughly resemble humans in build. They differ from humans by being covered in feathers and having talons instead of hands. Their heads resemble those of birds-of-prey, and out of their shoulder blades grow magnificent wings. Very little is known about the culture and language of the Aviati, as their venomous hostility towards all other races of the world makes them an unpopular assignment for diplomats. Their population is dwindling without known cause, but an Aviati warrior is unsurpassed in discipline, intelligence, and speed. History records many distant battles in which a few Aviati routed entire hordes of human barbarians.

The mysteries of the Aviati and their impact on history were not pressing on Harthas Droigan's mind as he watched the Wing-Demons circle above him.

The conflict between Droigan's mercenaries and the Aviati was the first opportunity in two millenia for anyone in Thot to witness the tactics of the bird warriors. Despite the reluctance of the sole human survivor to provide any analysis of the previously-mentioned conflict, a recapitulation of the dire event is here provided.

Before engaging the enemy, the Aviati force divides itself into two equal parts: the Alu, a heavily-armored group that begins the conflict as an attacking force, and the Vwl, a more reserved group that initially serves to supply the Alu. The weapon of choice in the first stage of an Aviati assault is a long, hardy spear that rarely breaks. The Alu swoop down on their enemies and release these spears with great accuracy and speed. Having thrown their weapons, the Alu fly up to meet the awaiting Vwr. The Vwr circle the battle at a height that makes them unassailable, and thus wear lighter armor than the attacking Alu. The Vwr carry many spears in quivers, passing them to their Alu partners when the attackers arrive for rearmament.

The victims of the Alu spear attacks are the leaders, messengers, and flagbearers of an army. An Alu warrior with a spear is akin to very violent poetry in motion, and it is not uncommon for their targets to die in agony, pinned to the ground beneath them. By the time the Alu have thrown all their spears, the opposing army is often in a state of disarray. The infantry and cavalry can do nothing but watch their leaders die, the archers struggle to take aim against the erratic and swift Alu, and anyone seen giving orders risks being impaled. Once an army is both disorganized and afraid, the Aviati begin their next assault.

If the Aviati decide that more spearwork is in order, the Vwr will quickly descend and collect as many undamaged spears as they can while the Alu provide a frenzied distraction. Having restocked their quivers, the Vwr return to the skies and the attack begins anew. If their enemies appear to be leaderless, both the Alu and the Vwr descend to begin their taloned attacks. The Vwr, all of whom are male, lightly armored and unarmed, rely on their vicious beaks and talons. A favorite target of the Vwr is the enemy cavalry, as a few kicks to the horse and bite to the head of the rider are stunningly effective. The swiftness of a Vwr fighter gives him the qualities of a sniper, and this causes the enemy force to scatter and fall further into confusion. The female Alu is better protected than the Vwr and tends to remain on the ground and engage in single combat. Despite wearing large, sharp-edged bracers on both forearms, the Alu warrior begins a ground battle unarmed. The Alu tend to target archers first, but the infantry will be engaged shortly afterwards. An Alu warrior will occasionally take up the weapon of a fallen opponent, but this typically done through boredom or a dark sense of humor. When the human army begins a full retreat, the Aviati seem to become frenzied, and any people who survive this onslaught are troubled for the rest of their days.

Penda

2006-07-28T09:33:00.000-04:00

Welcome to Part 8 of our 85-Part series on The History of the British Monarchy. In this edition, we take a look at Penda of Mercia, a man who may have been more closely related to raccoons than he was to bears. He was the first man to barge in out of nowhere and seize the throne of Wessex (such behavior was frowned upon as being impolite), and he was also the first King of Wessex whose first name didn’t start with a C.

Penda was made King in his native land of Mercia in 625, though the exact date of his ascension is unknown. We’re also not sure how old he was when he became King; some say he was 20, others say he was 50, and still others claim he was 21. Mercia was a prosperous but warlike kingdom that occupied a decent portion of central England, and there was a history of conflict with the southern kingdom of Wessex that was far older than Penda himself. No one knows what started this bitter rivalry between two very similar nations, but a poorly-planned practical joke is suspected.

Penda was involved in a battle in 628 that saw Mercia lose to Wessex, though he may not have been King at this time. It’s possible that he entered the battle as a third party, though why a single man would choose to attack the army of his own country as well as an enemy army is unknown. No one is entirely certain who won this battle, but it seems likely that Cynegils of Wessex emerged victorious. The bitter taste of defeat did not sit well on Penda’s well-crafted, supple tongue, and when he did come to power he made plans to win his revenge over his longtime rivals.

Penda was very good at playing the field. He was not the most powerful king in England, but he wasn’t the weakest either. He viewed stronger kingdoms as enemies needing to be toppled and weaker kingdoms as platforms for his own elevation. In the 630s he allied himself with the Welsh to assault Northumbria, the most powerful kingdom in all of Britain at the time. Northumbria was quickly overwhelmed, but Penda withdrew his forces before the job was finished. The surviving Northumbrians and the Welsh continued to fight to a bloody stalemate for years, leaving Mercia secure along its western and northern borders.

In 645, Penda sent a magically charmed barrel to Cenwalh, the new King of Wessex. The barrel trapped Cenwalh and rolled into the sea, with Penda making a forceful claim to the throne soon afterwards. To lower the morale of his new subjects, Penda spent about 50 hours a week administering spankings. He laid down oppressive laws and enforced a dress code that bankrupted the rags industry. He did everything in his power to break the spirit of Wessex, but to no avail. In 648, Cenwalh returned and Penda, now suffering from severe Spanker’s Arm, agreed to leave peacefully.

Not much else is known about Penda’s life, but it is believed he died in 655 at the age of 50 (or 80, or 51). It is believed he died during a campaign against the kingdom of Bernicia, though it is just as likely that Penda was suffocated by the vengeful barrel he had sent into Wessex a decade earlier.

In the next edition of The History of the British Monarchy (which is what I’ve decided to name this 85-Part monstrosity), we will take a brief look at Seaxburh, the first Queen of Wessex and semi-pioneer for women’s rights.

Cenwalh

2006-07-24T22:29:00.000-04:00

Cenwalh was the son of the first Christian King of Wessex and is the subject of Part 7 in the 85-part series on the rulers of Britain, England, and the nation of West Saxons that gave rise to England.

Taking the throne after his father’s assassination in 643, Cenwalh was instrumental in allowing Christianity to fully establish itself in Wessex. This religious tolerance is quite interesting, as Cenwalh actually started his reign as a heathen. Historians have explained Cenwalh’s tolerance through two theories: the first argues that Cenwalh was a very nice man and didn’t want to offend anyone, and the second suggests that Cenwalh was terrified of his Christian father rising from the grave to haunt him if the teachings of Christ did not spread across the country. Zombies were a legitimate concern in the 7th century (they only went extinct after the invention of the television), and thus most experts lean toward the latter explanation of Cenwalh’s behavior. Regardless, by 645 Cenwalh was the only non-Christian person in his entire kingdom.

Apart from fostering Christianity while not actually following the religion, Cenwalh is noteworthy for two other reasons. His first important contribution to history came in late 645, when he was sealed in a barrel and sent on a long sea voyage. No one knows what adventures Cenwalh had after he escaped from the barrel, but legends in western Africa tell of a barrel-dwelling man who traveled from village to village solving mysteries. More significantly, Penda of Mercia strolled right into Wessex and became the new king. Penda’s reign was interesting, but will be the focus of a later bloog. In 648, however, Cenwalh returned and once again laid claim upon the throne of Wessex. Penda left peacefully, and Cenwalh became the first man in the history of Wessex to be King on more than one occasion.

Cenwalh’s journey had greatly changed him. He had converted to Christianity during his absence, and his hair had grown long and difficult to control by simple combing techniques. He wore rags and bathed only when he fell into puddles. He spoke a language unlike anything anyone had heard before. He conducted all meetings and most ceremonies in the nude. He constructed obvious, flimsy traps all across the countryside. He began supporting Manchester City Football Club. He refused to listen to the advice of those around him, named over one hundred parrots as senators in his short-lived Avian Council, and outlawed the triangle. He was regarded in some circles as the greatest king to have ever lived, but most people saw him as a lunatic who has seen too much of the sun while traveling in his barrel.

Cenwalh’s second major contribution to history came in the year 672. In this year, he was not only the first monarch in the history of Wessex to share his throne with someone else, but he was the man who paved the way for the first Queen Wessex had ever seen. After many years of insane but effective leadership, Cenwalh divided his power in half and made his wife, Seaxburh, co-ruler of the nation. When Cerwalh died in 674, his wife took over the country.

So there you have Cenwalh, the 7th and 9th ruler of Wessex, famous for getting chased away from his own country and surrendering half of his power to his wife. In Part 8 of our series, we will examine Penda, the man who ruled Wessex as an outsider for three phenomenal years.

Harthas Bird Prequel Part 1

2006-07-24T21:23:00.000-04:00

Heulog Fraan grew up as the favorite son of a general who had seized control of the Altane Hegemony after the previous ruler showed his weaknesses through a series of political blunders. When his father made his grab at power, Heulog was old enough to recognize his father's wise moves as well as his mistakes. Years later, when Heulog left his father's crumbling nation to establish himself as the Lord and protector of a distant, uninspiring piece of land, he made an effort to appeal to the interests of his new subjects. This land (known after Heulog's arrival as Fraan's Land) was home to a remarkable number of bird species as well as a dull, superstitious group of people who were inordinately fond of these avian distractions. Shortly after he declared himself Lord over the region, Heulog made a brief (later acknowledged as futile) attempt to establish a taxonomic catalog of the birds he technically possessed. Of all the projects Lord Fraan unwisely began, this bird census was the only one not supported by one Harthas Droigan. Harthas Droigan was an occasionally wealthy citizen of Fraan's Land and the only man in the region able to manage a profitable mercenary army. Droigan had, for sizable fees, helped Lord Fraan deal with various problems that had become difficult to control. Fraan's bird census was one such issue, but Droigan refused to become involved for any reward Lord Fraan was willing to offer. Droigan's uncooperative attitude did not reflect contempt for taxonomy or for the census techniques being used. Harthas Droigan just hated birds. He hated their feathers, he hated their beaks, and he hated their songs. This sentiment was not unjustified, as Droigan had endured a series of incidents involving birds that can only be described as unfortunate.

Harthas Droigan's relationship with birds took a sour turn over a decade before Fraan's Land became Fraan's. Droigan had recently completed a perilous and costly sea voyage and had endeavored to rebuild his lost wealth by embracing the life of a common mercenary soldier. He moved from the eastern coast of the Thot continent to its southern, more mountainous regions, as these places were renowned for banditry, barbarism, and short, bloody, expensive wars. It was here that Harthas Droigan truly began to understand the profit to be had in taking advantage of people.

Having no reputation, shoddy equipment, and a complete lack of military experience, Droigan was forced to begin his mercenary career as a grunt in the army of Otaceni Vozidel. When this army was paid to go to war, Droigan's job was to kill as many enemy soldiers as he could before being killed himself. For this duty, Droigan was given enough compensation to purchase a sword, shield, spear, and minimal armor. The rest of his salary was dedicated to keeping these items in good repair. Droigan was given bonuses for delivering the scalps of slain enemies, but this money usually went to support habits that, though unsavory, were difficult to break.

Harthas enjoyed mercenary life. He was good at killing people, and his skills at swordplay became so refined he grew exceedingly difficult to kill. He was popular among the other soldiers, and an earlier career as a sea captain had endowed him with charisma and an aptitude for leadership. The general, Vozidel, recognized Droigan's skills and popularity and began to give the grunt assignments that made better use of his qualities.

Within two years of his joining the mercenary army, Harthas Droigan was one of the senior officers under Otaceni Vozidel. During open battle, it was Droigan who was expected to bring down the opposing army's most powerful soldiers and leaders. When it was called for, Droigan would make gruesome examples out of resistant towns and villages. If there was dissent within Vozidel's army (and there was very little during Droigan's tenure), it was Harthas who inflicted the punishments. Vozidel even granted Droigan to the rare honor of commanding a small force when a job was considered too small for Vozidel's attention or acquiring more finesse than the entire army was capable of producing. Unfortunately, it was one of these small missions that nearly brought Droigan's career as a mercenary to a violent end.

A job was offered to Vozidel that involved hunting down raiders somewhere near a mining colony for a substantial reward. The colony was the property of a town that relied on iron ore as its sole source of income, though the ore was a high quality and the town itself was prosperous. Chasing bandits up mountains did not appeal to Vozidel nor did it require a full army to complete, so the general gave the assignment and 200 men to Harthas Droigan. The job seemed easy enough, but this proved to be an illusion shortly after Droigan's forces arrived at the client town of Llamp.

Droigan started to suspect he would not be hunting typical bandits when he heard about the victims of their raids. Not a single man, woman, or child attacked near the southeastern mountains had been spared and their corpses were often slashed to bloody, chunky ribbons. Another interesting aspect of the raids was that nothing was ever actually taken; the people transporting goods to and from the mining colony would be slaughtered, but the goods themselves would remain untouched. Droigan hated complications, and he was in a foul mood when he started his soldiers on the march toward the mining colony. It was on this march that the mercenary captain learned there were no bandits hiding in the mountains southeast of Llamp.

Cynegils

2006-07-23T23:33:00.000-04:00

Cynegils was the son of Ceol and nephew of Ceolwulf, and in 611 inherited the throne of Wessex from his uncle as a mere 14-year-old. Wessex was in a confused state, as Cynegil’s father had allowed a decline in culture while his uncle had been successful in alienating every other kingdom in Britain. Adding to this dangerous mix was the fact that North Wales, a nearby region controlled by beasts of the sea, was undergoing dramatic shifts.

Less than a year after Cynegils had taken the throne, a rumor spread that David, the Squid-King of North Wales, had been killed by a pack of sperm whales. This rumor was not true, but David was conspicuously absent for several years before making a fiery, wrathful return. In the meantime, the people of North Wales were left to their own devices, and this eventually led to war with Cynegils and Wessex.

In 614, the armies of North Wales and Wessex clashed at what is now Brampton, Ontario. No one is quite sure how the two nations ended up fighting each other on a foreign, supposedly undiscovered continent, but it can be assumed that careless map-reading was partially to blame. Nevertheless, Cynegils was victorious, though it took several months for him to find his way back to Wessex.

Cynegils spent a good deal of his reign winning back allies that his predecessor had cast aside through needless wars. Interestingly, Cynegils was able to undo the damage caused by war by waging even more war. He won the support of Mercia by defeating the northern kingdom in battle in 628. He convinced the Picts that peace was the only way to enlightenment by catapulting several hundred Picts into the ocean. The Irish came to respect Cynegil’s peacemaking abilities after he threatened to dump a great number of rocks onto Ireland the next time it sank, an act that may have kept Ireland submerged forever (Ireland was geologically unstable at the time and went through a repeated cycle of sinking and rising to the ocean’s surface again). Under Cynegils, Wessex somehow managed to become more peaceful and more savage.

Christianity arrived in Wessex during Cynegils’ rule. We don’t know how well the peasants and other rough citizens of Wessex took to the teachings of Jesus Christ (most of them were Scientologists), but we do know that Cynegils adopted Christianity with gusto. In 635, just a year after Bishop Birinus was allowed to enter the kingdom, Cynegils was baptized in a ceremony estimated to have cost over one billion pounds. This baptism stood as the single most expensive religious conversion in the history of the British Isles for over a decade. There was some speculation that Cynegils’ spiritual awakening was in fact politically motivated and not a genuine religious experience, but it was largely agreed that religion had nothing to do with manipulating people.

In 636, Cynegils executed all of his non-Christian opponents, claiming they were godless and unholy.

In 637, Cynegils executed all of his Christian opponents, claiming they were insufficiently holy and were worshipping God in the wrong fashion.

In 643, Cynegils himself was killed in a forest during an ambush by genetically modified skunks. These murderous, foul-smelling animals marked the return of David, Squid Lord of North Wales and the demise of the first Christian King of Wessex. Cynegils’ legacy lived on, however, as Wessex remained a Christian country until the end of its days.

Ceolwulf

2006-07-18T12:19:00.000-04:00

Ceolwulf was the fifth King of Wessex, inheriting the throne from his crazy younger brother Ceol in the year 597. Ceolwulf’s reign was far bloodier than that of his brother, and Wessex returned as a major political power through the battles Ceolwulf won.

While Ceolwulf did a good job of improving his kingdom’s standing among the other nations in the British Isles, he did a very poor job of winning allies. Wessex had long been made powerful by choosing the right allies, but this was a course the new King chose not to follow.

Ceolwulf regarded David, the squid overlord of North Wales, as a threat to his kingdom and his family, and he spent a great deal of time raiding the lobster farms (farms owned and operated by lobsters, not farms specializing in lobsters) that dotted the southern regions of North Wales. David’s power was fading as the 7th century began, but Ceolwulf’s raids were of little concern. Lobsters are perhaps the hardiest farmers in the animal kingdom, and the armies of Wessex were foolish to believe they could vanquish these amazing arthropods.

Ceolwulf enjoyed limited success against every foe he faced (and by that I mean he was able to win victories over everyone within marching distance) but his greatest glories were won against the kingdom of Sussex.

Sussex was a small country that had managed to be ignored since 485. Sussex was populated by peace-loving, socially reserved Saxons and Britons who had learned to put aside their differences. These people elected a council of elders and had decided not to become involved in the strife that ran rampant across the rest of the land. Sussex had become a safe haven for people displaced by war, aggressive crustaceans and cephalopods, and Irish people who had grown sick of their island continually sinking into and rising from the sea.

When Ceolwulf discovered that Sussex not only existed, but in fact shared a border with Wessex, he began to make ambitious plans. In 607, he sent an entire army into Sussex, one soldier at a time, instructing his warriors to pose as refugees. Once the army was inside, Ceolwulf struck. Sussex, having no standing army, was torn to shreds in a matter of days. Ceolwulf alone slaughtered the entire council of elders. Unfortunately, the economy of Sussex did not depend on currency, and there was no profit to be had in continuing to pummel the defeated nation. Ceolwulf returned to Wessex, having won the most lopsided victory in the young history of the British Isles.

The events surrounding Ceolwulf’s death in 611 are quite mysterious. It is known that David, in order to silence the protests of his lobster farmers, sent at least two assassins to remove the King of Wessex. It is also believed that Ceolwulf’s harsh treatment of the people of Sussex led to some hard, homicidal feelings among the vanquished peasants. The King’s stand-up comedy routine was very controversial in its anti-Pict content, so it is also possible that the Picts sent someone down from Scotland to permanently end Ceolwulf’s humorous rants. Nevertheless, Ceolwulf died from wounds that may have been inflicted by pinchers, knives, or Scottish fingernails. His nation was left in the hands of Cynegils, the 14-year-old son of Ceolwulf’s younger brother and former king Ceol.

Ceol

2006-07-17T20:48:00.000-04:00

Ceol of Wessex is the subject of Part 4 in the 85-part series on Great Britain’s monarchs through the ages, and he is the first ruler of Wessex whose private life overshadowed his exploits as king.

Born in 584, Ceol won the right to be King of Wessex for a year after defeating his uncle Ceawlin in a game of chess at the age of eight. One year later, Ceawlin was murdered and Ceol’s claim to the throne was undisputed.

History has often seen children become monarchs through unhappy circumstances. A little boy or girl is sometimes spared the slaughter that hacks down the rest of the Royal Family, and this little whelp becomes the ruler of a nation simply because no one else with the right lineage is available. This was not the case with Ceol. As an eight-year-old boy, mere months after learning how to read and use the chamber-pot, Ceol duped his uncle into surrendering the Crown of Wessex. It may be the only time in history that a pre-teen, without any outside help, orchestrated the downfall of a monarch and established himself as the logical replacement. Any little boy capable of completing such a coup probably deserves to stay in power, and the people of Wessex were content to let things be.

Ceol’s reign, though short, was quite a bit more peaceful than those of the Wessex kings before him. The British Isles were as chaotic as they had been over the previous century, but Wessex had declined as a power and was no longer involved in the massive struggles taking part along the border of North Wales and deep in the heart of England. This inactivity at the international level was more than compensated by Ceol’s behavior within the courts of Wessex.

Ceol, being a child, quickly gained notoriety for making rash and unwise decisions. In 594, he outlawed beards and tried to open a chain of brothels. These decisions were made at a time in history when the only blades sharp enough to cut hair were found on swords, and Ceol’s beard reforms were met with fierce, stoic resistance. Futhermore, the men of Wessex had difficulty understanding brothels and wenches, and profit was hard to come by for young Ceol. His subjects saw him as harmless and even a bit amusing, so Ceol’s foolishness did not cost him the throne.

The biggest crisis Ceol faced during his reign took place in the year 597. David, the massive squid that commanded the armies of North Wales, had suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of Ceol’s uncle Ceawlin many years earlier and had planned a revenge that would both humiliate Ceol and cripple Wessex. A cuttlefish, whose name is lost to history, was able to imitate Ceol so perfectly that people thought that he was indeed the King of Wessex. The imposter made political moves that weakened the kingdom, and it was not until Ceol returned from an archeological dig that it was discovered that two kings seemed to be ruling Wessex.

The real Ceol and his doppelganger dueled in front of the nobles of Wessex, but the cuttlefish and the 13-year-old were deadlocked. Exhausted, both combatants agreed that there must be a better way to decide the real King of Wessex. Ceol (the boy) declared that both claimants should be shot so that the people of Wessex would never be led by an impostor. This selfless act led the nobles to make a correct decision about which Ceol was the true King, but this decision was made after both had been executed. The tentacles hidden under the impostor’s frock were also a giveaway.

With Ceol dead at the tender age of thirteen, his crown was passed to his older brother Ceolwulf. Ceol had fathered a child, but it was agreed that the older, more violent Ceolwulf should get a shot at leadership before giving the crown to the infant son of a teenaged madman and an unemployed harlot.

Ceawlin

2006-07-17T13:01:00.000-04:00

Welcome all to Part 3 in our 85-part History of British, English, and pre-English monarchs. In this entry, we look at Ceawlin, son of Cynric, King of Wessex and a man who was both more and less than he seemed.

Like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him, Ceawlin’s life before becoming King is not well-chronicled. He is named as a junior participant in a battle conducted by Cynric in 556, but we know very little else about the young man’s activities. In 560, his father engaged the squid David in single combat and lost, leaving Ceawlin as the third King of Wessex. Unlike his predecessors, Ceawlin’s reign is actually quite well-documented, but it is also rife with controversy.

On top of being King of Wessex, Ceawlin is credited as being the second king to hold imperium over the other Saxon kings in England at the time. This essentially made Ceawlin a Super-King, and his new title carried grave responsibilities. England was in a state of constant anarchy, with Saint David sending hordes of crab warriors out of Wales to help the Britons (the people actually native to the British Isles) fight the Saxons (who had come from Germany some generations before). Each Saxon kingdom was one lost battle away from being obliterated, and Ceawlin was now partially responsible for six of these kingdoms. On top of that, his own kingdom of Wessex was waning without the complete attention of its king. Simple Plan have credited Ceawlin as a source of inspiration for many of their most heart-wrenching songs. Ceawlin is known to have regretted not being perfect.

In 568, Ceawlin and Cutha (a mysterious, seemingly immortal being from the Netherlands) won an important battle over Ethelbert, the king who welcomed Saint Augustine to Britain. While this victory shows that the power of Wessex was greater than that of Ethelbert’s Kent, it raises questions about Ceawlin’s motives. Augustine’s presence would have distracted the monstrous squid David, yet Ceawlin made an effort to disrupt the activities of the man who could overthrow Wales’ tyrant cephalopod. The fact that David was responsible for Ceawlin’s father’s death throws even more suspicion into the actions of the King of Wessex.

In 571, Ceawlin silenced his doubters by winning four towns and 4000 ostrich hides from the Welsh in a bitter battle. This was the first defeat David’s forces had endured since the squid’s arrival in Wales in 413. In 577, Ceawlin and another Saxon King, Cuthwine (ancestor of today’s Ryan Cuthbert) took three strongholds from the British. Wessex enjoyed a greater sphere of influence at this time than at any previous point in history. Alas, Ceawlin’s luck was doomed to run out.

In 584, in another battle against the British, Cutha, the immortal Dutch bard, was slain. Ceawlin slaughtered many Britons and burned many towns in a rage, but he ultimately returned to Wessex a broken man. In 592, Ceawlin suffered a massive defeat at the hands of the British and was forced to surrender his imperium over the other Saxon kings. In that same year, Ceawlin lost a battle of wits against Ceol, his nephew, and was forced to surrender his kingship for an entire year. Three weeks before this suspension ended, in 593, Ceawlin was murdered by the vampiric son of Cutha and never reclaimed his throne. Ceol’s grip on power in Wessex was strengthened, and Ceawlin’s life ended with as much disgrace as it had begun with glory.

Another black mark on the later years of Ceawlin’s reign is the fact he was always mentioned in the presence of other kings, suggesting that the power of Wessex had sharply declined after the 570s.

Anyway, let’s forget about this somewhat regrettable king. He was succeeded by Ceol, nephew of Ceawlin and grandson of Cynric. Ceol would not do much in his short reign, but he was forever remembered as one of the most flamboyant men of the late 6th century.

Cynric

2006-07-17T11:42:00.000-04:00

Welcome to Part 2 in our 85-part series on the monarchs that have ruled over Britain, England, and pre-England.

Cynric, the most magically gifted monarch in the history of the British Isles, was the son of Cerdic and the first man to inherit the title of King of Wessex. In addition, Cynric was also Cerdic’s grandson, and this is the first instance in British history of things not making any sense at all.

Like his father and his grandfather, Cynric’s early years are not clearly understood. There is mention of him fighting alongside Cerdic during a battle in 519 and against Cerdic in a boxing match in 522. Cynric was also winning awards for his poetry in 527.

534 was a very harsh year for young (possibly old) Cynric, as he lost both his father and his grandfather on the same day. On the positive side, he inherited the crown of Wessex, one of the seven or so kingdoms fighting for control of the island. These new responsibilities affected both the quality and the quantity of Cynric’s poetry, but his magical prowess reached unprecedented levels.

Cynric’s reign, much like his father’s and his grandfather’s before him, was one marked by almost constant warfare. Wessex was a kingdom populated by the West Saxons, a group of people who had arrived from western Germany shortly after the departure of the Roman legions in 407. Their arrival had displaced the Britons, who were the people the Romans had conquered a few hundred years earlier. The Britons, having only just won their freedom from the Roman Empire, were understandably upset when these German barbarians arrived and began wrecking up the place. This conflict between Saxon and Briton had plagued Cerdic’s reign, and it wasn’t doing Cynric any favors either. We know that in 552, Cynric won territory near Salisbury (though it’s possible he was actually fighting the descendants of the trolls used by his father and grandfather), and that in 556 he and his son defeated the Britons in a pretty big fight at what is now Barbury Camp.

Despite leading German Saxons against native Britons, it isn’t completely clear where Cynric’s blood actually came from. Thinking logically, he was leading Germans against non-Germans, so he would probably have been German. Germans have been known to elect foreigners as their leaders, so this argument is not airtight. Furthermore, Cerdic (Cynric’s father and grandfather) carried a British name, so it’s possible that the West Saxon tribe came to follow a king whose people were actually the ones being pushed farther north and into Wales. It’s also true that Cynric’s devastating knowledge of magic (spawning the legend of Merlin) would have been enough to give him control of whomever he wished. He recognized the qualities of the West Saxons of Wessex and elected to remain their King rather than try to establish himself somewhere else. The other six or seven kingdoms in England were all Saxon and no better off than Wessex, the Britons were in full retreat, the Picts of Scotland were invulnerable to magic, the Irish were too busy trying to develop gills and fins to worry about a magic-wielding tyrant, and the massive squid overlord of North Wales did not share power. In addition, South Wales did not exist at this time and was not an option for a wandering king.

In the 2004 movie King Arthur, Cynric is depicted as being a Saxon invader who is killed by Lancelot. In reality, Cynric and Lancelot maintained a cool, respectful relationship, and the second King of Wessex was killed in 560 by Saint David, the colossal squid (a description of the saint, not a classification as a species, see Colossal Squid) whose tentacles had wrapped North Wales in a slimy embrace of fear and tyranny. As the legend goes, David was so humbled and impressed by the Wizard-King’s power and skill, he gave Cynric’s corpse to the Irish for a burial at sea, the greatest honor a squid can bestow upon a fallen enemy. Unfortunately, Ireland surfaced shortly after this event, and Cynric had to be pickled and kept in a jar until the Emerald Isle sank again. The Irish could have walked him over to the sea and lowered him in, but that seems to be a little pointless when you live on a body of land that periodically drops to the ocean floor (as Ireland did at the time, see Cerdic). We’re also not sure why David wouldn’t have just given the body to Cynric’s son and the people of Wessex. Squid minds work differently from our own, I suppose.

Next in our 85-part series, we will examine the life and times of Cynric’s son, Ceawlin, who inherited the throne of Wessex (and another, quite powerful title) after his father’s death in 560.

Cerdic

2006-07-16T21:16:00.000-04:00

Cerdic, who was born in 467 ACE, giving him just enough time to see the Western Roman Empire disappear forever (in 476), was the first King of Wessex and can be seen as the first link in a chain of command that continues today. In the first part of an 85-part series, I will lift the veils of secrecy about the mysterious Cerdic and shed light on the man who would be king (and he would).

Cerdic’s early life is a mystery. His first recorded activities took place in 495, when he was already 28. In the late 5th century, a man was usually a grandfather by the time he turned 25, so Cerdic was about as old as anyone could get.

No one is completely sure where Cerdic came from; his behavior suggests he was German (he loved war) but his name is actually British. The name Cedric came about from Cerdic signing his name incorrectly on a copy of his autobiography. He may be the accidental progenitor of one of today’s least popular names, but Cerdic will be best remembered for his actions.

In 495, Cerdic landed with an army of trolls in Hampshire. 24 years later, he used that army to win a great victory over the people of southern England. I don’t know why it took him a quarter of a century to organize an attack. I really don’t. Nevertheless, the West Saxon tribe really liked Cerdic’s style and made him their king. Cerdic advanced into Dorset and Somerset and also conquered the Isle of Wight for some reason. By 530, Cerdic’s forces controlled all of southwestern England and had pushed as far north as Bedford, while Cerdic himself was one of the most powerful men in Europe.

From 519 – 534, Cerdic ruled over an ever-growing kingdom called Wessex. During this reign, Cerdic disbanded his troll forces and began to rely on real creatures (human children) to fight his wars. He discovered and destroyed a land bridge to France. He opened the only diamond mine in the history of the British Isles, though he had to close it due to poor output. He was depicted in the 2004 movie King Arthur, but this depiction was less than glowing.

Cerdic died in 534 at the incredible age of 67. His reign as the first King of Wessex lasted 15 years, and he was succeeded by Cynric. There is some evidence to suggest that Cerdic founded every major royal family in Europe.

When Cerdic’s life began, the British Isles were in complete chaos. When his life drew to a close, order had been largely restored. In England, there were seven or eight kingdoms (one of them being Wessex) that enjoyed healthy, constant warfare. The Scots were represented by the roving Picts, Ireland was constantly sinking and rising again, and Wales was a foggy, squid-ruled backwater known only as North Wales. There was no South Wales.

Next in our 85-part series, we will examine Cynric, a gun-worshipping lunatic who first warned us of the threat posed by Adolf Hitler.

MSN Obituary

2006-07-15T20:36:00.000-04:00

This is a very sad time for me. A relationship I have been in for almost five years has come to an end. There have been good times, a lot of laughs, conversations about the deepest meanings of the world and conversations about nothing at all. The end of this relationship brings a close to many experiences and opens a flood of happy, sad, outraged, and even erotic memories. Now is a time to reflect on what has been and what will be.

I am, of course, talking about my final resignation from the incredible world of MSN Instant Messenger. My relationship with MSN soured in 2006, but my history with Microsoft’s replacement for real human contact dates back to a time before university. I wish, just briefly, to take you on a trip down memory lane and recap my long, sometimes tumultuous relationship with MSN.

It all started in September 2001. I was starting my OAC year at Georgetown High School. The World Trade Center had just been exploded, or was about to be, I can’t remember which. I was 18, a prick, and a regular user of ICQ.

ICQ was great. I used it to organize my weekends. The communicative power of the ICQ nearly turned me into an alcoholic. If someone’s parents had suddenly left for the weekend, the magical “uh-oh” of ICQ would alert me within minutes. ICQ was the first thing in my life that successfully combined two of my favorite things: talking to people and not seeing people. ICQ had been a part of my life for a couple of years, but it had a fatal, damning flaw.

At the beginning of my OAC year, I had a crush on a girl named Christine. I’d admired her from afar for quite some time, but I had vowed to get closer to her. Clearly, the best way to do that was to begin talking to her on ICQ. It was the only way to talk back then. ICQ also did a good job of hiding my unfortunate appearance and tendency to mutter to myself at all times. Christine didn’t have ICQ, she instead used MSN Messenger. In a move that shows just how attracted I was to this girl, I jumped from ICQ to MSN. The rest is glorious, magnificent history.

I managed to barely talk to Christine for about a year, but my skills at MSN shot through the roof. When I went away to university in September 2002, MSN went with me. I somehow tricked Christine into dating me for about 10 weeks (to this day I do not know how I did that), and MSN kept the lines of communication open. When my relationship with Christine ended, my friends on MSN were there to emoticon me back to happiness.

MSN’s next major contribution to my life came in October 2003, when it successfully initiated and maintained another romantic relationship, this time with a girl named Andrea who lived in Calgary. Most of our conversations were over the internet, though Andrea made a valiant attempt to phone me as often as possible. By this time, however, my reliance on MSN was so complete that I struggled to understand spoken English. The phone, and even real conversations, became foreign and intimidating.

By the end of summer in 2004, I had lost Andrea but was completely dependent on MSN. I’d spend much of my study time in university scrolling through my contact list and trying to see how many names I could understand. To my surprise, I didn’t understand any of the in-jokes I read. I couldn’t fathom people having lives outside of MSN and then using the messenger service to make references to these real events. MSN was taking over every aspect of my life.

In late 2005, MSN developed a glitch on my computer. I would be able to receive messages but could not send any. Signing off and then immediately signing back in, previously a cure-all, did nothing to help. Furthermore, I was writing a thesis and trying to make a new relationship work, and I found myself pressed for time. With more than a little sadness, I signed off of MSN in January of 2006 and took a three-month break. I began publishing a newsletter (we all know how well that went) and regained my ability to speak to people in person. MSN’s hold on me was weakened, but I did eventually return to my former master.

This past week, the glitch returned, but with more prevalence than ever before. At no time could I send messages, and the writing really was on the wall. I signed off of MSN, and I don’t expect I’ll be coming back.

A chapter has closed on my life, and having read what I just wrote, I realize that this chapter was neither sexy nor exciting. MSN turned me into a zombie for almost five years, and even before that ICQ was destroying my brain. I’ve depressed myself.

In closing, please don’t completely forget I exist. I am forced to stay in the real world now, but I am sure I will think of the MSN world where everyone lives with a great deal of sadness. One day, perhaps, I will return again and lose all ability to understand facial expressions other than emoticons.

Harthas Droigan Prequel

2006-07-13T12:06:00.000-04:00

Here is a prequel for the story I wrote earlier. If anyone actually reads these bloogs, any feedback would be lovingly accepted.

Through cunning, charisma, and a talent for recognizing opportunities other men would wisely ignore, Heulog Fraan came to control an unremarkable stretch of land. Other than housing thick eastern forests and a prodigious number of birds, along with a dearth of water in bodies larger than rather large ponds, Fraan’s Land was worthless. Harthas Droigan was a heroic figure within Fraan’s little nation and the manager of the region’s only profitable mercenary army. He found that the features of this insignificant land fitted him quite comfortably. Droigan appreciated the mysterious qualities of Fraan’s thick woods, and though he had a nagging distrust of birds, his hatred of water was almost legendary.

As a young man, Harthas Droigan’s opinions of birds and water had been far more charitable. Indeed, Droigan had enjoyed a brief career as a ship-owning smuggler and relied on various gulls to relay messages to and from employers. If any period of Droigan’s life could be called happy, it would be the time he spent aboard the Infinite Punches. Unfortunately, the captain approached his life as a smuggler much as he had approached his earlier life as a priest. Droigan’s flamboyance was overwhelming and his activity quickly drew the attention of the Rochdale Shipping Company. This large, influential company quickly blacklisted Droigan in every major port along the Goldwater Coast, and the bright orange hull of the Infinite Punches attracted more gunfire than profitable ventures.

One morning, Harthas Droigan awoke aboard the Infinite Punches to discover he was bankrupt and his crew near mutiny. Succumbing to the demands of his shipmates, Droigan agreed to divide the plunder, but he first had to acquire plunder. His plan for profit, though hastily formed, was quite brilliant. Droigan would retire from piracy intact while simultaneously striking at the heart of the oppressive Rochdale Shipping Company. Indeed, on paper this plan would have to be considered one of the cleverest pieces of trickery Droigan had ever designed.

The morning after learning of his bankruptcy, Harthas Droigan sent the Infinite Punches out to sea without a crew, hoping her mighty orange hull would bother and confuse any who came across it. The sea always has enough depth for one more tale of a ghost ship. Droigan and his crew hiked through dense jungles to the nearby harbor town of Osta. This town was quite wealthy but vigorously defended against sea-borne raids. The citizens of Osta never saw the surrounding inland jungle as a source of danger, as the place was too horrific for any but the most suicidal of raiders to dare travel through. Harthas Droigan was hardy, daring, and utterly disdainful of the well-being of those under his command.

The plundering of Osta had been meticulously planned. Droigan would send in crewmembers adept at sabotage to make alterations to the cannons of the two forts defending the town (it was this preference for specialization that would later bring Droigan success as a mercenary general). These clever alterations would cause the cannons to violently explode the instant they were fired. Upon the return of his saboteurs, Droigan would kill said saboteurs (a cost-cutting method the captain tended not to make common knowledge), storm and plunder the city, then sail off with the fastest ship available in the harbor. This plan, clever as it was, became subject to change as soon as Droigan’s pirates emerged from the jungle.

While Harthas Droigan attended to various wounds inflicted upon him by the residents of the Ostan jungle, he sent a scout to spy upon the town. The scout returned earlier than Droigan had expected, and her report threw him into a foul mood. It is difficult to lower the spirits of a shipless captain stitching his cheek shut after spending three days trudging through thick, poisonous wilderness, but the news that a Rochdale warship was sitting in Osta’s harbor did just that. One must wonder what ran through Harthas Droigan’s mind when he realized that he had no ship, no money, no food, and no hope of defeating a crew of Rochdale mercenaries. The teeth lodged in his back certainly became less of a nuisance.

As a final act of futility, Droigan sent his saboteurs into the town to do whatever damage they felt they could get away with. When they did not return quickly, the captain assumed the specialists had deserted or been killed and made plans regarding the survival of his remaining crew. It is perhaps ironic that that when the saboteurs did return, it was the ship’s cook Droigan and his crew were enjoying as a meal. It is certainly ironic that the chef was by far the least nutritious member of the crew. The report delivered to the captain was far better than anything he could have hoped for, given the dire circumstances he was in. The warship had been cautiously approached and it turned out that it was all but unmanned, having reported into the harbor for various small repairs. The saboteurs had found themselves entirely free to carry out their work on the town’s forts without taking incredible risks. They had gone so far as to inflict a further injury upon the town but they could not divulge this information to their captain, as Droigan had rewarded their success with the rapid executions he had originally planned.

After consuming the rest of the ship’s cook and the meatier portions of the saboteurs, Droigan’s crew descended upon Osta in a frenzy only Harthas Droigan could induce. Banks were emptied, taverns drained, churches defiled, women raped, and children tortured. It was only when Droigan himself noticed a flurry of activity at the town’s barracks that he made a most unwelcome connection between the events that had led to his present circumstances: if the warship had no crew onboard, then that crew had to be somewhere else. As over two hundred angry, well-trained Rochdale soldiers poured out of the barracks and rushed to the aid of the plundered city, Droigan decided that the time for retreat had come.

In a move that certainly seemed brilliant, Droigan’s crew seized the unmanned Rochdale warship and fled. The Rochdale soldiers, though skilled, had been taken by surprise and could not quickly commandeer another ship and pursue the pirates. The order was given, after some hesitation, for the fine warship to be fired upon, but the work of Droigan’s former saboteurs caused the forts to be shattered by the shots their own cannons fired. Droigan sailed peacefully out of Osta’s harbour with a new ship and an entire town’s wealth, having only lost his original ship, a third of his crew in the Ostan jungle, another third of his crew in Osta itself, and a favorite ivory dagger Droigan had buried in the thigh of a resistant woman and later forgotten to retrieve.

A thick fog descended shortly after Droigan’s daring escape and the captain, though confident in the power and speed of his new ship, nonetheless grew fearful of an encounter with Rochdale forces that would end his retirement from piracy before it even began. The fog made navigation all but impossible and for three days Droigan’s crew could do little more than peer into the surrounding mists for any sign of pursuit. Finally, on the fourth soupy day, the fears of captain and crew were confirmed. A pursuing vessel was seen through the fog, though barely. With daring and bravado, Droigan swung his ship about and fired at his approaching foe. Immediately afterwards, the captain painfully regretted killing his saboteurs before they had finished reporting on their activities in Osta.

If truth be told, there were two things Harthas didn’t know when he issued the order to fire on the pursuing vessel. The first was that his saboteurs, having found the Rochdale warship all but abandoned, had turned the ship’s cannons into death-traps. They had assumed, incorrectly, that their captain would opt to steal a smaller, less conspicuous ship. The second, less crucial piece of information was that Droigan was not being pursued by Rochdale forces, but had been intercepted by a more familiar vessel. The consequences of these inconvenient truths were disastrous.

The order to fire on the pursuing vessel having been quickly obeyed, Droigan’s new warship was blown to pieces. Most of the ship did not actually sink, but was instead scattered across the ocean’s surface. The only unmolested object was a small, oar-less, sail-less war canoe that housed two corpses that had landed there by chance, two living members of the pirate crew, several of Harthas Droigan’s messenger gulls, and Harthas Droigan himself. With the mists quickly rising, the captain regained his senses in enough time to see the orange hull of the unmanned Infinite Punches cutting through the wreckage of what had once been an excellent warship.

The war canoe spent two hundred and fifty two days on the ocean before being rescued. The corpses of the sailors were eaten and their bones saved for making a variety of tools. The absence of fresh water claimed the living crewmembers within a few days of the warship being destroyed. An unusual pairing in Harthas Droigan’s ancestry allowed the captain to survive on salt water, and after carefully rationing the corpses as they were made available to him, he spent the rest of his time in the canoe depending on his gulls to bring small fish. His opinion of birds soared to new heights.

Eventually, a trading ship on a routine mission came across the war canoe, and they learned that the blackened, emaciated man living in the boat had escaped a terrible accident on the other side of the Tapaas Ocean. The merchant crew quickly returned Harthas Droigan to reasonable health and set him ashore at the nearest port. His career as a pirate certainly finished, Droigan spat in the ocean, took leave of his gulls, and began his search for a land that would never remind him of his embarrassing accident and subsequent ordeal.

Harthas Droigan 1

2006-07-10T11:51:00.000-04:00

Here's a story I wrote during the schoolyear. I haven't posted anything in a while, but I doubt anyone reads this anyway. It all works out in the end.

Harthas Droigan made a career out of protecting the innocent. He had never been terribly good at business, and some of his more monstrous appetites prevented the public life that a politician or minister led. He was, however, the only man in Lord Fraan’s nation that could turn a mercenary army into a profitable venture. Owning no real property, Droigan’s wealth lay in the multitudes of poorly-trained, inexpensive warriors whose loyalty he so gallantly commanded. Many of Fraan’s citizens believed that these warriors would have turned to much darker habits than mercenary work if Droigan had not shown them the way to a better, if somewhat dangerous life. In contrast to Droigan’s army, Lord Fraan himself possessed a few well-trained, greedy, lazy soldiers and a nation that was always too aggressive and never well-defended. It was through these circumstances that Harthas Droigan carved a life of glory, honor, and fleeting wealth.

Lord Fraan had just enough men and just enough sense to keep his country from being torn apart by neighboring despots, but he did not have the resources needed to calm any troubles that arose within the land under his feeble gaze. This was unfortunate, as Fraan’s people were an unsavory lot who never seemed quite willing to obey the laws of their holy defender. To make matters a little more awkward for Fraan, Harthas Droigan had always shown an admirable loyalty towards his countrymen and resisted jobs from Fraan that involved quelling uprisings or other nasty, bloody pieces of business to that effect. Fraan was saved from this tight spot by the inherent cowardice and stupidity of his own people. As uncooperative and churlish as these peasants often were, they lacked the brains and the backbones to put any sort of organized rebellion together, and thus Fraan was able to rule comfortably. Besides, the peasants and villagers under Fraan had things far more frightening than a weak despot on their minds.

In the woods dotting the eastern regions of this land there lived a not insignificant number of trolls. These trolls, much like the trolls of any other part of the world, quietly tended their crops, worshipped their goddess and avoided contact with humans whenever it was possible and polite to do so. Some remarkable pottery had been known to make its way out of these forests. Unlike other trolls, however, these creatures had picked up a most unwelcome habit; every so often they would pick up axes instead of shovels and ransack villages under the protection of one Lord Althan Fraan. These attacks often came when the ranks of Fraan’s forces were at their thinnest, and it was at these dire times that Harthas Droigan would show his great worth. For an almost fair price, Droigan would assemble his troops and ride to the aid of his distraught countrymen. Droigan’s army would swarm through the forests like ants, slaughtering even the most helpless trolls and desecrating any temples they happened to find. One story tells us that Droigan was once so enraged by the devastation attributed to a troll chieftain named Naithlau that he led the attack on Naithlau’s village himself, cut off the hands of the chieftain’s daughter, and raped her until his soldiers could not tell if she was alive or dead. Droigan brought Naithlau’s head back to Lord Fraan, but not before the chieftain had seen his daughter’s body torn to shreds by Droigan’s hounds. Indeed, the savagery of the trolls was equally, and curiously, matched by the viciousness of Droigan’s vengeance. Lord Fraan could only marvel at the timeliness of Droigan’s interventions, though he could not guess at how timely they truly were.

On several occasions, Harthas Droigan would awaken with the realization that he was bankrupt. You already know that poor Harthas did not have a future as a politician, minister or merchant, and the life of a toiling peasant did not to appeal to him. It was in these dire times that Harthas most heavily relied on his own wit and the ignorance of his countrymen. Harthas would quietly seek out a few hundred of his least scrupulous men and send them east under the cover of night. These men would choose a village under the rule of Fraan, perhaps one that boasted a little too much wealth or women that were a little too attractive. These men would cloak themselves in furs and take up dulled axes as Fraan’s people commonly, though incorrectly, believed that trolls were hairy beasts that would kill once given the correct tools. Harthas’ army would slip into the village, slit the throats of the men, violate and bury the women, then burn the children alive. They would take all the plunder they cared to carry and move on to as many villages as would be needed to spread troll-induced panic across the countryside. These men would then quietly rejoin Harthas Droigan’s army in just enough time to be hired out to Fraan to deal with the bloodthirsty, savage trolls roaming the Lord’s land. Harthas Droigan made a career out of protecting the innocent.

Activists v. Industrialists. The Issues.

2006-06-25T15:34:00.000-04:00

“The globe is warming.”

With those four incisive words, George W. Bush did more to raise awareness of current climate change than Al Gore ever has or ever will. Al Gore won the presidency in 2000 and is still a loser.

George’s confession must signal the end of the debate. The most right-wing, ignorant industrialist ever has admitted that the world is getting hotter. Hippies: take to the streets in cities across and rejoice! The problem is solved! Everyone’s onboard, and everything is going to be alright.

Not quite. The President’s admission is both long overdue and completely inconsequential. It’s like having a friend finally admit he’s wrong when you’ve known he was the entire time. Not only that, the original argument was pointless to begin with. The hippies’ victory is so hollow I’m still hearing the echoes.

In the scientific community, it has been generally agreed that the average global temperature has been rising since the late 1970s or so. That’s right, the people who actually study climate change and things that may be affected by climate change have been in strong agreement for the past 30 years that global warming is a real phenomenon.

To keep this brief, I need you to understand that the controversy surrounding global warming is not where you think it would be. The typical person would describe the climate change argument as being about whether the world’s temperature is rising or not, but this isn’t the issue. Among the people who matter, there is very little argument against global warming at all.

Essentially, this bloogumentary series will shed light on issues that are being hotly contested as we speak by people who are in the know about the global warming dilemma. These problems may not often be talked about within the public domain, but I can assure you that they are quite real.

First, I will illustrate both sides of the argument over how much the world’s temperature is rising. This issue is both wide-ranging and surprisingly complex, going beyond simple temperature change and looking at shifts in climate as well.

Second, I will summarize the argument over how much of this supposed change in climate is actually our fault. This is an extremely tricky debate, but I’ll do my best to point out the big issues here.

Third, I will reveal the debate that rages over what global warming might actually do. This one sounds pretty straightforward, but it is stranger than you’d think.

Finally, I will discuss the argument that rages over what, if anything, we can do about global warming.

I’m off to begin collecting my resources, but I hope to present Issue 1: How Hot Is It Getting? as soon as possible.

Shoon v. The Prime Directive

2006-06-22T19:46:00.000-04:00

I am an unapologetic Star Trek fan. I cannot say that I have watched every episode the five incarnations of the franchise have produced, but I’ve certainly seen an awful lot of 22nd, 23rd, and 24th century adventures. Every series has its own charms (TOS’ soft racism and non-stop Kirk, TNG’s English Frenchman and irritating boy genius, DS9’s strategic use of Irishmen and baseball-themed episodes, the fact that Voyager ended, and Enterprise’s reliance on a beagle as a medium for moral storytelling), but the common themes among each incarnation truly gave Star Trek a special place in my heart. One such theme, sometimes named but often implied, was that of the Prime Directive.

The Prime Directive was a policy that had been adopted by the United Federation of Planets, of which Earth was a prominent member. Basically, the Directive was originally put in place to prevent the Federation, a technologically advanced and culturally overwhelming political body, from interfering with and overrunning smaller, less advanced peoples. If a civilization had not developed the technology for interstellar flight, then the Federation couldn’t contact them or involve themselves in the workings of that particular civilization in any way. The Prime Directive was used in many episodes as a source of moral struggle. In many episodes, Federation officers would come across a situation they saw to be brutally wrong but could do nothing because of the strict ethical code they had sworn to follow. Often the Prime Directive would be violated, and often this violation would have large consequences.

For a long time I didn’t quite understand the significance of the episodes that featured various people grappling with the idea of breaching the Prime Directive by doing something they thought to be morally right. I had always thought that if I were in such a predicament, there would be no such conflict. It’s not that I thought I didn’t have morals, but I felt that if I had sworn to follow the Prime Directive, I’d never think twice about betraying it. For years after first doubting the moral fiber of the characters I watched on Star Trek, I wasn’t given an opportunity to see if I too would falter under the harsh, uncompromising demands of the Prime Directive. Last year, I finally got my chance.

In mid-April 2005, I was in Georgetown making preparations for a brief stint in the wilderness of northeastern Ontario. I had just purchased a pair of binoculars for the trip and had decided to go into my backyard and see how many people’s windows I could look into as a test of the binoculars’ strength. I had been outside gazing about for only a few moments before I heard what seemed to be a baby shrieking. This noise would unnerve a good number of people, but my house backs into a field and I immediately recognized the sound as a rabbit in a great deal of stress.

I put down my binoculars and followed the shrieking with my ears. My dog, Rosie, was outdoors with me and had taken a great deal of interest in the goings-on as well. She is a renowned hater of rabbits, but the sound of this poor animal in so much fear and pain had seemingly moved her.

Just as I had tracked down the bush I felt the noise was coming from, Johnny Depp (my cat, not the actor) emerged from that same bush with a very young, very frightened rabbit hanging from his mouth. John trotted over to where a fence meets my house and forms an inescapable corner and released the rabbit into the makeshift boxing ring. Rosie jumped down from my deck and joined the ruckus, but quickly chose to stand back a bit and watch John as he played his sadistic game.

The rabbit’s tale was a truly terrifying one. Here he was, plucked from a peaceful field, huddled in a corner and with no escape route except through a psychopathic feline. Every few moments the cat would advance upon him and rain down blows and bites. Sometimes the cat would lose interest and step back, only to attack again. If the rabbit was able to squeeze past this cat, a huge beast stood waiting to cut off any hope of escape, and the rabbit would have no choice but to retreat back into the ring with Johnny Depp, who would immediately punish the poor creature for trying to leave in the first place.

The rabbit’s salvation stood on the deck no more than 10 yards away. Several times I decided to go in and break up the sadistic scene, but I never took a step. The rabbit did not belong to a species that had developed interstellar travel, nor did my cat or my dog. My species had managed to send probes beyond our solar system, and thus I felt the Prime Directive applied. Instead of ending the carnage, I put my binoculars up and carefully observed every strike Johnny Depp inflicted upon his victim.

Eventually, my dog got fed up of watching John enjoy himself and pushed her way past the greedy cat. The rabbit, by now too shocked to be aware of the crisis before him, was taken up in Rose’s jaws, chewed seven or eight times, and swallowed.

I put my binoculars down, went inside, and poured myself a cup of tea. Earl Grey. Hot. I had never felt so much like a guilt-ridden deity in all my life. I had the power to end what I thought was a terrible situation, but I had done nothing. I had decided not to get involved in the affairs of species incapable of sending probes to the stars (though several dogs have traveled into space) and had thus conceded to the cold logic of the Prime Directive.

I didn’t lose any sleep over what I’d done, but I’ve never taken any of Jean-Luc Picard’s decisions lightly again.

Simon's Favorite 11 (#10-11)

2006-06-20T10:59:00.000-04:00

Strikers: These were the two most difficult positions for me to choose. As you may guess from my earlier comments, I’m a very defensive-minded person when it comes to football. I think I played as a striker for 15 minutes of one game. I’ve played in goal more often than I’ve played as a forward. To me, all strikers look the same. That being said, I realize how critical a striker is to his team, even if I feel his role can be overstated at times. Casual football fans always gravitate toward the flashy forward or the consistent scorer. Wayne Rooney, for example, is a rare footballer whose name is fairly well-known in Canada. I adore Wayne Rooney and I do think he’s fantastic, but he is not hands-down the best striker in the world right now, and he is not the best player in the world. Still, his name is better-known than that of Ruud van Nistelrooij, who plays for the same team as Rooney and scored more goals than him this year.

The striker can be seen as the icing on the cake, but as a fullback I prefer to regard strikers as parasitic lampreys that feed off the hard work of others and contribute almost nothing to the team. Unfortunately, the small, one-dimensional service they do provide is absolutely critical for any successful football club, and as a result I had to make my choices quite carefully. As much as I tend to badmouth strikers, I really do like an awful lot of them, and I ultimately chose players I thought would best fit into my team rather than the two strikers I just happen to like the best.

Thierry Henry: As an English Man U fan, it may come as a shock that I want a French striker who plays for the Arsenal on my squad. Of course, the feeling of surprise may dwindle a bit upon the realization of just who Thierry Henry is. This guy has been hailed by some of the greatest players ever as the most technically gifted striker in history. People are taken aback by his technical skill, but it is his artistic flair that will be remembered long after he is gone. The best analogy I can think of is that of the prodigal violinist. You go to a concert and marvel at the precision of his playing, you admire the mastery he has over his craft. When you leave, however, you’re talking about the brief instant when he did something, often faintly and almost beyond perception, which you know no one else in the world could do. That is Thierry Henry. You could put a thousand kids through a rigorous training program and a lot of them will come out with technical skills rivaling those of Henry. Not a single one will possess the almost indescribable quality that makes Henry so special. He plays every game with the intention of being remembered for doing something no one else has done. He is the only 3-time FWA Footballer of the Year. A Thierry Henry exhibit should be opened in the Louvre. He is the champagne of football. He is, however, a delicate genius, and can be prone to sulking. As brilliant as Henry is, he’s akin to the kid who picks up his ball and walks home as soon as he starts to lose. My next choice ensures that Henry would never dare give up when playing for the Shoon 11.

Here is Thierry Henry. It really should be set to something by Mozart.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=mJIi4upQLWo&search=thierry%20henry

Eric Cantona: If Thierry Henry is champagne, Eric Cantona is grog. Another fabulous Frenchman, Cantona has scored a few lovely goals in his time, but he is one of those few strikers who bring more than goal-scoring prowess into the game. This man galvanized Manchester United in the early 1990s. His inspirational play led to 1-0 wins that should have been 3-0 losses. He refused to have a bad game, and he refused to let his players have one either. This guy was intense. He was once suspended for tearing off his shirt in anger after being substituted. He criticized France’s coaching staff and was banned from international play for a year. He kicked a fan. This guy would scare Thierry Henry into producing a masterpiece every single match. Cantona also claims that he and Ryan Giggs share a telepathic bond, and I’d like to see how that bond manifests itself in my team. He is an excellent header of the ball and abhors diving in all its forms. The most important aspect of Eric Cantona’s game is his attitude, an attitude I try to keep every time I play football or any other sport. This attitude is summed up by Cantona’s famous quote, a quote I will leave you with, having finally formed my all-time favorite team.

“I don’t play against a particular team. I play against the idea of losing.”

Eric:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=dpBd04pl2S8&search=eric%20cantona

As a final pair of statistics, my team (based on birthplace) consists of 3 Englishmen, 2 Frenchmen, 1 Canadian, 1 Welshman, 1 Irishman, 1 Brazilian, 1 German, and 1 Dane. I am not a national fan-boy. I am, however, a Man U fan-boy, as 5 of my players are current or former Red Devils.

Simon's Favorite 11 (#6-9)

2006-06-16T14:40:00.000-04:00

Here we have my midfield, selected for their work ethic, ball control, and two-way play.

Defensive Center Half: None other than Roy Keane, one of Ireland’s finest products. This man would be the anchor of my midfield, giving license for my other halfbacks to go forward. He’d bridge the gap between offense and defense. Perhaps most importantly, he’d give my team massive, massive balls. To call Roy Keane a firebrand would be like calling World War 2 slightly unfortunate. He leads, he tackles, and he distributes. When Keane is on the pitch, the opposition pays close attention to where he is at all times. They don’t worry about him suddenly splitting them open and going for a dazzling run. No no, they’re concerned he’ll tear their best players to shreds. Roy Keane is the guy you send to cover the best opposing player, and he does this magnificently. If you need someone taken out, go to Keane. In his autobiography, Keane admitted to deliberately injuring Alf Inge Halland and became the first player to be suspended twice for the same incident. He is probably the best player Manchester United has had since the Premier League was founded. He was their undisputed captain after Eric Cantona retired, and racked up 7 Premier League titles, 4 F.A. Cup titles, a European Champions League title, and an Intercontinental Cup title in his time with the Red Devils. Despite not being flashy in any conceivable way, he was adored by United fans. In 2005, while injured, Roy Keane onto his own team’s television station and verbally raped almost every player United had. He questioned their loyalty, their drive, and their talent. He called United’s poor play unacceptable, and pretty much humbled a group of millionaires. United’s management wanted an apology, and Keane publicly refused. What did the attacked players say? They agreed with him! How did the fans react to Keane lambasting their beloved Red Devils? They loved him all the more for telling the truth! Keane left the team, but was more respected than ever. This is a guy who gives the team everything he has, and will come down on ANYONE who doesn’t do the same. On a team of leaders and brilliant talent, Roy Keane is my captain.

Here’s Roy in action:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=16UWiqN9wvo&search=roy%20keane

Attacking Center Half: This is a difficult decision, but I have to go with Steven Gerrard. This choice could be argued as my bias towards English players shining through, but I strongly disagree. Gerrard may be English, but he is also an undeniably fantastic player. It’s the completeness of his play that earns him a spot on my team. He isn’t as aggressive as Roy Keane, but he is aggressive. He can’t bend it like Beckham, but he can bend it. He isn’t brilliant defensively, but he is capable and responsible. He can’t slice his way through a defensive line, but he can frighten them. His work ethic is unsurpassed, his fitness cannot be improved, his passes are incisive, and his shot, my God his shot. If Gerrard is within 30 yards of goal, watch out. I don’t think anyone can shoot as accurately, as powerfully, and from as far as Liverpool’s keystone player. He is also the best clutch player in football today. Just when you think Steven Gerrard can’t play any harder, you see him in a Cup Final. This guy is the only reason Liverpool won the European Champions League in 2005 and the F.A. Cup in 2006. In the latter final, he scored twice, once from 35 yards out with a kick estimated to be traveling at about 110 kilometers an hour. This guy’s vision is unparalleled, and he can feed strikers so well and so often that it would take a great deal of incompetence to prevent goals from flooding in. If the strikers can’t finish the job, Gerrard will do it himself from wherever he may be standing at the time. Gerrard and Keane playing together would make the center of the pitch a dead zone for the opposition: enter at your own risk and keep the ball out of there at all costs.

Here’s Gerrard scoring the wonder-goal in the 2006 F.A. Cup Final:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=AKWrnyVcZIA&search=steven%20gerrard%20fa%20cup

Left Midfield: Ryan Giggs. No question. No debate. One of my three favorite players ever, the Welsh Wizard is the second-best player to never appear in the World Cup or European Championship (the best is, fittingly, Best). He runs like Wayne Rooney, handles like Ronaldinho, passes like Steven Gerrard, and crosses like David Beckham. A Red Devil through and through, he scored (arguably) the best goal ever seen against Arsenal in the F.A. Cup semi-final in 1999. In his prime, Ryan Giggs could do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. He made the best defenders in the world fall over without ever touching them. He was a man playing with boys. With Manchester United, he won 8 Premier League titles, 4 F.A. Cup titles, 2 League Cups, one European Champions League title, one Intercontinental Cup, and one UEFA Super Cup. While still actively playing, he was inducted into the English Football Hall of Fame in 2005 and was named the Manchester United player’s player in 2006, 15 years after playing his first game for the Red Devils. I am truly saddened that the world has never had the joy of seeing Ryan Giggs on the big stage, but I am grateful for the magic he has shown United fans for well over a decade.

Please please please watch this one. You’ll never see anything better from football. At the very end is the goal that has been hailed as the best ever.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=QeTT_U-lfIc&search=ryan%20giggs

Right Midfield: My right midfielder is David Beckham, England’s captain and one of the best crossers and kickers ever. This man is controversial and he is often condemned. People, even English people, love to hate David Beckham. Why? Because he’s gorgeous, he has a temper, he loves the public life, and he’s not very good at taking penalties. He has made mistakes that have badly hurt the English team. People who have never watched a football match know David Beckham’s name, and as a result there is an overwhelming desire by genuine football fans to call this man overrated. What these people don’t recognize or refuse to admit is that David Beckham is, simply put, the best in the world at what he does. He doesn’t go on dazzling runs like Giggs. He doesn’t have the grasp of defensive play that Keane does. His feet know very few tricks, if any. He can’t hammer it like Gerrard (Hammer it like Gerrard is due to arrive in theatres next year). He can, however, place better passes than just about anyone, and he can knock a bottle off your head from 40 yards away. No one has more accurate kicks. No one. This man owns corners. He owns free kicks. Penalties should not go to him, but otherwise he is Mr. Dead Ball. Furthermore, he will give you a great effort in every game, and he is intimidating! Just by being on the pitch, he commands attention. He isn’t aggressive or mouthy, but he is David Beckham, and he is the only player I would want playing right midfield for my Dream Team.

Just in case you don’t know David Beckham, here is some stock footage:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=3Yz0Vk0WJQ8&search=david%20beckham

There we have my midfield. Two Englishmen, so that’s not too bad. Three Manchester United players though! I may be a fanboy after all. Next we’ll have my two strikers, but these will take more consideration than any of my other selections. Who will they be

Activists v. Industrialists. An Introduction.

2006-06-16T10:31:00.000-04:00

We all have heard the debate over global warming. A group of nameless, faceless fascists with oil in the pockets of their seal-skin suits tell us that there is no reason to believe the planet is getting warmer, but at the same time we have weed-addled, sandal-wearing vegans spouting moral outrage over big business’ plans to cause the apocalypse. It can all be very confusing, and often is more than a little irritating.

Why is there a debate in the first place? I mean, come on, we all know global warming is happening! I heard it from a guy living in the back of a Hybrid, and there’s no way a hippie would lie! No no, global warming IS happening, I’m sure of it. It’s like the hippie said, big business doesn’t care about people. It just cares about profit, and if making profit means destroying the ability of customers to live and spend money, then so be it! It makes perfect sense, why didn’t we see this 20 years ago? Big business wants to kill its source of money much in the same way I want to destroy oxygen so I can’t breathe any more. That makes sense, doesn’t it? No? Okay, well then I guess big business isn’t evil, and they don’t plan on causing a catastrophe.

So back to my original question: why are we debating global warming? Well, to be fair, we’re not debating it any more. The majority of scientists say it’s happening, governments say something should be done about it (I love that part), and big business is shifting as best it can to accommodate the demands that will someday be imposed upon it. This is not, however, and open-and-shut case. From where I sit, there are still two major problems that need to be addressed. First, we seriously still don’t know much about global warming. We don’t know how quickly the world is warming, nor do we know how much of it is our fault. This may come as a bit of a surprise to some people, considering how sick I’m sure we all are of hearing that global warming is both dramatic and entirely due to our activities. Second, we have no idea what to do about global warming, or if there’s anything we CAN do.

Over the next little while, I will try to shed some light on issues within global warming that don’t get the publicity they should. I will try to show you where big business should be taken to task for dropping the ball. I will point out where the socio-politico-environmental activists you see rallying every hundred yards or so are usually lying to you far more flagrantly than the oil tycoons they burn in effigy.

Who am I? I’m Shoon, a biology student and a genuinely concerned citizen. I care about the environment, but I also care about the truth. I’m of the opinion that there are two truths: the truth you’re told, and the truth you’re not told. There is no good or evil, there are only two sides to a story. Big business is not evil and activism isn’t good, but they both tell you the truth they want you to hear, and we tend to choose to listen to one truth or another. As your guide, I’ll do what I can to give you both sides of every tale I tell. Am I biased? Yes. If I wasn’t biased I probably wouldn’t be interested in doing this in the first place. Despite my personal feelings, I will try to represent both parties, the tycoons and the hippies, with fairness and respect. Ultimately though, this series will serve to show you just how stupid both parties can be.

Enjoy!

Simon's Favorite 11 (#1-5)

2006-06-15T21:24:00.000-04:00

I'm bored, so I've made a football team I'd be terribly excited to watch. It was also made as an attempt to show I'm not exceedingly biased towards English players. Here are my goalkeeper and defenders, and a few links to videos to show them in action. Just copy and paste, you fiends. Or don't watch, you dastards.

Goalkeeper: Peter Schmeichel, Denmark’s all-time greatest keeper and one of the very best players of the 1990s. This far throwing, foul-tempered guardian became a legend in my eyes during his years at Old Trafford. In 1999, he was a part of the only team to win the English Premier League, the F.A. Cup, and the UEFA Champions League in the same year. This was the man in net when I began to love Manchester United, even scoring a goal for them in 1996. He was once fired by Alex Ferguson after an argument, but was re-hired after apologizing to his teammates. He ended up winning 5 Premier League titles, 4 F.A. Charity Shields, 3 F.A. Cups, the UEFA Champions League, the European Super Cup, the World Club Cup and the League Cup over 8 seasons with the Red Devils. Another career highlight was leading Denmark to a championship in Europe in 1992, and he was the Danish Player of the Year in 1990, 1993, and 1999. He was the World’s Best Goalkeeper in 1992 and 1993. He retired in 2003, but his son Kasper is a highly-regarded prospect for Manchester City. This man would radiate confidence from goal, and the rest of my team would reap the benefits.

Here’s Peter in action:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=jWb99JPffz8&search=peter%20schmeichel

Sweeper: In my favorite position, I have Franz Beckenbauer. This brilliant German revolutionized the sweeper position and was the epitome of resilience and leadership during his distinguished career. Most of his club career was spent with Bayern Munich, where he won 4 Bundesliga championships, 4 DFB Cups, 3 European Champions Cups, a European Cup Winners Cup, and a World Club Championship. Playing for Germany, he won a European Championship in 1972 and a World Cup in 1974. This man was football’s equivalent of Bobby Orr, as no one before or since has so radically changed a defensive position. When the Kaiser was on the field, he made the game his own. He was a sweeper who would tear opponents to shreds with dazzling runs up the wings. He was also brilliant defensively, and simply could not lose one-on-one battles. As an athlete and a football player, he was the total package. As a sweeper he was excellent at understanding, deploying, and countering various tactics, and this led naturally to a successful managerial career. He coached Germany to a World Cup in 1990 and managed Bayern Munich to a Bundesliga championship in 1994 and a UEFA Cup in 1996. On a personal level, I’d say that my style of play has been influenced more by the Kaiser than by any other player. He is a true legend in my eyes. Franz Beckenbauer gives my team stability and stinginess in the back, aggressiveness and unpredictability up front, and an immaculate, deadly understanding of the game.

Here’s footage of Franz. The game was a lot slower back then.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=NCBd6cYoOf8&search=franz%20beckenbauer

Centreback: In my second-favorite position, directly in front of Beckenbauer, my team has England’s John Terry. The first on my team to be an active player, Terry is arguably the greatest defender in the game today. He is also unbeatable in the air. I don’t know how he does it, but every time a cross comes in against him, he manages to beat every attacking player to it. He plays for Chelsea, quite possibly the best club team in the world today, and is the undisputed captain of the club. That’s right. Frank Lampard, Michael Ballack, Joe Cole, and Didier Drogba all take orders from John Terry. Ballack actually said that he joined Chelsea so he could play on the same team as John Terry. In the 2004-2005 campaign, Terry led a defense that allowed 15 goals in 38 league games. That’s less than one every two games. In 2005, he was named as the Premier League’s best player by his competitors. In that same year, he was named the European Champions League’s best defender and earned a place among the World XI (basically FIFA doing what I’m doing now, only they had to use active players). He hasn’t even turned 28 yet. There are many people in England demanding that John Terry replace David Beckham as England’s captain. This is not done out of anger at David Beckham, but out of genuine belief that no one in England’s squad can lead better than Chelsea’s captain. They may be right. John Terry would make my defensive line a little more vocal and a lot more brutal. Franz Beckenbauer can defeat opponents through skill, but John Terry beats them with fear.

Here’s Johnny.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=CAXHw3UN1Jo&search=john%20terry

Left Back: Here I have Brazil’s Roberto Carlos, a man I have never liked but always respected. To be perfectly honest, there are not a lot of wingbacks that have ever really stood out at me as being truly brilliant players. I know there are some bloody good wingbacks, but none of them have ever struck my fancy or convinced me that they are the most vital player on their team. Roberto Carlos gets to play on my team because I dislike him so much. He has never been a genius with the ball or impossible to beat. He isn’t particularly intimidating. He is, however, a World Cup champion, and he has been a brutal antagonist every time he has faced a team I support. He’s a player I’ve often hated and wished would just go away, but he has never disappeared. In fact, every time I wish he would break both of his legs and have to leave the pitch forever, he has come up with a brilliant effort, both offensively and defensively. In a way, I’m picking him for my team because I don’t want him to be picked by any other team.

Roberto:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=_Aziq0x_XPw&search=roberto%20carlos

Right Back: This is another odd choice, but it is one I will defend to the death. My right back is Owen Hargreaves, a Canadian-born German resident who plays for England’s national side and Bayern Munich during league matches. Why is this choice odd? Because Hargreaves is not a natural right back and he is despised by many, many people. Let’s not get any misconceptions though; Hargreaves is a stalwart, hard-tackling workhorse who is just as comfortable making a run as he is stymieing someone else’s. He is not a popular man in England, but this is because he doesn’t play in England, he doesn’t live in England, and he doesn’t speak the Queen’s English. In Germany, where Hargreaves lives, plays, and speaks like a German, he is a king among men. As a young boy, Hargreaves was given the option of playing for England, Germany, Wales, or Canada. On three of those teams he would have been a superstar but rarely contend for serious championships, while on one of the teams he would have belonged to a consistent contender but rarely get any playing time. Which team did he choose? England, the tough one, and this shows Owen Hargreaves is a consummate professional and team player. While he may not be appreciated in Canada or England, I find him to be an excellent player, and he is more than welcome to suit up for my ideal squad.

Alas, Owen’s accomplishments are not yet great enough to deserve an amateur compilation video, but take my word for it when I say he’s very good.

Well, there we have my defensive five. We have a Dane, a German, an Englishman, a Brazilian, and a Canadian/German/Welshman/Englishman. It hasn’t been the England love-in I was expecting.

Initial Bloog

2006-06-13T17:41:00.000-04:00

This is the first bloog. It is going to be short and uninteresting. Longer, equally uninteresting bloogs will follow.

Shoon's Vacation Trivia

- I flew into 6 airports in 6 weeks, and I wasn't greeted at a single one.

- I broke laws in Italy, Slovakia, and Austria.

- I visited 8 countries in 10 days. Not one of these countries was France. I don't regret it.

- Many Austrians spoke better English than I did.

- Very few Spaniards spoke better English than I did.

- Spanish scaffolding was terrifying to look at.

- I urinated next to a professional football player. This football player was later prevented from playing in the UEFA Cup Final after contracting a disease that can only be transmitted through urine.

- My best meal was composed primarily of marrow squash.

- My worst meal had parrot bones in it.

- No one in England has heard of Arrested Development.

- No one in Hungary has heard of Hungaria.

- Czechs tend to like ice hockey more than football. According to them, they have the third-best football team and Canada has the third-best ice hockey team.

- Swedes all across Europe migrate to Sweden every winter. They are very slightly embarassed about Ikea.

- Finns don't migrate and love death metal.

- Pear cider is a viciously guarded Swedish secret.

- Lynn Richardson is not Swedish. She is Dutch.

I'm doing this largely to see if I can post bloogs in the first place. More will follow.