El Burro Volador

This is a phrase that leapt out at me from the page of a magazine recently, inducing a cringe in yours truly.  The magazine was one my darling wife Rebekah had left lying open on a shelf.  The quote itself was pull-out text, that lovely layout technique where they take a phrase from the main body of the text, blow it up, and place it in some prominent spot on the page to attract the reader’s attention.

Now, I do not particularly enjoy my attention being directed to anything having to do with sphincters.  It is not that I am attempting to vilify or denigrate them, I realize that they perform important functions in the body, and for that I am grateful.  I even had the dubious privilege of knowing St. Jon the Dissembler, himself a sort of faulty sphincter between our world and a vile plane of filth and wretchedness, where seas of excrement lap barbarous shores beneath flatulent skies, and the cretinous natives enact horrifying scenes of depravity and villainy that leak through, for instance, whenever St. Jon opens his mouth.  But I digress.

Despite their commendable utility, I can’t help but include sphincters in that category of things about which I’d rather not think, like the origins of a hot dog I am about to eat, or the living conditions of the children who make my clothes.

Anyhow, it inevitably occurred to me that Rebekah had left the magazine open to that particular page on purpose, sort of like setting a bear trap and then walking away…

Today Rebekah and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary.  Apparently this is known as the “wood” or “wooden” anniversary, which seems like a fairly prosaic substance with which to honor something as tumultuous and vibrant and precious as these last five years, but I guess the anniversary commemoration divinities have to pace themselves, what with ever-increasing life-expectancies.

We both took the day off from work, and originally had big plans, but since I have been stricken with a nasty little virus since returning from the big retreat, we did not wind up getting into much trouble after all.  Yesterday, Rebekah began to show early symptoms of the illness as well, but more or less managed to stare it down, and has been fine since.  I think I may well shrug it off by Sunday, so maybe we can make that a more memorable day.  The rumor is that we will be seeing some of our favorite people Sunday morning, so we’re already off to a good start.

Something I’m reflecting on in the aftermath of my DMing gig at the retreat is how beautiful the surroundings were.  We were at a place called Glen Eyrie, this, well, campus is almost a good word for it set among the trees and rocks in a part of Colorado called “garden of the gods” (Whenever I say or write that phrase I hear the beginning of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song”, with “hammer” replaced by “garden”).  There is a castle-like main building surrounded by a sprawling array of cabins.  All kinds of wildlife were present, though probably the coolest thing I saw was a couple of wild turkeys.  Last year, apparently, the place was just lousy with big horn sheep.

In addition to the simple pleasures afforded by the natural beauty of the place, I was able to enjoy a more civilized and less innocent delicacy: irony.  You see, Glen Eyrie is owned by Christians, and consecrated by them as a place of spiritual retreat for the faithful – although the group I was working for was there with the understanding that it was a secular organization, its family focus, combined with possibly a boatload of money (30 pieces of silver?) and/or the foreknowledge that many of these children may be in the rocket command someday seems to have opened the doors.

In any case, while my own spiritual leanings are at the very least harmonious with Christianity, I am unlikely to ever be part of a church retreat.  In addition, my vocation for the weekend was teaching children to play Dungeons & Dragons, which not so long ago was reviled by most of Christendom as a sort of “gateway drug” leading to witchcraft and Satanism.  An unlikely steed on which to storm the ramparts of this particular bastion of the faith, to be sure.

Got back exhausted last night from my weekend DMing gig down in the Springs.  There might be a lot to say about that, but it might take another day or two to decompress.  One thing I will say is that many of the kids I DMed for were from out of state, but I may have a couple leads working, so keep your fingers crossed for me…

Also, it is the Dalai Lama’s birthday today.  His Holiness began this most recent incarnation 74 years ago…

I finished Welcome to the Monkey House last night, and am thoroughly confirmed as a fan of Kurt Vonnegut.  Despite the dark nature of his humor, his underlying sensibility is clearly not empty cynicism but a true respect for humanity and morality, and it is this that sets him apart from mere “wits” and makes him a satirist – among the best I’ve ever read.  This retrospective of his 50′s and 60′s short fiction contains everything from love stories originally published in Ladies’ Home Journal to speculative science fiction, and it is generally quite good reading.