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Tom Gordon's Blother

April 8, 2006

Deus Patefactum
It was the AC adapter, after all. Insert heaping sigh of relief.

Hm. Guess I should probably make a few notes here, having reached one of those rare life moments where there's just an empty, monotonous plateau before you that really frickin' needs to be blasted past at a noisy 120 MPH, blown up with HE, turned into an EnormoMart (hi Elaine!) or something. Or to use another half-baked incoherently pseudo-intellectual analogy: like that numbed pins-and-needles sensation one gets in one or more limbs when sleeping in an unnatural position. Come morning you'll wake up, and perform a frenetic, vaguely zombie-esque dance comprised of entirely unplanned and perfunctory motions to get those creaky bits working again. And in such a capacity this blog blother truly serves.



Trying to recollect: did the Gods have any involvement with melting Icarus' wings (and his subsequent fatal belly-flop into the ocean)? Don't think so; I distinctly remember he'd disobeyed daddy's clearly-specified Standard Operating Procedure, while Athene (Daedalus' NASCAR sponsor-of-sorts) was just tickled pink over his latest arrogant scientific enterprise. But then my obsessive fascination with all things relating to the Greco-Roman pantheon peaked around the time Harry Hamlin was fighting two-headed Harryhausenian dogs and oversized stop-motion'd scorpions.

Mph. Okay -- that's not entirely true. When the Internet sprang onto the scene, like everybody else I sprained my brain exhaustively overbrowsing every subject that interested me, from the Austrian School of economics to Millions of Unusual Small Creatures Lurking Everywhere. And I just know there's a Olympian Mythos tome somewhere in the ol' critical mass-reaching bookcase, there... because once in a turquoise moon/overly-testosteroney haze, I'll pry it out of its dusty vise and read about Pygmalion's strangely erotic 'DIY' exploits again, drooling all the way: "...eh wot? Club scenes? Believing some Oprah-extruded 'soulmates' rot? Pretending to care about wussbag liberal causes, and being caught dead at places like Bed, Bath And Beyond?! Screw that! If I want a woman, I'll make 'er meself, Zeusdammit!"

Ayup. Always dug them old-timey polytheo religions. They've got the all the appeal of the World Wrestling Federation circa 1985 or 1999, combined with crazed visuals you'd get from George Lucas if he'd been force-fed LSD for six consecutive months. Unceasing sex and violence! Incest, cannibalism and vomiting! Valiant heroes and grotesque monsters! Snake hair, elephant heads and women with multiple arms! Great stuff:



Most importantly, the immortal puppetmasters themselves were like overgrown overpowered humans, weighed down with their own petty jealousies and neuroses; their dirtbound supplicants could relate to them at the most fundamental level, and even MOCK them on occasion (so long as they didn't too get carried away). And, as Pygmalion's story illustrates, such collections of deities wanted to be immortalized throughout the ages, via the arts. The same men who dared sculpt Aphrodite, or Bubastis, or Shiva were undoubtedly considered divine themselves, by dint of their ability to make such fuzzy entities REAL and TANGIBLE, here upon this earth. And just look at the results: the rich civilizations built by worshipers who were inspired by their gods' "physical" artistic presence!

I'm sure y'all know where I'm going with this...
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