Wendy Go?
Wendy Go?
Howdy from the frozen tundra of southeast Tennessee....
Woke up to single digit temps this morning, which is well and good, if you're Inuit, like me. Reminds me of my homeland. The only thing I miss this time of year is the 20+ hours of darkness we generally get, and the horrid ice storms that trap you in your ice caves until the June thaw.
Your language still takes some getting used to. I firstly typed it Thaugh, as though it rhymed with the writer of The Loved One....
Heh. I laugh at that book, mostly because attachment to animals is amusing to me. In my homeland, it is far too cold to keep animals as pets. Food, yes. Pets, no. Never name the sandwich, that's what my father always said, just before he was impaled by a narwhal.
That is also why we did not name my second and fourth brothers. Rule of the Wendigo #3: A Man with No Name is No Man.
However, there is a school of thought that says Rules are simply Another Man's Opinion....
I don't know if I believe in a "social contract," as it were, but apparently people get a little pissy when you eat a Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato sandwich, and confuse the terms "Mayo" and "Mayor." I don't know what the problem was. His name was Marty Hellmann, and he was a lame duck. Everybody hated his policy of Manifest Destiny had brought us into direct conflict with the Snow Yuzzem, that crafty tribe of arctic apes, not entirely unlike the Yeti and Sasquatch of your legends. Everybody complains until somebody takes care of the problem.
Sticks and stones may break my bones...I know this from my banishment. But words hurt, too. Especially when that word is Wendigo, and people are hitting you with the aforementioned sticks and stones as they scream that. Looking back, I've decided that sticks and stones hurt worse.
So. Interestingly enough this January the 16th, I begin my eighth year in exile. That seven weeks wandering the wyldes of Alaska and Canada was harrowing, to be sure, and did nothing to assuage the fears of the populace of "Wendigo." I apologize for nothing. A man's gotta eat.
It wasn't until March of 2001 that I wandered into Vancouver, British Columbia, half mad and three quaters snowblind, but adequately nourished, mind you. I've made my way in the world these past eight years, a shining example of the subtle successes of Canada's Weapon X program. I am an upstanding member of society, and have left that past behind me.
But the cold surrounding Casa de Big Stupid Tommy leaves me a little wistful.
And a touch peckish...so it might not be a bad idea to keep your distance....
Howdy from the frozen tundra of southeast Tennessee....
Woke up to single digit temps this morning, which is well and good, if you're Inuit, like me. Reminds me of my homeland. The only thing I miss this time of year is the 20+ hours of darkness we generally get, and the horrid ice storms that trap you in your ice caves until the June thaw.
Your language still takes some getting used to. I firstly typed it Thaugh, as though it rhymed with the writer of The Loved One....
Heh. I laugh at that book, mostly because attachment to animals is amusing to me. In my homeland, it is far too cold to keep animals as pets. Food, yes. Pets, no. Never name the sandwich, that's what my father always said, just before he was impaled by a narwhal.
That is also why we did not name my second and fourth brothers. Rule of the Wendigo #3: A Man with No Name is No Man.
However, there is a school of thought that says Rules are simply Another Man's Opinion....
I don't know if I believe in a "social contract," as it were, but apparently people get a little pissy when you eat a Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato sandwich, and confuse the terms "Mayo" and "Mayor." I don't know what the problem was. His name was Marty Hellmann, and he was a lame duck. Everybody hated his policy of Manifest Destiny had brought us into direct conflict with the Snow Yuzzem, that crafty tribe of arctic apes, not entirely unlike the Yeti and Sasquatch of your legends. Everybody complains until somebody takes care of the problem.
Sticks and stones may break my bones...I know this from my banishment. But words hurt, too. Especially when that word is Wendigo, and people are hitting you with the aforementioned sticks and stones as they scream that. Looking back, I've decided that sticks and stones hurt worse.
So. Interestingly enough this January the 16th, I begin my eighth year in exile. That seven weeks wandering the wyldes of Alaska and Canada was harrowing, to be sure, and did nothing to assuage the fears of the populace of "Wendigo." I apologize for nothing. A man's gotta eat.
It wasn't until March of 2001 that I wandered into Vancouver, British Columbia, half mad and three quaters snowblind, but adequately nourished, mind you. I've made my way in the world these past eight years, a shining example of the subtle successes of Canada's Weapon X program. I am an upstanding member of society, and have left that past behind me.
But the cold surrounding Casa de Big Stupid Tommy leaves me a little wistful.
And a touch peckish...so it might not be a bad idea to keep your distance....
posted by Tommy at
08:28
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