Disney’s next five animated movies


Dear readers!

Remarkable!  Absolutely remarkable!  The researchers at the Miskatonic University and I have uncovered yet another post from Peter’s Awesome blog!  I’m here to share it with you now but if you’re unfamiliar with peter, you may want to read this post first, he can be a bit abrasive at times.  – The Corngoblin

********************************


PETER'S AWESOME BLOG 2

Well, Disney is at it again folks.  They are currently making another blockbuster animated feature, the likes of which we’ve never, ever seen before.  If difficult to track genius, but I think we may be able to do it with disney.  Let’s give it a try.  THERE MAY BE A PATTERN TO THEIR FILMS.

First we had CARS, a movie about CARS.  These CARS were pretty much people, but instead of PEOPLE, they were CARS.  This movie was done with pixar, I assume only to learn the secret of how pixar makes such awesome movies.  CARS was commercially successful, especially in the toy CAR(S) department.  Merchandising for CARS was huge.  Why?  Because it’s easy to make toys based off of cartoon CARS.  In fact, that was probably the whole reason behind making CARS.  Disney can sell CARS to little kids, or rather, to their parents. It’s a wonder disney hasn’t gone for the jugular and made a movie about TOYS.

toy story

CARS is described by the acclaimed critic wikipedia as a “computer-animated comedy-adventure sports film,” which is pretty much every genre a kids movie can be, squeezed into one.  CARS centers around a car, named “STEVE McQUEEN,” who wants to win races, but ends up in BUMFUCK NOWHERE and learns that there’s more to life than racing, even though he’s a race car.  This is pretty much the plot of EVERY DISNEY PIXAR MOVIE EVER.  Something is something, but it learns at the end that it wants to be something else, EVEN THOUGH IT’S PERFECTLY DESIGNED FOR DOING THE FIRST THING IT WAS MADE TO DO.  IDIOTIC.  CARS plot is about as stupid as the idea of making a movie about CARS, but hey, at least they didn’t do it a second time.

After CARS came CARS 2, GODDAMNIT.  It was EXACTLY THE SAME AS CARS, except it was called CARS 2.  CARS 2 is a “computer-animated action comedy spy film,” centered around a THRILLING PLOT of introducing MORE CARS DISNEY CAN SELL TO LITTLE KIDS, and by that i mean THEIR PARENTS.  The plot is about oil reserves and cars WHO ARE SPIES and is JUST AS RETARDED AS CARS.  IT’S SO DUMB THAT IT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE AT ALL.  THEY’RE CARS, NOT SPIES, YOU IDIOTS AT DISNEY.

Anyway, we can already see a pattern developing.  Disney takes a THING, and pretends it’s a PERSON, and then makes a movie about it.  It isn’t any more imaginative than looking around your room, finding an object, and using a recycled plot from an old disney film, but changing al the people into that object.  I wonder what there next movie is going to be.

for fuck's sake

for fuck’s sake

Oh great.  It’s a movie about PLANES CALLED PLANES.  Disney is flying solo on this one, it seems they learned the pixar pattern well.  The people who name movies at disney are so imaginative.  Remember when that movie LIONS came out?

lions

The timeless A GIRL AND SEVEN MIDGETS?

A GIRL AND SEVEN MIDGETS

Or what about that classic, CHINESE PEOPLE?

CHINESE PEOPLESee?  I could name movies for Disney too.

Anyway.  Planes is probably going to be just as asinine as CARS and CARS 2 (why didn’t they just name it MORE CARS?).  I bet it’s going to be about an airplane who doesn’t want to do whatever he was designed to do.  Just you wait.

In honor of PLANES coming out, I’m going to give disney advice for it’s next 5 movies.  They should be as follows:

teeth movie

band-aids

wheelchairs

colored condoms - farbige kondome

viruses

These all look better than planes.

How to Get 3 Million Blog Views


Dear readers,

I’ve recently been working with a team of researchers from Miskatonic University, whose main goal is the delve into the lost recesses of cyber space and uncover long forgotten blog posts from blogs that, for one reason or another, came offline.  We’ve made some astounding discoveries.  This following piece is a prime example of some of the lost treasures we’ve found.

-The Corngoblin

**********************

3 MILLION VIEWS

3 MILLION VIEWS

Hi guys!  In case you’re new here, my name’s Peter, and I’ve got 3 MILLION VIEWS, and I’d like to show you how you can too.  You guys are obviously familiar with my work since, you know, you’re on the internet, so here we go!

HOW TO GET 3 MILLION VIEWS

I go on a lot of people’s blogs, normally just to post a spam comment so they come look at mine, sure, but it still counts, and there’s one thing I always notice.

They Aint Got 3 million views

Some barely have 1,000!  PATHETIC.  That got me to thinking, why does a famous, successful blogger like myself have so many views?  I mean, so many.  Is it fair that some bloggers get all the views, while other bloggers are relegated to the blogging slums, flighting each other for 10 views a day?  The short answer:

YES, IT TOTALLY IS

It’s called natural selection, or selective blogging, or maybe even blogctual naslection.  Survival of the fittest, and as anyone in the blogosphere could tell you, I’m the fittest, because baby, I’m survivaling.  I feel bad for those pathetic bloggers who don’t have any views, so I’ve decided to take the time out of my busy blogdule (blog-schedule LOL) to try and help those poor unfortunate souls.  First off, if you don’t have many views, then

YOU’RE PROBABLY A BAD WRITER: No offense, but you should just quit.  You’re wasting everyone’s time and taking valuable views away from people like me, who want to get 3 million more.  3 MILLION.

But for those ouf us who are good:

THERE’S HOPE

Follow this list and you too will get…

THREE!  MILLION!

THREE! MILLION!

  1. USE PICTURES: They say a picture is worth 1000 words.  I say a picture is worth:

THREEMILLION
VIEWS

The Joker and I have one similarity: He likes bullets and gasoline, and I like pictures.  What’s the similarity you ask?

joker cheap

Free, even.  So use pictures.  Not only do they get traffic back from google image searches, but they LOOK PRETTY AND ARE FUN TO LOOK AT.

2.GO CLICK LIKE ON OTHER PEOPLE’S BLOGS: They’ll come look back at yours.  Who cares if they don’t read?  It’s not reading you’re going for, its views.  You don’t even have to read they’re posts, just click “like”…

big jerk

3. WRITE SOMETHING CONTROVERSIAL OR OFFENSIVE, YOU IDIOT: If you make people mad, they’ll comment about how stupid you are, and tell their friends to come look at your stupid blog.  Everyone will hate you, but WHO CARES?  It’s the VIEWS.  For instance, did I tell you that Harry Potter is a STUPID IDIOT, and his books are so bad, I have no idea why he wrote them?  And that Lost is the worst thing to be on TV since they showed those videos of that school bus falling off a bridge?  LOL  And Reddit is for stupid fools that don’t know how to use 9gag.  And wordpress?  Don’t get me started on wordpress.  MYSPACE4LIFE, GEOCITES BITCH.

4. ENCOURAGE VIEWER FEEDBACK: Talk to people if they comment on your post.  IT’S ONLY POLITE.

5. DON’T WRITE BAD POSTS: If you write something that’s BAD, then people won’t want to read it.  So don’t write anything that’s bad. I know it comes easy for amazing bloggers like me, but that’s cause im a flippin GENIUS.

*****

After careful research, it was discovered that Peter had been slain, stabbed 30 times with a long knife at a meeting he had arranged for fans of his blogs.  Strangely, there were no witnesses, and none of the 30 fans who had shown up were called in for questioning.  Another internet mystery.

The Grumpus Beast


The Grumpus went halumping,

over hill and dale

towards children who were a-slumbering

their breath shallow and frail.

It snuck up by the window

its tails all hithersbiddles

fangs drooling with salvia

for eating little kiddles.

The children a-woke to a sound

a sharp a rap tap tapping,

that must have been a stranger on the grounds

for they’re parents were a-napping.

They hopplescotched up out of bed

and scurried to the window,

unaware they’d soon be dead

they’re souls sent off to limbo.

The Grumpus beast was waiting there

mouths twisted into smiles.

The children saw its mangy hair

and their stomachs filled with biles.

The Grumpus went a leaping

a crashing through the glass,

where it commenced to feasting

upon the children’s mass.

The parents came in later,

they screamed and grabbed a phone,

for in the children’s nursery room,

was just a

pile

of

glass

and

bone.

****************

Addendum:

This is my first entry in the Weekend Writing Warriors experience.  The rule is that it has to be 8 sentences.  You’ll notice that I have several lines, but only 8 sentences, so hopefully that’s ok.  I had a lot of fun writing it.

Here’s a link back to the WeWriWa website.  Go and check out some more awesome blogs!

Also, I’ve added a new page of fan picks and some of my favorite posts.  Check it out.- corngoblin

************

Addendum to the Addendum:

Oh dear me!  I was looking at my about page and realized that the venerable Blog of the Imaginator had awarded me the awesome blog content award!  I would like to nominate him/her for the awesome blog name award, but I don’t have the authority to do so.  Thanks so much, Imaginator.

abc-awardNow I have to do me in ABC’s.  Hmmm.

Arcane. Bizzare. Capricious. Defiler.  Erudite. Facetious. Gregarious. Horrifying. Inexorable. Just Kidding. Legendary. Minotaur. Negative. Original. Positive. Qualified. Rabid. Sinister. Titanic. Unrelenting. Vexing. Windblown. Xenial. Yummy.  Zealous.

Thanks Again!

The day when we all get to be Irish, and some leprechauns show up too.


Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

St Patrick’s day is a day when everyone can pretend that they’re Irish, and no one, except maybe real Irish people, will correct you.  Like me, for instance: I’m part Irish.  Barely, true, but barely still counts.  It’s St. Patrick’s day and I have the right to, when asked if I’m Irish, harken back to that distant and far removed ancestor and respond, “why yes of course… um… me lass… I be Irish!  Now who wants a pint of Guinness?”  And then we’d all cheer and sing whisky in the jar or something, and the party goes on.

But ever since last St. Patrick’s day, I’ve been a bit afraid of claiming to be Irish.  Afraid that I’ll be caught.  It’s the Leprechauns, you see.  They  monitor these things, making sure that no one other than true Irish people claim to be Irish on St. Patrick’s day.  Before I learned this, I had always wondered what use Leprechauns were, other than terrifying Jennifer Anniston, though not quite enough it seems, (to death being the implication here).

Warwick Davis is the man.

Clearly, it didn’t.

Leprechauns are wee folk with fairy magic, at least at the most basic description.  If one were to apply to fill a vacant leprechaun position, the conversation would proceed as follows:

“Are yeh wee?” The interviewer would ask.  He could have just looked to see.  One wonders why he need ask, but that’s the way these sorts of things go sometimes.  It’s all about the protocol.

“Oh, aye.” Responds the applicant, which is generally considered to be the most correct answer.

“And have yeh the fairy magics?”

“Oh aye.  That I do.”

“Loverly.  Yer hired.”

What leprechauns actually do has very little to do with being wee or being able to wield the fairy magics.  Leprechauns are tasked with keeping Ireland green,  like a glittering emerald, and magic, like a magical emerald.  There’s a special division for rainbow production and installation as well, but we won’t get into that right now.

You think Ireland looks like that on it's own?  No, what you see here my friend is centuries of hard leprechaun work.

You think Ireland looks like that on it’s own? No, what you see here my friend is centuries of hard leprechaun work.

The leprechauns have one other task, however, that dwarfs (forgive the pun) all their other duties: to ferret out the fakes, liars, and would be Irishmen on St. Patrick’s day, and humiliate them in front of their friends.

It was an encounter with one performing it’s primary task that, as I hinted before, was nearly my undoing last year.  I was at McCabes Irish pub, down on 5th avenue in Naples, Florida, enjoying a $6 glass of Yeungling with some a of newest and bestest friends I’d ever met (their names escape me now, but I’m relatively sure they all had one) when the question was raised as to whether or not I was Irish.

mccabe's

Now, I have a rather good Irish accent (or at least that’s what I’m told) which, like all Irish accents, is increased both in quality and volume with every alcoholic beverage imbibed.  The current tally was 5, so my confidence in my Irish speaking ability was great indeed.

I had been regailing my new comrades with tales of the homeland: of helping St. Patrick chase away all the bloody snakes, of finding so many pots of gold at the end of rainbows, for rainbows are plentiful on the emerald Isle, that I just started throwing them away,  of screeching contests with banshees and Father Ted TV marathons.  They were entranced, and I was having a blast, that is until I felt a gentle but firm tap on my buttocks.

I spun around, fists up and out in traditional Irish fighting form, ready to give the buttocks tapper the old one two, or, if she were a lady, the old wink and smile, but there was no one there.  I turned back to my friends, who must have assumed that spinning around to fight ghosts was just some Irish idiosyncrasy that they were hitherto unaware of (on nights of heavy drinking it often is), and thought nothing of it, other than to give me a rousing cheer.

I went for a bow, and was touched on the buttocks yet again.  I spun around in the same way.

“Alright, yeh livrey bastard, time for me to give yeh what for!”  I shrieked, but yet again, there was no one there.  I looked left.  I looked right.  I looked up.  I looked down.

There stood a leprechaun.  He was wearing a little green suit with a shamrock in his pocket and a green bowler hat, and looked very cross.  He smiled a wolfish grin.

“Hello sir, me names Bleary and I’m—“

“Christ, lads, it’s a real leprechaun!”  I shouted, pointing at it in awe.  I started jumping from foot to foot and giggling.  Everyone at the pub gathered ‘round to gaze at the spectacle.  The Leprechaun shifted his feet, uncomfortable.

“I’m—“

“What’re yeh here for, little fellah?” I asked, like a mom to a child of 6.  He bristled at this and looked me dead in the eye.  God, those eyes!  They looked like gold doubloons!

“I’m here to see if yer really irish.”  He said matter of factly.

“Me?  Irish?  ‘Course I’m Irirsh!  What’s me shirt say?”

“Kiss me, I’m irish, but—“

“’Course it does!” I interrupted.  He scowled.

“But shirts can say any number of things.  Look at that lads!”  The leprechaun pointed to a fat, white man who was wearing a shirt that read “I’m the President”.

“My god…”  I whispered to the leprechaun, “Is that Barack Obama over there, d’yah think?”

“I—what?  No!  ‘Course not!  Are ye daft?” his question went unanswered though, because I had gone over to the fat man and was taking a photo with him.  The leprechaun stared in gawping silence as I snapped the photo and came back over.

“The lads back in Dublin are never gonna believe I met the President of the US of A!”

“Stop it!”  He shouted, stamping his little foot, which jingled.  “You’re not from Dublin and you’re sure as hell not Irish!  You’re just a drunk idiot from Florida!”

“Bah, Florida?  Have you seen his shirt?  It says—“ one of my new friends began before the leprechaun pointed his finger at him and ZAP, turned him into a cask of guinness.

“Sweet St. Patrick!” I gasped, staring at the cask.  “Free beer!”  The Leprechaun face palmed as we swarmed the cask and I passed out drinks.  I felt a bit bad for drinking that guy, but judging from what I’d learned about him in the past two hours, it’s what he would have wanted.

Poor... um... you.

Pour guy…

“Three cheers for our emerald homeland, lads and lassies!  Hip Hip!”

“NO!”  Roared the leprechaun, and the shout filled up the whole pub, shaking the windows and worrying he owner.  Some glasses fell off the shelves.  “Yer not Irish!  None of yah!  Yer just a bunch of drunken fools playin’ at bein’ Irish!  You don’t know the first thing, the first damn thing about what it is to be from Ireland.”   He paused and pointed at a man wearing a Bruins shirt. “Except for you.  You’re actually Irirsh.”  The bruins guy gave a fist pump and cheer, finished his glass, and ordered another.  “Now,” he said, returning to the task at hand, “will yeh stop, or do I have to turn you all into guiness?

The party was dead silent.  Even the band had stopped playing.  The leprechaun glared at us.  No one said a word, except for me.  I think it was the Guinness, but I was feeling particularly brave, like Willow, or Frodo Baggins, or Peter Dinklage, even.

“Why does it matter?” I asked.

“What?”

“Why does it matter if we aren’t Irish?”

“Because you all just want to be Irish on St Patrick’s day, and then it’s back to normal tomorrow!  It’s disrespectful.”

“Not really.  You should feel honored.  I don’t know any other country that has a day when the whole world wants to be them.  It’s a compliment.”

“Yeah!”  Someone else said.  “Ireland’s cool!”

“Here here!”

“Hoorah!”  The bar shouted.  Everyone at the bar started throwing their two cents in, and I could see we were getting through to the Leprechaun.  He was visibly softening.

“So will you have a pint of…” I looked at the cask.

“Jerry!” someone shouted.

“Will yeh have a pint of Jerry with us, and forget yer sorrows till the morrow?  Me lad?”

The leprechaun looked at each of us, scowling, until his eyes finally came to rest me.  And then he smiled.

“Yeh had me at jerry.”  He said with a wink.  To this day I’m not quite sure what he meant by that, but whatever, I was 7 beers deep and thinking wasn’t high on my list of priorities at the time.  We all cheered and the music started back up (whisky in the jar again ,I think).  The Leprechaun grabbed a pint of Jerry, and smashed it against mine.  My mug broke, and cut my hand quite badly, but it was St. Patrick’s Day, and a bloody and ruined hand was a small price to pay for getting to be Irish, even if it was just for a night.

*****

Author’s note: Thanks for reading.  Hope you liked it and I hope you have a great St. Patrick’s day, wherever you are.  I wanted to take time at the end of this post to thank Melissa K. Martin for giving me the “very inspiring blogger award”.  I’ll get around to doing the required things at some point, but it was a lovely gesture.  Happy St. Patrick’s day!

Behold! The Liebster!


hooray!

hooray!

Thanks to the venerable Ann Koplow I have been nominated and have received the Liebster blog award, the one award I have coveted the most due to it’s german name.  Liebster apparently means “sweetheart.”  I have many “sweet hearts”, harvested from inattentive sweethearts whom I lured into my alley, so I fully understand why I was deigned to receive this award, though I’m surprised Ann found out about my heart collection…

Anyway, I’d like to take a moment to muse over blog awards.  What a great idea.  I think blog awards are great, because they give the common man an opportunity to understand how celebrities feel when they win awards, and to understand the very nature of almost every award ever.

They’re worthless.  Utterly, utterly worthless.  They have no material value whatsoever.  You can’t sell one.  You might be able to buy one, but they probably wont generate any sort of income, alcohol or ice cream ,useful things all, but that’s not the point.  The point is that someone liked you enough to give you one, and that’s why I like awards.  They didn’t need to give you one (except in the case of blog awards where they have to give several somebodies the same award lest theirs becomes invalidated), but they did anyway.

Awards are valueless, but within this valuelessness we find their value, and so I would like to say thank you.

Thanks, you.

Thanks, you.

Anyway, as with every blog award, I gotta answer some questions now.

  1. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? Pistachio, especially when it’s gelatto.  My favorite used to be orphan tears, but they’ve run out of stock at the grocers of late.
  2. If you were to write the story of your life, what might be the title? Explosions and Dinosaurs.
  3. What’s a nickname you’ve had or one that you would give yourself? Skeeter.
  4. What was your favorite book, when you were a kid? Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
  5. If they made a movie of your life, what actor would you choose to play you? Zach Galifinakis or Simon Pegg.
  6. What’s your fantasy job? Being a Wizard.  Dream Job?  Screenwriter/book writer.
  7. Who is your favorite musician? Iron maiden.
  8. Who is somebody you admire? Rob McElhenney and Glenn Howerton, for making it’s always sunny in Philadelphia.
  9. What’s your favorite movie? Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
  10. What’s a song you’d choose for your “theme song”? Bark at the Moon – Ozzy Osbourne
  11. If you could be any animal for a day, what would you be (and why)? An alpacapillar, for obvious reasons.

alpacapillar

Bother.  I guess I have to list 11 facts now about myself.

  1. My teeth have been hurting.  I guess I have to go to a dentist here in London.  Should be exciting.  And expensive.  Le sigh.
  2. I’m 1/6th done with my first screenplay ever.  I should have it finished in a few weeks.  It’s about aliens.
  3. I enjoy the cold, but I do miss the oppressive heat of florida
  4. I much prefer walking to driving, and walking will probably be one of the things I miss the most about London.
  5. I quite like Regina Spektor.  She’s definitely worth a listen if you havent already given her one.
  6. I love toast with butter and jam.
  7. I have a trench coat, but I’m sometimes afraid I look like a flasher when I wear it.
  8. I have retractable fangs.  It’s weird.
  9. Once I battled a robot for 3 days and 3 nights.  We ended up becoming friends at the end.  I guess that just goes to show you something, I’m just not sure what.
  10. I hadn’t properly watched all of Psycho until last weekend.
  11. I have a Gandalf pipe.

So now I have to come up with 11 questions for my nominees…

Choose your answers wisely…

  1. Coffee or Tea?
  2. Book or Movie?
  3. Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter?
  4. Which disney movie villain are you?
  5. What’s your favorite Candy?
  6. Best book you’ve recently read?
  7. What’s something that you’ve learned recently?
  8. How did you get interested in writing?
  9. What music do you like?
  10. Are you an introvert or an extrovert or a bothvert or a neithervert?
  11. Would you consider yourself weird?

So now here are my nominees, who have to answer the above questions:

  1. Creative Writing with the Crimson League
  2. brian
  3. little.old.me
  4. kerry’s organized chaos

I’ll add more as I come across them.

Travel


~On Traveling~

I started out this post wanting to prove to the world that traveling isn’t as good as everyone lets on.

Image

After looking through all these pictures, I’ve completely changed my mind.  It’s worth it.  It’s totally, unequivocally  irrevocably worth it.

dover castle

Now, you might think you can get away without traveling.  Take food, for instance.  One of the troubles with Europe nowadays is that the food is almost universal, at least from my experience.  Sure, the French food in France is better than the French food in London, but I can still get French food in London at far less cost, and they speak English, or at least I don’t feel quite as dumb when they don’t.  Same thing with Italian, German, Spanish, Russian (which I’ve never actually sampled.  Anyone know what russian cuisine is like?), it’s all there.  So that’s one less reason to leave.

churhc

All of this true, but when you eat a croque madame in a cafe in Paris, looking out the clear glass window into the bustling, twisting streets, and everyone is speaking Frech, and your completely happy to munch on your meal and play at guessing what they’re actually saying, you begin to understand a little bit more about France than you otherwise would have in your neighborhood pub with a croque monsier.

Travelling can seem daunting at times, though, and it can sometimes seem a bit boring, though it is, in fact, anything but.  Things just lose their glamour after a while.

Paris

Versailles, for instance, is great.  It’s a bloody huge palace that removes any pity you may have had for Marie Antoinette or the French aristocracy, because it is nothing if not absurdly opulent.  I Mean, look at this:

versailles chapel

My God!  Or try this one on for size:

Hall of mirrors

Now you can’t tell me that if you were a french peasant who had recently lost his favorite mound of dirt to a royal tax collector, you wouldn’t be more than a little upset when you saw this place.  Makes sense, right?

But that’s not really my point.  It’s actually the opposite of my point, for as I walked through Versailles, through room after disgustingly opulent room, I began to marvel less and less at the richness of the place.  Indeed, by the end of the tour I was quite blasé about it.

“Oh, look.” I’d mutter in a monotone to Jared, “Another jewel encrusted doorway…”

“Gee,” he’d say, “Havent seen that before.”

versailles ceiling

Just imagine how boring the world must have seemed back then if you were a king.  You’d be bored with Versailles, which was probably one of the most beautiful places in the world at the time.  What else is there?

Especially when you have statues of yourself looking like apollo enshrined all over the place.

Especially when you have statues of yourself looking like apollo enshrined all over the place.

And it kind of goes that way everywhere you travel. Another beautiful lagoon (BVI’s), another ungodly huge graveyard (Ypres), another monstrous church (Rome).  You get used to it, and pretty quickly I might add.  It’s not that the things are suddenly less good because you’ve seen a bunch of them, it’s that they just begin to become part of the scenery, to the point that you never notice them, and that if a tourist were to ask you where St. Paul’s was, you’ respond with “Well, i think it’s over there.  Not really sure why you want to go to that place.  It’s just a beautiful cathedral.”

st. pauls

But if you only go to these big places, you miss some of the other things.  The things that really make the trip special.  Like this.

amelie

It’s the cafe where they filmed Amelie.  Cities like paris are full of little treasures like this, hidden away from you as you run by, sprinting from Notre Dame to the Eifel Tower, a tattered map in one hand, fifty euro clutched in the other.

thames

So what’s my point?  I don’t really know.  Sometimes, you just write about something you love simply to write about it.

horse on hill

I guess my point is this: I’d encourage anyone planning a trip to take a step back and think, really think, about what it is you want to do.  Nine times out of ten I would bet it’s not run yourself ragged seeing every single big, famous thing in the city, because when you rush through, you miss the little things, the tasty things that make traveling worth it, and make life worth living.  You miss wandering down the alleys that only locals use, and watching street performers, and rushing off before the end because you don’t have the money to pay them, or leaning against a brick wall and sipping on mulled wine in Covent Garden Market as you people watch, or simply sitting on a bench and watching the river flow on by..

I'll leave you with a caption from the best worst movie ever, "The Room"

I’ll leave you with a caption from the best worst movie ever, “The Room”

The Magic Hobo


Image

I was lying in Hyde Park at midnight on a Saturday, counting the stars.  I was the only person in the area, and I was shocked at the lack of stars.  It must be because I was in the middle of London, and the city lights blocked them out.  I missed the view from the beach back in Florida, a black sky painted with burning white spots over a dark blue sea.  I was shocked yet again when a noise like the snapping of a twig caught my attention, and a homeless person was standing directly in front of me.

He wore a long, brown overcoat, soiled and filthy.  Beneath that he wore an menagerie of clothing that he had crudely sewn into a massive parka of sorts.  A blue polo shirt made up part of a sleeve, three t-shirts and a tank top made up the front, and two sweater vests made up a sleeve on the other side.  Instead of pants he wore a bizarre  kilt made out of bed linens and towels, that reached down to his shabby leather boots, which seemed to be made from two boots each.  He wore a grubby, faded and torn top hat on his head.

He was seven feet if he was an inch, and he had an untamed mane of hair that I suppose constituted for a beard, that reached well down past his waist and covered the majority of his face, so that all you could really make out were two beady eyes and a large, round nose.  There were… things in his beard, that might have once been small animals or food, but that had now been subsumed into the ungainly collective of hair.  His stench was unbearable, like a trashcan full of feces and rotting squirrels.

He asked me if I would like to see a Magic Trick.

Now, when a homeless man looms over you, blocking the starlight in Hyde Park with his bulk, and asks you if you would like to see a Magic Trick, it’s most likely not the sort of trick you would wish to see, but rather something truly horrible and scarring, so I of course said no.

He showed me one anyway.

He clapped his hands together, his knit, fingerless gloves making a dry, dusty crack. He pulled his hands apart slightly, and a brilliant yellow light surrounded us.  He looked up at me and gave me a knowing smile, and it was the first time I was able to tell that he had a mouth.  His gold teeth glittered in the light like aztec gold.  He pulled his hands the rest of the way, and as he drew them apart, a rainbow formed in between them.  He swung his arms in a big arc, like he were throwing paint to the sky, and created a rainbow as big as his wingspan.  It shimmered in a fragile way that reminded me of an especially thin sculpture of blown glass.

I was awestruck.  I reached out to touch it, but with a wave of his hand the rainbow disappeared.  Sparkles and stardust rained down on my face, but disappeared like snow flakes on warm day upon contact with my body.  He bowed, and I applauded.  It took me a moment to realize that the applause seemed oddly stereo, and I looked around and discovered that a pair of rabbits were sitting on either side of me and applauding as well.  The hobo bowed again and held up his hands for silence.  We obeyed.

He asked if I’d like to see another.

I said sure.

He rubbed his hands together excitedly and then presented me his shirt cuffs.  He pulled back his sleeves to demonstrate that there was indeed nothing up them.  There wasn’t anything there, but the rabbits got up to inspect his sleeves more closely anyway.  They’re untrusting creatures.

He reached up into his sleeve and began to pull out many lightly colored squares of cloth, tied together in a long line.  He began to pace around us, laying down cloth in a large circle, one line adjacent to the next, so that each new rotation had a greater circumference than the last.  He must have pulled out a full mile of cloth, until the length finally ended with his undershirt and underwear, an almost obligatory occurrence for any “pulling cloth out of my sleeves trick”, and we were surrounded by a gigantic spiral of color, far more than any one man could fit up his sleeve, even a man of his great size.

He bowed again, and we applauded ecstatically.  The audience was now positively packed with creatures of the park: squirrels and rabbits, snakes and beetles, sparrows and pigeons.  Some of the wiser ones had brought snacks like peanuts and popcorn to munch on during the show.  They joked and laughed with one another, having a jolly time.  I eyed them enviously.

He asked us if we would like to see another Magic Trick.  We roared in approval, stood up and screamed in approval, beat our chests and slobbered for more.  He smiled widely.

The homeless man, who I was now beginning to think wasn’t your run of the mill hobo, raised his hand yet again for silence.  He stood there, with his head down, humming to himself, like in meditation, at first quietly, and then louder and louder, until he was positively shrieking.  His arms, which at first were held at the center of his chest in prayer, rose with his pitch, until his body was forming a cross.

It was then we noticed he was levitating 13 feet in the air.  The crowd was dumbstruck, silent.

And then we applauded.

We applauded like we had been struck blind at birth and this homeless conjuror had restored our sight.  We applauded like it was the end of the world, and it’s entire history was on stage, taking a bow.  We applauded like this, and only this, was the only thing ever worth applauding for.

I hollered for more.

He was suddenly on the ground.  There was no transition.  The sound of the applause had changed, too.  I looked around.  There was no one else there, no squirrels or rabbits, snakes or beetles, sparrows or pigeons.

Just him and me.

He stalked towards me, breathing heavily through his mouth.  He got very close, his face mere centimeters from mine. I could almost taste the rancid smell of old Sainsbury’s apple cider creeping out of his mouth.  He smiled, and I could see the sores on his gums, and the rot in his teeth that had once been gold.

He asked me if I would like to see the Last Trick, and he smiled like a crocodile.  I only wept and nodded.

He backed up a few feet and stood by himself for a moment.  He clapped his hands, one last time, and changed.

The change was instantaneous.  What was once a ratty old hobo was now a beautiful, young woman.  She wore bright neon spandex leggings, a zebra print, loose fitting shirt, and large hoop earrings.  She seemed to have been taken straight from the 1980’s.

She smiled sweetly, and kind of sadly, like she pitied me.

“At last.” She said.  Something was strange.  Despite sitting down, I was almost at eye level with her.  I shifted around, and my movement made a strange rustling sound.  A disturbing sound.  A sudden thought, a terrible thought, crept into my mind, and my face contorted with dread.  My heart beat harder and harder, faster and faster as I lifted my hands to my face, and saw the ratty, fingerless gloves.  I clapped them together and they made a dry, dusty sound.  I reached for the top of my head, and found a small, grubby top hat.  I felt my long scraggly beard, and the filth up my sleeves.

I was he.

“Quite a trick.” She said, adjusting her makeup as she looked into a mirror she was holding.  “I hoped you paid attention.  You really should have paid attention.”  She snapped the mirror shut and returned it to her purse.  “I would say I’m sorry, but he wasn’t.  He never is.”

And with that she walked out of my life, leaving me alone, at midnight in Hyde Park on a Saturday.  I wondered if it had to be Saturday at midnight for the trick to work, but I realized I had time to figure it out.  I had all the time in the world.  I fell back onto the grass and looked up at the sky.  My god, it was full, full of stars.

%d bloggers like this: