Unholy Hybrid

Pictures as promised–but this may take some ‘splaining.

See, in the beginning was a writer named Howard Phillips Lovecraft (genuflects). And he wrote short stories that quickly became a shared universe among a number of pulp writers. In a nutshell, these stories were about a universe that was not just indifferent, it was inimical. The BEST one could hope for was that the gods took absolutely no notice of you whatsoever and just squished you like the insignificant insect you were.

Because, see, the gods running the universe were both awesome and terrible. Utterly inhuman and unknowable. Evil can be bargained with, because evil wants something you have. Evil covets, and by offering it a way to acquire what it covets, you have some handle on the situation. These gods . . . don’t really want anything you have. They have their own motivations and desires. You just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Go here for more (if you
dare.)

And as so many projects do, it took on its own form of life. Fans of the fiction began writing their own. The internet spawned (you should forgive the term) an unholy hybrid of lolcats and the Mythos, resulting in LOLthulhu–recaptioned pictures from the Mythos. Ur sanity–it has a flavr.

So–wayyy wayyy back when (can it really have been about a decade ago?? I think it was . . .) A bunch of us were having dinner when we got into a discussion of Codpieces of Cthlhu. I think it was when I said something about St. Cyr sounded like a Lovecraftian high priestess and sufficient persons at the table were into Rocky Horror that the theme, well, caught fire.

We rattled off a ton of names for them, mostly alliterative–the Cuddly Codpiece of Cthulhu, the Carniverous Codpiece of Cthulhu, the Concupicent Codpiece of Cthulhu. And the Elvis Codpiece of Cthulhu. There may be pictures floating around fandom somewhere of the Codpieces and the party to which they were worn, but this was long before I had a digital camera. Or a blog, for that matter.

This year, the theme for the August Party is “Atlantis Goes to Hell.” DH Gareth asked me to make him a Codpiece of Cthulhu to wear because that would be appropriate and comfortable to wear while manning the grill in August in Arizona. Because it is both hot and humid. (Yes, yes, Floridians laugh at the notion of “humid” in Arizona, and say they can handle it. Earlier this summer, a dozen Floridian touristas had to be rescued off Camelback Mountain while hiking, due to dehydration. They only had 30 bottle of water with them, but honey, it’s 110 and 25 percent out there. Three bottles of water ain’t gonna get you up and down Camelback Mountain in the late morning.)

I said sure, figuring it couldn’t be any harder than a doll. I had a codpiece pattern from all those years ago, and the trimming bit should be pretty simple. Of course, my patterning methods leave a lot to be desired–I sort of get some paper, mentally project the three-dimensional piece into the flat, and cut away everything that doesn’t match my vision. Uhm, yeah.

Now that you’ve read this far, a reward! Pictures of the Cetaceous Codpiece of Cthulhu!







Even better than jazz sitar . . .

Masks and the Like

Today tastes like pot roast with onions, carrots, and potatoes. Like pink Zinfandel and cloves. Like french onion soup with three kinds of cheese.

It's funny--we celebrate the longest night of the year in a ginormous way, here in the Judeo-Christian community. We have Hannukka and Christmas (Saturnalia, December 17-22; Larentalia, December 23; and Brumalia, December 25). Lots of fun in the winter, when the days are short and the nights are long, and the holly king bestrides this hemisphere.

However, there's nothing so large and well-known connected with the summer solstice. (Yes, yes, it IS the feast day of John the Baptist. Show me the "Merry John Day" cards, the wrapping paper and traditional gifts, recipies for John the Baptist cookies and candy. Head-shaped cake on a platter, anyone??)

(Oh, come on, it's better than the traditional breakfast of scrambled eggs and brains, isn't it?)

So some friends of ours (Antipathy and Amity) have commenced celebrating the polar opposite of Yule--Lhyr. During Lhyr, one of the traditional activites involves masks. And revlery. And foolishment. (Funny, all of our holidays seem to include foolishment, to some degree.)

Lyhr was planned as a sit-down dinner with a handful of pals, a hidden festival. The highlight of the evening would be a mask contest, at which point the winners would be crowned the Fool of Lyhr and the Queen of Lyhr, to rule until Lyhr 2008.

Heh. Yes, that would be my "Competitive Perfectionist" button, right there in the middle of my forehead. (And you thought that was a bindhi!)

So . . . nothing would do but I win the competition. Hadda hadda hadda. I don't play often, but when I do, it's important to me to win. Yes, yes, I AM three, why do you ask?

So I made a mask out of paper mache.

Like many things, that sentence says nothing about the work that took place unless you know the kind of elbow grease that paper mache entails. There's a reason that the masks from Venice cost between $40 for a simple domino and $100 for something full-face. It's not the paint, it's not the trim, it's the sanding.

The sanding, sanding, sanding, sanding, sanding. You build a base of strips two-three layers deep and let that get good and dry. You add a layer of fine-grained pulp (we found cheap white toilet paper works wonders here) and let THAT get good and dry. You paint a layer of gesso on, and once THAT'S finally dry, you take out the pebbly sandpaper and start smoothing.

Gesso again, dry again, go down in grit, and sand. Lather, rinse, repeat until you get a good smooth finish without the lumpy-bumpy ick that is inherent to paper mache.

Then one last coat of gesso, and you're ready to paint.

And yes, I did indeed win the Lhyr Queen's tiara.

I've been told I do NOT need to relinquish the tiara to the next year's Queen (mumbles "Cold dead hands . . ") nor do I need to provide a tiara next year--just be available to judge. I can do that. I'm very judgemental. (That probably didn't come out right . . .)

Ah, but I want to make a tiara for next year's Queen. I think that would be a cool thing to (1) do, (2) incorporate into the festivities. And well, if once is the thing itself, and twice is the way we've always done it, and three times is tradition--I need to get off the stick and inspire a couple of followers so we can keep Lhyr 2010 the traditional way, with last Lhyr's couple presenting the Fool's Cap and the Queen's Tiara that they themselves created.

Meatcake, or Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts

Today tastes like roasted garlic mashed potatoes, beets, and carrots. Not surprising, if you read the rest of this post.

See, every year the gang throws several parties in designated months. This allows us to set our social calendar, knowing when we will all gather together. Winter's End, the April Party, the August Party, Dead Man's, Grimm's Christmas. Medieval garb is always welcome, and the themes vary, tho' usually with a heavy fantasy component. This year, the theme was a dwarves' celebration.




One of the parties corresponds with dear husband Gareth's month o' birth. Traditionally, birthday cakes are disbursed to members of the group celebrating. However, Gareth does not care for sweets.

For a couple of years, a good pal and I had bandied about the idea of making a double-decker meatloaf, then frosting it with mashed potatoes. Just like a layer cake. However, we usually remembered we were going to do this right after the party. Like the next day, as we nursed our hangovers with dim sum.

Ah, but this year we got our acts more or less together the month before. We planned to get together the day of the party so we could devote some time to making the meatcake. Six pounds of meatloaf, a boatload of mashed potatoes and riced carrots. Beet juice to color some of the potatoes with, and a crash course in how to make frosting roses.

Et voila!



There wasn't enough room to write "Happy Birthday, Gareth" in barbeque sauce, so we opted to draw his sigil instead--the triangle within a triangle. Good enough to eat, no??

The Party From Hell

We have a number of August birthdays in our little circle, so each August we’ve tossed a party in fancy dress, often with a LARP (Live Action Role Playing) theme. Barbarians, vampires, spies and diplomats, what have you. It keeps people flowing and interacting with folks outside their segment of the circle, and lets new faces mingle without wondering “What am I going to TALK to these people about?”

This year was a big year for several of the August babies—they are turning 40. Those birthdays ending in a zero are always big, starting with the big one-oh. You’re finally not a baby any more, then you’re finally not a punk kid any more (and on your next birthday you can go out and get verschnikitt legally), then you’re no longer an arrogant twenty-something—you’re a grown-up who deserves to be taken seriously, and then you’re at the middle of your life. What now?

Well, we believe in being prepared, so instead of the usual elbow-in-the-ribs funeral 40th party, where everyone wears black, and the wives/lovers/husbands of the celebrants wear veils and sunglasses we decided to go to what happens after that, and throw a huge Heaven and Hell party.

Two of the circle live side-by-side next to each other, and had just installed a gate between the houses to cut the walk short. Their back doors are a lot closer together than the front doors. So the space between the homes became purgatory, with Heaven on the right and Hell on the left.


Ready for the tour? I’ll be your guide to the party to end them all, so remember what I look like—there are people you wouldn’t want to end up following, no, no.













We’ll start by turning right, through the gates of Heaven, where the monks of St. Benzedrine are chanting “Stairway to Heaven” softly and sweetly . . .



Down the hall of mirrors—hey, I always thought vanity was a SIN???—and past the Oracle of Delphi where the Oracle is performing a reading (fortune-telling???), through the Temple of Solomon and the belly-dancers (And what about lust??? That’s one of the Big Seven!) and into the kitchen of manna (don’t get me started on gluttony, now . . .) where the chocolate fondue fountain showers gently next to the mounds of strawberries and angel’s food cake, with Odin’s ravens watching closely over all . . .

Enough of that! Back out through Purgatory, where the way is clearly marked with good intentions . . .




And we all know where those lead . . .




Although the results may not be what we intended . . .




Sometimes they’re not a bad idea . . .




We’re at the gate!



Be sure to look up as we pass through . . .



And go by the dance floor, with souls writhing as the DJ whips the flames higher, and cranks up the volume on the screams. We’ll walk through the feast hall (be sure to try the devilled eggs, made by our resident castrato) and then out through Hell’s Kitchen to the festivities presided over by the Darkness Incarnate. If it gets too warm, try a dip in the pool . . .



But beware of the lifeguard!