On Beards

My dear Friend and Kutenist Sir Basil Paprika continues his October onslaught with a dissertation on the beard, its provenance, relevance, and maintenance. I have not met with a finer piece on the matter. An interesting detail - like all great anthropologists and scientists, Spencer is himself removed from his object of study - Jane Goodall was no chimp, Levi-Strauss no savage - Spencer McB is himself a beardless man. His objective viewpoint, and his fascination, can thus be readily explained - sprout on, noble father, sprout on!

With the inevitable approach of Movember and the haggard attempts to sprout magnificent plumes of moustache hair where none had been seen before that will soon be in evidence everywhere, I have been put in the mind of contemplating the reasoning behind facial hair of all types, and thinking about why our culture gives a shit.

Having begun with Movember, I will now stop talking about moustaches at all, and start talking about beards.  (What a segue!  Genius.) The Romans, progenitors of most of our cultural heritage, were almost all clean shaven, and this was back in the day when shaving meant scraping a newly sharpened knife or sword across your face.  Shaving took commitment.  To see a bearded man walking up and down the Via Appia, casually purchasing slaves or participating in orgies, was almost unheard of.  Only Emperors were allowed out in the streets with unshorn faces, and even they didn’t really know what they were doing when it came to beard styles.  Nero’s horror-inspiring neck beard made him, as it was so well put by cartoonist Kate Beaton, “look like a dickhead”.[1]  But how did this tradition of theirs begin?  After all, beards are awesome, aren’t they?  And the Romans were certainly awesome enough to merit awesome beards.  Well, it seems that the Romans didn’t shave at all until Scipio Africanus got it into his head that the blood and intestines of too many Carthaginians were making his beard all messy, and he decided to get rid of the damn thing for the sake of efficiency in both morning ablutions and murder.  So, the first Roman to shave was also one of the most awesome.  So awesome, in fact, that everyone in Rome immediately started copying him and did so for the next six hundred years.

So how did we get to the state where we think that beards are super cool?  We have beard contests, we praise people walking around with bizarre facial hair, exaggerate historical beards to emphasize the magnificence of that particular beard owner, and often equate the masculinity of a person with the viewing pleasure we are granted by looking upon their beard.  Take, for instance, Hemmingway.  Hemingway is one of the founders of contemporary masculinity, and he had a pretty awesome beard.  It is therefore often claimed that beards somehow make someone more awesome, simply because they are emulating one of the most superficial aspects of an awesome man.

I will now finally come to my point by illustrating it with a contrast between the tales of two beards.  The first beard belongs to a man named Jack Passion.  He is the contemporary record holder for beard length in the United States.  I think, anyway.  I couldn’t be bothered to look it up.  I know for certain however, that he has one a great many Beard Contests, using the tremendous girth and redness of his beard to dominate his competitors in a brutal contest of beard strength that will certainly be declared a sport as soon as the obesity level in the States increases a few more notches.  Passion is the owner of what one must admit is a tremendous beard.  He is also a sniveling, arrogant, whiney, pathetic little tool.

Let us contrast Jack Passion (somewhat unfairly) with Kuan Yu, a General of one of many Chinese factions during the 220 CE fall of the Han Dynasty, immortalized by the legendary tales of The Romance of the Three Kingdoms.  He was famous for his loyalty, his unmatched skill in battle, and his beard, and was seen as a paradigm of masculinity.  One day, Kuan Yu was riding innocently across the plains of Northern China, guarding the wife and daughter of his brother in arms, who he was determined to find.  He was confronted by two bandits, who, failing to recognize him immediately, challenged him to a duel.  Now, Kuan Yu had already killed about 50 people that day and so wished to avoid further conflict, as the ease of victory bored him somewhat.  So instead of drawing his sword, he dismounted his horse and took off the hair net bag he had been using to protect his beard.  The long, flowing, straight sheer black hair tumbled slowly down, uncoiling from the tight cylindrical bun in which it rested into a long black line of inimitable beauty.  The stark black length of hair, freed from all constrains, swayed gently in the wind, moving as one, as when a swarm of grasshoppers move together to darken the sky with their shadows and seem to move with one mind.  The glint of the sun off the silken hairs moved the hearts of all who saw it.  The anger of the bandits was unable to withstand the glorious sight, and as they looked upon that beard they realized that they stood in the presence of a great man.  They clamored down off their horses and dedicated their lives to Kuan Yu in perpetuity, offering up their very souls if doing so could aid him in his quest.

So what is the difference between these two beards?  That of Jack Passion impresses only in a technical sense.  We measure our surprise upon seeing its redness, and we then measure its length, width, and volume, in order to determine that he has an impressive beard.  The beard of Kuan Yu impresses itself upon men’s souls, not merely because of its beauty, but because of the way he wields that beard.  He is the one who makes his beard impressive, not the other way around.  Likewise, the Vikings weren’t awesome because they had beards – they were so awesome that they made their beards look cool.  Hemingway wasn’t masculine because he could wear a beard well, he was masculine because of the way he lived his life, and that life made the beard seem masculine.  Passion’s beard, despite its length, is supported by no true character underneath, and will never truly impress.  It is the man that makes the beard, not the other way around.  Adding or subtracting facial hair from one’s face does nothing to make or reduce a man (or woman, I guess).  One’s awesomeness is defined by one’s actions, not one’s facial hair.  And that is why I will not be wearing a moustache for Movember. (Expert conclusion!  Nailed it again.)

The Gentleman Choler

The gentleman associate of our refined establishment, laying such stress as he does on precision of the hour, and who, much to his horror, finds that he unwittingly gains a free moment or two through a slip of the schedule between his afternoon game of whist and cucumber sandwiches at brillig, would do well not to panic immediately, but to hold off his girlish peals of despair until he has undertaken a thorough perusal of this emergency pamphlet. We at the Preserves Club have thought up a list of ex tempore advisories and activities which we present in good order for the memorization and careful contingency planning of our punctilious patrons.

Remember that the first step is NOT to panic. The gentleman will be confused. His composure will start to express itself it in harumphs of ever increasing gruffitude. His eyes may start to wander from the safe co-ordinates of drink table and armchair to the more voyeuristic angles of ceiling and hallway tile-counting. We advise the gentleman who starts to notice such symptoms of hysteria, to consult his pocket-watch continuously until the effects start to subside. Consult it with vigour and purpose, knit your brows, place it back in your pocket. Walk a few steps, and yes, consult it again. Repeat until calm.

Now that the gentleman is in a neutralized emotional equilibrium, he can begin in good conscience to plan his escape from the grips of that Tyrant, Free-Time. But first: has the gentleman read the Times thoroughly? And the Gazette? Has he perhaps considered condescending to the Post for a lark? Or, if he's really feeling frisky, the Community Bulletin? If he has despairingly answered yes to the preceeding questions, we must recommend that he turn to some more explicitly lurid reading materials. As distasteful as it may sound, there is no sounder cure for an extra few seconds than the stimulation of base, lustful desire in the under-cummerbundical regions. Accordingly our gentleman will betake himself to Shame Hall immediately to choose an appropriate booth, each stocked with the foulest forest of depraved literature we could legally acquire. We suggest starting with the latest Garfield to really get his ginger snapping.

If our gentleman is not feeling up to the litterae humaniores, we might suggest that he take an afternoon constitutional. Such promenades have not been unheard of on the Continent, and a similar institution at Boston has recently implemented a strolling regimen for all its club members to universal approbation and vomiting. We realize that the world outside the Club is large, and largely, frightening. We have therefore taken the precaution of directing the gentleman's steps with a trail of finely painted leather-patent footprints (Italian, continental sizing 43). These lead all throughout the town, down to the harbour, up through the square, and back safely to the club; the gentleman need not fear that he might err into dangerous alleyways or offensive foodstufferies. We cannot account for the safety of any member who steps off the trail. Josiah Gudburp, esq., disappeared in this very way, stepping aside as he did one day for a rather dubious cat and dog combination charging towards his intended trajectory. He was found two weeks later, done up in a jester's outfit, dead, and quite pickled, in a barrel of marshmallow brine water. Gentleman, take heed. If no heed is available, take it cold two times a day. There's a good lad.

After his walk, the gentleman will certainly want to do something to sooth his over-stimulated nerve-endings. To this end we recommend an activitiy from the feminine sphere, shopping. Bookstores, record shops, and knick-knackeries are always a good choice, and provide the gentleman with ample opportunity for practicing the classical art of eavesdropping. The gentleman with an ear tuned to the risqué will be amplifiably rewarded. He will hear stories of price-mark downs and previous purchases. He will be hear squabbles between couples over which mantle decoration to buy. He will hear the sweet romancing of a cashier in his illicit transactions with multiple patrons. The gentleman's frisson will be considerable. If he is careful, he might even engage in some conversation himself. Asking for a price-check on some item is a good start, but requires boldness of character. Our more phlegmatic members will satisfy themselves with an accepted greeting, a  "hello", "afternoon", or "good plague" on entering the store. Do not be hesitate to sit down after such exertions.

If the gentleman still has time left-over, he may make his way over to the Public House for a pint of something and a chat with the lads. The gentleman may order any beer he pleases, with the caveat that any fruit-flavoured beverage may lead to a rather unpleasant assault on linen, silk, and starch known in common dialect as a "wedgie". If the gentleman will direct his eyes upwards, he may catch the latest sporting event on television. He should feel free to gasp whenever an object moves on the field. When the figures on the television seem agitated, he should begin gyrating and grunting so as not to seem out of the loop. He may at this point engage his chair-mates in conversation. Speak anything on your mind, so long as you have undergone a mental check of a fifteen minutes dwelling on the idea, so as to ensure maximum efficiency of word order, emphasis, and vocabulary. If you can insert the term "tits" anywhere in your discourse, you will win favour with the vox populi. There is only one thing that should be considered taboo among the plebeians, and that is the finer accoutrements of a manor squire's salon. This includes the new Renoir you've acquired for the drawing room, for envy knows no bounds. Talk instead about a new tool you've acquired. Maybe a wrench? Or a fine 18th century Venetian trowel?

With these many activities, we consider the gentleman's time as good as spent, and that bothersome portion of his life as good as over and done with. He may now attend to his Ox-Bladder on Toast in security of his future. If, unfathomably, he somehow exhausts the contents of this list, either through an unsavoury heat of the blood leading to extensive activity, or a particularly long life (and good hale to him!), we have devised the following methodology for creating your own amusements from scratch: first, open the issue of Earblocker's Quarterly we have appended to this form. Select three words at random through a handy Sortes Virgillianae. Distribute these words, using appropriate conjunctions and particles, into a coherent course of action. Do you have it? Is it bold? Startling? Has your psyche subconsciously put together a wild and tempting new source of adventure that you are raring to attempt? Excellent. You may now recreate the scene using paste (provided) and coloured macaronies (provided). Display it at Pumperknickel Square, and prepare to be the new gallant homme of the club. Do not attempt any activity beyond this without consulting the club physician.

Kazakhs - A Found Poem

Contributed by an anonymous tipster-type individual:

1: [1:32 am] "I can see Jesus in the cunt of a he fucker. God hownh e bleeds like N arse."
2: [1:36 am] "Karla here ... carlsbad is very drink from trying to keep up with the Kazakstan Ivan's.He may be ok tomorrow...maybe. Currently swimming towards the bed along the floor." 
3: [1:37 am] "Never drink with Kazaks on a school night!"
4: [at 9:01 am] "Holy shi I'm still drunk. how did I end up at work? I think I drunxted you last night."
5: [9:07 am] "Oh man, trying so hard not to fall asleep on the shitter right now..."
6: [9:ll am] "Man, kazaks like thier Jager!"
7: [9:32 am] "Focusing hard on not drunking around. Must.not hug Jacques and show him how to play games on his comp. Badcarlsbad."

New Rockets for Old!

Translated From the Arabo-Perso-Turkic Collection of Fantasy Stories, Alf Layla Wallahi By Sir Richard Wannabe Bottom-Pincher, on his secret tour of Mecca, wherein he disguised himself as a Circassian axe-thrower, and managed to get on the VIP list for the Hajj, and uses that to pick up all the smarmy British women at hostels in all four corners.

In the Name of Allah, the Compassionating, the Compassionate, the Compassionizer, the Compassionzee!

Verily verily, the works and words of those gone before us have become instances and examples to men of our modern day, that folk may peruse the annals of antique peoples and all that hath betided them, and may thereby, you know, betide themselves with good betidings and all that that entails. Praise, therefore, be to Him who hath made the histories of the past an admonition unto the present! Now of such instances is a tale called "New Rockets for Old!" together with its far-famed legends and wonders.

But first, a frame tale, y'all:

In the city of Baghdad (pre- "Shock and Awe"), a man named Jabbar the Juggler once owed a pitcher of Date Wine to a one-eyed man with a chic beard and cloak ensemble. This man had purchased a pitcher for Jabbar the night before, as the sand-people tell it. Well, as it happens, this night, Ras as-Sanah al-Hijriyah, the night of Hijri new year, Jabbar had had no luck with his “monkey and yak-testicle” routine, and so was strapped for coin.

“Alas the day of my birth! Know, oh stranger, that this miserable tribesman of the Banu-Sasan cannot afford to pay you, in wine or dates or the fine olives of the Seven Snake Valley. I forfeit to you now my head, and rely solely on your mercy not to make with the choppy-choppy.”

The stranger merely smiled – for he was no ordinary vagabond, but the royal Abbasid princeling, potentate, and general fuck-up Haroun Al-Rashid.

“Oh stranger, do you not realize that this is the very position in which I had hoped to find you? For now I may demand, instead of your head, a rip-roaring good story, of which a man in your station must know many a good’un.”

“Indeed, Oh weird dude, I knoweth my fair amount. But allow me to kick us out of this annoying frame tale with this apolitical and inapplicable story, entitled:"

New Rockets for Old!

Once, in Gaza, land of Ibrahim and the Philistines, there lived two brothers, lovers of peace, an elder, and a younger. This elder brother was also a lover of the sea, and left in his youth for far distant lands in order to trade the delicious screaming pickle pears of his homeland for the doubtful but fashionable hat and glove combinations of the Occident. The younger, a lover of books, Aristotle, and husbandry, remained at home and tended to the family lands with all the due diligence and sweat that comes with whipping a century of slaves.

One day the elder brother returned from his travels. The younger brother fell to his knees and said, “by Allah, my father’s own son, my grandfather’s own grandson, my aunt’s nephew, my poodle's favourite masseuse, my very eldest of an elder brother is returned from the West!” and crying the tears of the powdered Chinaman, he embraced his brother and welcomed him to the family plot.

The very next day the brothers divided their lands according to the law of the land, namely one beardless ape-goat per square Jihad-sector, and thereby lived by the land of the law. But the very very next day, while the younger brother, whose name was Abu Dammit, was out purchasing a new foot-stool (whose name was Bilal the Comfortable), the elder brother, whose name was Ben Gonzalez, told his men to casually waltz over to the screaming pickle pear orchards of his brother, and, you know, to occupy them, the name for which move was a bitch.

On returning, Abu Dammit was very upset to see his lands had been agrope-priated. Furiously he harangued his brother:

“D’ouble-you-tee-eff! Is this how a brother, brother of his brother, treats his brother? Stealing his lands and his screaming pickle pears?”

“Brother of your brother!” said Ben Gonzalez, “I am a man of peace, as you are! Well, in the West, they teach that peace is unity, unity is safety, and safety is a pin that holds the bullets back from the head of prying siblings.” And saying this, he saw his brother to the door with a friendly gesture and an uzi.

Abu Dammit was less than convinced, but more than pissed. Tearing his hair, he made his way into the desert, where he found a genie, son of fire, demon of the sandy whirlwind whose mighty capacity for fury and mischief knows no bounds in heaven, earth, or sea, casually lounging, like you do, by an oasis.

“Son of Adam!” the Genie bellowed, “willst a pint? Verily, thou seemst as thou couldst useth one. Why doth look so down, al-chumly?”

“Alack and alas, by Allah and all that! Can you imagine a man is betrayed by his own brother? And what’s worse, a lover of peace like me. But this newfangled western peace is something I do not understand. If only I had an uzi like my brother!”

“Uzi!?” laughed the Genie, “why, man, take thee a rocket! With this wonderful machine, thou canst negotiate peace with thy brother from two cities away!”

The very very very next day, Abu Dammit began negotiations with his brother by firing his prized rocket at Ben Gonzalez’s orchards.

That same hour, Ben Gonzalez replied with a peace offering aimed squarely at the King Goat of Abu Dammit's flock. He then summoned his magic messenger pigeon, and told him to proclaim to all the animals, men, and Djinn of the land:

“See how a brother loves his brother! Peace be upon him. #Shalom”

With the next rocket, Abu Dammit replied to the magic pigeon:

“See how a brother sends a gift! #Salaam”

And so again:

“My brother sends me an old rocket as a gift – I send him a new one! #KaBoom”

And so once more:

“Peace be upon him! And this. #TheBestPillarOfDefenseIsAGoodPillarOfOffense”

And lastly:

“Enjoying the lovely music coming from your warning sirens! #FallOutFriday”

And so, after much exchanging of love, gifts, negotiations, and genie supplied peace offerings, the Western style peace finally settled upon the brothers of Gaza. Extended peace is said to be the happiest of human states - and such a stable and uncompromising one was Allah's blessing upon these two siblings! Think how much they will come to profit from the posturing of each other, how many friends and enemies they will enlist, how much sponsorship and funding they can purloin, how joyful the sweet game of power can be played with the cheaply carved pieces of tenant farmers and naive locals. A wellspring of hope, this perpetual peace between two loving and democratic brothers! A filial lesson for all of humanity.

“But, as this peace raged, it happened that one of Ben Gonzalez’s camels was engaged in a fierce debate with one of the goats of Abu Dammit. They had, from a debate about the Aristotelian categories as presented by Averroes, fallen into a quandary about which of the two species had the longest and most pleasing member. The story of this debate goes something like this…"

The Tale of the Master Debater...

Brecht and the Thatched Roof

Homer had no home

And Dante had to leave his behind.

Li Po and Tu Fu wandered through civil wars

That did in 30 million men.

They threatened Euripides with lawsuits

And one keeps silent about

The dying Shakespeare;

Wasn't only the muse who sought Francois Villon

The police also

(nicknamed "the beloved")

Lucretius went into exile

And Heine, and so fled

Brecht underneath the Danish straw-roof.

-Bertolt Brecht

Homo Contra Cenam

XL Letter of the Front Porch Philosopher, Marcus Porpoise Strabo Gingivitis,

 to his Protégé Lucius Goonius.

How trying are the trials of fortune! Indeed, I had just come to tell you in my last letter about the invitation to the dinner with a certain mutual friend of ours, lover of orgies, and how I was determined to refuse, no matter what methods he used to persuade me. 

And yet, strange to say, Goonius, I accepted. Do not think me growing licentious in my old age – I had no choice in the matter. I would much rather have spent the evening as I am wont, at home in my “poverty room” (you know the one with the dirt floor, the oily breadpile, and the vulgar dwarf) reading the classics and picking out little presents to send you from my stockpile of philosophy. Well, the will of the gods cannot be gainsaid. It turns out I had lent our friend my only copy of The Goonmenides, and it was from that exact text that I was looking to send you your little nugget of philosophy for the week.

The human will is very odd – very often it will choose a present evil for an unsure future good. Nevertheless, I took this strange opportunity (for surely you must know that I am only a casual frequenter of feasts, and have in no away allowed my spirit to grow accustomed to them, however often I attend) I say, an opportunity to test the impatientia of my spirit. There it all was! Delicious sweetmeats, sweetlicious meatdishes, and other delectables as well, sprinkled with both salt and pepper, and some few even garnished with mouth watering lead, silver, quicksilver, gold, and iron.

I could see the other guests were well enjoying themselves, stuffing their orifices with one hand, disembowelling slaves with the other. Many were kicking kittens all the while. I could never abide the past-time of kitten kicking – I know you may think me a bit of a queer fish, but sometimes I find it positively mean, even cruel! “But they are merely fluffy, big eyed, mewing little darlings,” I hear you object, “if they can’t be crushed beneath my toes for pleasure, what can?” Here we must cease to be slaves to pleasure, and cling to the only master we ought to truly serve (I mean of course philosophy. What else could I mean? Checkers?). Why crush kittens? Let us crush our excessive desires instead.

But to the feast.  Surely you have attended some few in your younger years. You know how noisy they get, and how an old man like me cannot abide noise! The smacking of lips and the gobbing of wine, the hearty reverberating jiggle of a slave well elbowed...They are like to drive a sensitive man to distraction from the Good. I accordingly stuffed my ears with grape leaves, and looked out at the spread before me. Now, what should a true philosopher do? A Pythaogrean might leave the room; a Cynic would knock over the table. An Epicurean would munch a little bread and be content. A Platonist would look to the wine for divine revelation, and an Aristotelian might eat all his greens first, and then his meats, his desserts, insofar as he could determine the proper order of the “six digestions”. 

Yet herein lies the difference between our school and theirs! They must needs avoid the pleasure of eating, in order not to feel it. I say that we, as Front Porchers, can just as well devour as much as we can, and yet still be unmoved in our inner selves. This is the true meaning of ataraxia! I thus knit my brows, frowned, pinched my nose, made a small moaning noise, and, with the greatest hesitancy began to stockpile my plate from the buffet. How I was tested then, Goonius. I can assure you, however, that I never had a meal that tasted worse – it was that good.

I’ve half a mind to tell you how I endured the drinking that came after the meal, and more than half a mind not to tell you about the courtesans, the flute girls, and the rest that I didn’t even come to not enjoy entirely. “But enough of this food talk”, I hear you grumble. You want your little gifty wifty eh? Need a little boost of philosophy to get you through your week? Well, I’m glad this old man is useful for something, and I really ought to repay you for reading through this trite letter of mine. Here then is the promised line from The Goonmenides:

It is not that am man is driven to excess by his deeds, but rather his deeds that are driven to excess by his own character. Therefore, see that your character is steady, and even in the midst of a Bacchic orgy you will find yourself capable of philosophical pleasure.

The Kall of Kijiji

The following review was found in its present state on the writing desk of Eric Salomon Victim, the great New York art critic, who was in turn found in HIS present state scattered, as the police report said, "lovingly" over a fair stretch of backwater New England dirt road. The present editor is pleased to present the last work of a fine art critic on the last works of a fine folk artist, both of whom came to a mysterious, eldritch-type end. The present editor will be excused for remaining anonymous. One might ask why a present editor would be so eager to publish something so obviously unnatural; and this editor would respond, anonymously of course, that he does not believe in superstition, and that the art world must be freed from the base sort of mysticism, this Yog Soggothic nonsense...*

*The preceding text trails off suggestively. Please proceed to the rest of the article. - The Anonymous Editor's "wife".

Anybody who knew Nathaniel Irehart as I did - barely at all - suspected, I think, that his inspiration was not altogether free of, oh how shall we say it with delicacy... A slight babbling, gibbous caco-demoniacal insanity? Slight. To the eyes of the world he was a darling sculptor, sometimes the writer of an occasional verse, and sometimes the groper of an occasional nurse. His mysterious disappearance has been a shock to the art world, seen as he was last in the area of a shady semi-glowing crypt in the primeval forests of Maine. Believe it or not, there are some who suggest his end was not altogether natural.

He was loved dearly by all in his hometown of Sidon, Massachussets, New England, America, North America, Map, Hillard and Bimbsly 1957 All Rights Reserved. They fawned upon this tittering little goblin who frolicked from saloon to bar, cheering up the downcast and casting down the beer-cask with equanimity and vomiting. Yet I think they all felt in their innards that there was something not quite Euclidean about Irehart -- his physiognomy bespoke an atavism to some semi-reptilian half-mammal, licking its cold green chops as it crawls its way from the fathomless depths of the dark green sea. The same was often said of his limericks, the hue of which was often a shade darker than bleu.

I provide a sample of his mad verse to display the unique blend of occult and ribald influences which made up Irehart's aesthetic, an odd conglomeration which I term "esoteroticism":

There once was a fellow of Arkham

Whose ballsack was named Yog-Soggarkam

Whenever it'd itch

He'd go see his old witch

Who'd hermetically spark'em and lark'em.

I first encountered this wonder child at a folk-art festival in Connecticut  Among the wood carven knick-knacks and candle sets, his 10 foot totem-poll stood out prominently. I took it to be a bit of west-coast inspiration, until I realized that it depicted, not the traditional Raven or Fisherman of the Haida, but a howling half-moose, half-man, half-wolf (I have since learned its name to be a were-moosetaur) devouring a half-turtle, half-jellyfish along a weird trajectory of a mixed-forest treescape at midnight. 

"Pretty piece of crazy, this." I said under my breath to a fellow next to me. "Thanks! The Old Ones have truly spoken to me through this one" he said. It was Irehart. A debonair 20-something year old sporting a tri-corn and britches, leaning on a gruesome cane made out of Whalesbone and hot-glue rhinestones. 

"Old ones?" I inquired. "Oh you know" he mumbled, with a tittering giggle. "Relations. Old Grandma Irehart. Uncle Pyncheon. Aunt Derleth..." I nodded cautiously with the half-moon grin of the condescending. I may have looked askance, but he looked insane.

Upon learning that I was a noted critic, he invited me to visit him at his cottage in Sidon for an exclusive peak at some "works in progress". "Fat chance!" I thought, "I'd sooner play fetch with moosejaw up there than visit this loony in his loony-bin." Meanwhile I smiled a smile of agreement. "Oh please, do come" he implored with a titter, "If you like animals, can play fetch with rover. And my wife, Luna Bin, just adores company..." It struck me that all was not altogether orthodox with this young artist. Still, an exclusive was nothing to chortle at in those days of vagrant art criticism. Two weeks later I was driving down the rural dirt roads of central-northwest-eastern New England. I was looking for an Outlet antique store, as the missus had her eye out for a credenza.

A week after that I took the greyhound to Irehart's seven-gabled chalet. As I approached the devilish looking house au pied, I felt a shudder in my left pocket, and since my cell-phone was in my right, I knew something curious was afoot. The house was, as I said, devilish looking. Its architecture was one of your standard puritan semi-colonials, but with a strange undulation of gable that crept up behind you and whispered "Hassenpfeffer!" in your ear when you weren't paying attention. Also, it was painted blood red. 

I knocked on the old door with the skeleton demon-claw door-knocker, de rigeur of course, but receiving no answer, I rung the hellish door bell. The tune that I heard reverberate through the old stead is terrifying to re-call, and all but impossible to describe; imagine "Old MacDonald" if it were played slowly through on an old 78 made out of human flesh, the speaker-horn of which was the jaw of a ravening extinct sabre-tooth tiger, and you might have an idea of the terror I felt as I listened to the eerie melody.

Irehart came to the door wearing a smile and an 17th century puritan smock on which was the embroidered phrase Kisse ye the Cheffe -- Stake's On! "Welcome welcome" he beamed at me with a toothsome titter "Dinner's almost ready". From the front door to the parlor the house seemed to be an all corridor-and-cobweb sort of affair. I met Luna Bin surely enough sitting on the rug laughing derisively at an antique portrait above the mantelpiece. Not wanting to pry, I refrained from asking. Fido could be heard breathing fire in the back yard. Well wasn't this lovely. Dinner consisted of a special Innsmouth dish of our host's own ancestors called Lobster Inferno. The gills were the tastiest part, I remarked with a ghost-white countenance and a smile worth a thousand tears.

It was after our brandy and shrunken-heads that the host finally offered to show me his studio. Going down to the basement, we came to a sealed, dungeon like door that, once pried open via an old brass key, led to a further staircase smelling of the usual corpse-and-old-spice required of such classic ossuaries. Down, down to the catacombs we went, my host babbling the while of his latest inspiration, of the Old Ones, of old "Grandma Soggoth" and the like. I was beginning to feel slightly uneasy. Well, here we were. The old studio. I was surrounded by a thousand, well... I suppose you could call them sculptures, but I'd be more inclined to call them semi-rotting alien corpses stapled to life-sized cut-outs of Big Bird.

Actually, I was inclined very much to the left at that moment, and was just about to take a welcome leave of my pesky consciousness, which in this whole affair had been nothing but trouble, when I was suddenly aware of a dark voice coming up from a sewer grate in the floor. Perhaps it was saying something in an eldritch, inhuman tongue? Or perhaps it was asking for peanuts. I didn't care to find out. My host had fallen to the floor in a sudden urge to bow, or perhaps he had lost a contact lense to the Dark Lord Uldoroch. I, in any case, had had enough. Gripping my mind with my hands I reeled about for a bit and collapsed in a fit of Scrooge McDuck impressions, as is my wont during stressful situations.

I awoke innumerable hours later in my bedroom back home. Quickly, I am writing all of this down so as to have something that I can trail off to, before I am inevitably driven out of my mind by various extra-universal horrors who will be coming to visit -- ah, I hear the door-bell. Now's as good a place as any to trail off, methinks...