A Rain of Frogs

Once upon a time at the foot of a great mountain,
there was a town where the people known as Happyfolk lived.
Their very existence a mystery to the rest of the world.
Obscured, as it was, by great clouds.

Here they played out their peaceful lives,
innocent of the litany of excess and violence that was growing in the world below.
To live in harmony with the spirit of the mountain called Monkey was enough.
Then one day, Strangefolk arrived in the town.

They came in camouflage, hidden behind dark glasses, but no one noticed them.
They only saw shadows. you see, without the truth of the eyes
the Happyfolk were blind…

In time, the Strangefolk found their way into the higher reaches of the mountain,
and it was there that they found the Caves of Unimaginable Sincerity and Beauty.
By chance, they stumbled upon The Place Where All Good Souls Come to Rest.
The Strangefolk, they coveted the jewels in these caves above all things,
and soon they began to mine the mountain,
its rich seam fuelling the chaos of their own world.

Meanwhile, down in the town, the Happyfolk slept restlessly,
their dreams invaded by shadowy figures digging away at their souls.
Every day, people would wake and stare at the mountain.
Why was it bringing darkness into their lives?
And as the strange folk mined deeper and deeper into the mountain, holes began to appear,
bringing with them a cold and bitter wind that chilled the very soul of the Monkey.

For the first time, the Happyfolk felt fearful,
for they knew that soon the monkey would stir from its deep sleep.
Then there came a sound, distant at first, that grew into a castrophony so immense,
that it could be heard far away in space.
There were no screams.
There was no time.
The mountain called monkey had spoken.
There was only fire.
And then,
nothing…

Narrated by Dennis Hopper. Fire Coming Out of a Monkey’s Head by the Gorillaz.

Let there be hockey!

The National Hockey League now sports a shiney new players deal, a shiney new logo and shiney new rules.

Now all it needs is people to watch it. That won’t be a problem in Canada, but all those small market teams in the States are going to hurt large.

Maybe the new deal with players will make it possible for smaller Canadian markets like Winnipeg and Hamilton to pick up failing small-marlet US teams.

And maybe the Leafs will win the cup.

Everyday People is a new featurette of Rain, and found its inspiration in the age-old game of people-watching.

He scratched his beard and watched the marks go by. Dozens of people passed by him every minute on this street corner, his polite, quiet pleas – spareaquartamista? – ignored by most. Most were well dressed, though “well dressed” wasn’t a term he’d use to describe the way some of the kids were clothed these days. And in this heat, the skirts the girls were wearing were little more than belts, and from his level, it was almost impossible to not see their underwear anyway.

He’d seen the most interesting people while sitting on this street corner. He’d been occupying the spot for years, probably long enough to have worn an imprint of his bottom into the concrete. He’d seen the murder of Sammy Mason four years ago, he’d given a statement to the police and even been given a bowl of soup and a fresh cup of coffee for his troubles.

He’d seen the bank burn down in ’96 too. A nasty fire, with no known cause. He’d seen some kids fooling around just down the alley from the bank, but he didn’t know if they had started it. Nobody asked him anyway, so it probably wasn’t important.

He scratched his beard again, and lifted one boney cheek off the cement, feeling around with his hand to see if he had in fact worn an imprint in the cold concrete. Nothing. He returned to his quiet request to those walking by. Judging from the weight in his cup, he wasn’t having a very good day.

He hauled himself up to his feet and took one last longing look into the ratty paper cup as the sun set touched the horizon, barely visible down Elm street. The last rays of the day transformed the corner into something warm and orange, instead of its regular sterile concrete self. The cup was less than half full, and that mostly of copper. A slow day indeed. No interesting people. No interesting events. No money.

Limping slowly along Elm, he carefully transferred the coins from cup to pocket, counting as he went along. He passed the bakery, the junk store run by that pretty Emily Perkins, and the drug store. He walked past empty stores and full parking lots, past hookers and drug dealers on street corners. You could walk forever in this faceless, anonymous city. Eventually, well into the darkness, he turned off onto a short street lined with tidy, expensive red brick century homes. Nobody took any more notice of him than he took of the massive houses.

At number 18 he stopped, and looked up the walkway toward the house. A light burnt brightly in the large plate-glass window. He nodded to himself. It’s good to be home after a hard days work.

Memory is a subtle, treacherous thing,
that sometimes befuddles and sometimes clarifies
and this treacherous nature left the photograph out of context
but the inscription on the back
written in teenage blue ball-point angst
is strangely, compellingly relevant:
“ugly picture beautiful me”

Now what?