Travel Thursday Encore: Chillin’ Edition

Here’s my last tour of Scandinavian capitals. As the rain comes down yet again in SoCal—and on cue the sun comes out—I comfort myself with the thought that I’m not in any of these places at this time of year.

Ever work for a boss so mean that when you say, “Please don’t send me to Scandinavia!” he chuckles evilly and immediately sends you there? Well, just so you know, I love Scandinavia, and I love to play poker with my former boss. . .
“Wouldn’t you rather be halfway around the world than stuck in your house?” the e-mail screamed. That would have been a lot more impressive if I hadn’t been in a hotel halfway around the world.
So, my second Scandinavian tour in three years, but last time was right in the middle of summer and this time it’s in the middle of fall, not blizzarding yet but definitely colder than I’d like.

Two days before I left, I ran into the Icelandic president here in LA. He told me to bring a heavy jacket. Gee, thanks for the advice. Though he did tell me Iceland didn’t need Daylight Savings, so it’s a 7 hour dif instead of 8. That’s more useful, though not by much.
It’s 40 degrees and raining–help me!
The biggest deal to hit the island in a while was the Imagine Peace Tower, which was actually on a smaller island in the harbor: a beam of light radiating from a wishing well bearing the words “imagine peace” in 24 languages. They told me I was the first professional photographer not at the unveiling to shoot it, so another thing to put on the application to the Hall of Fame. Seriously though, it’s not at all different from the light at the top of Luxor in Las Vegas. It may stand for something special, but it doesn’t look like such a big deal. Just goes to show why Yoko Ono’s rep is well deserved. {No, I don’t have any idea what I mean by that either.}
Prices keep going up–last time the burger and fries combo at the Vitabar was about $4, now it’s $7.50, though that’s still less than Mel’s at Hollywood and Highland. They tried to get me to eat something they call a gleym-mer-ey (which translates to “forget-me-not”–guess it looks like the flower), which is a blue cheese and garlic burger. They really don’t know me well. . . or if they do, were actually trying to kill me, since I’m allergic to garlic.
The most fun–to do, not to say–was the “Wonders of Snæfellsnes” tour. That’s a glacier, which Jules Verne used as the portal into the center of the earth in his famous book. Luckily we didn’t go downward, but just in this small area there was black sand beaches, waterfalls, scenic coastlines, seals, and even a stop for lunch at an inn that did not serve fish, thankfully.
Back in town, I went to a handball game, which is a kinda cross between basketball and soccer, but much more exciting. Really wish I coulda played it in my athletic days, though of course not now; I think I could score a penalty, if my life depended on it, but that’s a long field for running. . . nah, I probably would have been a goalie here too. And I was happy to notice the female players used shorts much more akin to volleyball players, rather than basketball or soccer.
Also went to the Reykjavik Museum of Photography, where I was talking to the doorman while we waited a few minutes for the place to open, and when I told him I was a professional photographer, and I was in Iceland to work, he let me in free! So if you go there, give them some monetary love for me.

Fjords need sunlight for a good photo. Looks depressing when cloudy, and when it’s foggy it doesn’t look at all, despite the fall foliage that could rival New England. Did manage to visit this new archaeology dig, which included an exhibit of a Viking queen and princess from 1200 years ago–most fun I’ve had in Norway in a while. I don’t know why, but Norway has always been my least favorite of the Scan countries; it couldn’t be the blondes. . .
Some decades ago, after the U.S. military saw how long it took to get everything ready for the first gulf war, they had the bright idea of pre-positioning supplies in certain parts of the world, so they could get to the war zone quicker–all you had to do was fly in the troops, and the tanks and  other stuff would be waiting for them. Anyhoo, one such place was this massive cave complex in Norway, and it’s still run by the same guys who were in charge back when I visited in uniform so many years ago, so I got a lot of photos I shouldn’t have. . . which is always the most fun, of course.
Don’t worry, I’m not telling the Harrison’s Fjord story again. . .

My first time in Copenhagen, I was walking through the Nyhavn, which is where they have canals and tall ships and basically looks like a less-dingy Amsterdam, when I saw a photo shoot going on, so of course I stopped to watch. Just as I was wondering where the model was going to change, she took off all her clothes and slipped on the next outfit. My seventeen-year-old pen wrote I LOVE DENMARK in huge letters in my journal.
And this time I’m the one who got to shoot there! So awesome. Then did my usual traditions of saying Hi to the Little Mermaid, having lunch under the statue of Hans Christian Anderson, and spending at least three hours at the Glyptotek, the local Getty-type museum (oops, actually spelled that Geddy at first; I was so looking forward to the Rush concert in Stockholm). Remember to be quiet when you walk by Rodin’s The Thinker, because. . . well, he’s thinking, don’t bother him. And also as usual I strolled down the Stroget and looked in all the McDonald’s, but all the cuties I knew who worked there were gone, and I didn’t have time to meet the new ones. Also as usual when I’m in town, Tivoli was closed for the winter, but the theater was still in use, so I managed to catch The Four Seasons with one of my favorite violinists. With its fast-paced and frenetic passages, it might be the only classical piece that could serve as an opener for Rush.
The train from Copenhagen to Helsingør takes 44 minutes–I love train schedules! But this time a friend drove me there instead and it took us all day, stopping in the countryside frequently while she pigged out on strawberries every time we stopped. Got there in time for a sunset shot of the castle, spooky. No ghosts came out in the shots, thankfully {for those of you who didn’t get that, Helsingør=Elsinore, as in Hamlet}. And check this out: In the old days the captain of every ship passing by and wanting to use the waterway had to state the value of ship’s cargo, with the tax calculated depending on the value of the cargo. The king had the right to buy the cargo for the price the ship’s captain stated, which kept the captains from stating prices that were too low. How smart is that?
Legoland is no longer of any interest, with there being one in Cali now. . . and since they opened a Lego store at the Copenhagen airport.
By the way, for those of you who know the story of “A Ton of Redheads,” so many years ago now, I finally got my revenge on blonde Nikki who played that trick on me. But that’s a whole ‘nuther blog in itself. . .

So, name someone else in this whole wide world who goes to see a symphony and then two days later takes in a Rush show? Huh?
A relatively balmy 50 degrees for a high on the day of the concert, with clouds but no rain or snow. Not that it matters much with the indoor Rush show, but on the walk to the subway station and then the hotel it’s way too cold for this SoCal boy, so even though I’m sweating in the heavy jacket, it’s better than the alternative. No doubt the locals would bring out the snark once I got there.
Just so you understand how funny this is, the arena where the Rush concert was held is referred to as the Ping-Pong ball, golf ball, take your pick. It’s particularly a sight coming out of the subway; Stockholm is so beautiful that you definitely do not want to ride the subway during the day, but since it was night and the traffic was heavy. . .
I’m not going to write a huge blog on the concert like I did when I saw them at the Hollywood Bowl, just a few thoughts, like the fact the other fans considered me a guru because I knew all the lyrics. And despite seeing it thousands of times on the internet, I still loved the South Park Tom Sawyer intro; too bad most of the crowd had no idea.
Still, it was a bit of a weird concert. On the one hand, it was the same show I saw at the Hollywood Bowl, but it was also vastly different, being indoors and with a crowd that didn’t know all the lyrics and wasn’t screaming and standing the whole time. In a way it felt more like an intimate club show, though of course the screen and the lasers and the shooting flames belie that. Still, I might say I enjoyed this more than at the Bowl.
Ok, some not Rush stuff. I have a relatively famous photo of a sunrise over Stockholm harbor, all gray and gloomy, with the tall ship/hostel on one side and a pair of swans in the middle. On the day I flew to Helsinki, I went out to take the shot again, to see how the skyline of south Stockholm has changed, and a couple of swans come cruising through again. There’s no way it could be the same ones a good ten years later, right? How long do those suckers live?
And this time I did remember to climb to the top of the city hall tower to get some shots. I don’t know why I torture myself and go to all these towers and even rent planes and choppers when I damn well know I’m afraid of heights, especially considering I got an attack of vertigo a couple of weeks before heading out here. If there’s a psych reading this who will tell me more than “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” let me know what my problem is. {How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb? One. . . but it has to want to change.}
OK, what’s the deal with changing from daylight savings and not telling the tourists? Almost missed my flight.

Got to Helsinki on the last day of the book fair! Yay! As usual I bought enough books that I had to put them in a carton and take them to the post office to ship them home. They’ll take so long to get here I’ll forget all about them, of course.
Helsinki likes to say they’re the biggest city in the world without slums (probably not true anymore), but at the same time there really isn’t much to see in town besides beautiful blondes (and some brunettes, and a few redheads. . .), so it’s always good to get out of town. Too cold to get on the water, instead I went for a drive into the countryside to see some more fall foliage while dodging mosquitoes with some of those aforementioned blondes. That’s when the fog isn’t rolling in. Oh well, I got the requisite shots of city hall and stuff.
Helsinki is cool in one way, though: transportation. Most of the town is white or gray, but the subway is bright orange–like Mexico City, only funkier–and the trams are green. These will probably end up being the best photos. The worst part was having to photograph the famous church carved out of rock; places like that give me the chills, both literally and figuratively.
And I am going to write a whole book on birthday traditions to go along with all the photos I took of a beautiful brunette friend’s birthday. Part of the festivities was going to the local equivalent of Staples Center–Hartwall Areena, though I don’t know if it’s named after a local company–for lunch. There was a Pizza Hut and some burger joints, but we went to the Golden Star Café (yes, in English). Unable to resist, I stopped at the ticket office and, yes, Rush was playing that night, the last date on their tour. Should I. . .?
Damn right I did. To think I was so happy after seeing them once. Wonder how that’s going to look on the expense account, though. . .
Quick note: on the first song of the second act, “Far Cry,” there’s a line that goes: “You can almost see the circuits blowing!” And on cue, the guitar amp blew. Awesome.
My last night in Helsinki I stayed awake and then caught the sunrise flight back to Reykjavik, where I slept during the day, woke up and went to dinner with a friend, then flew back to El Lay, so I’m not even close to jet lagged this time. Which also means I get back to the usual grind without any time to “readjust,” so next time I might skip all that and suffer through the jet lag anyway. . .
Or I suppose I could lie about it. . .



Book Reviews: Graphic Gauguin and Grabbings

Please Don’t Grab My P#$$y: A Rhyming Presidential Guide
Four-line rhyming stanzas attempt to teach the Trumpster Dumpster and other asses like him what shouldn’t be touched without permission. Each little poem ends with a euphemism for the one word you would expect, some of them quite confusing.
I am a rhyming fanatic; I’ve even called out my fave musicians when they cheat on this, so it’s no surprise when I say that some of these attempts are atrocious. Maybe that explains why some of those that do rhyme make no sense whatsoever.
A few of the highly impressionistic drawings are lovely and funny, but most are just there.
If there’s one thing to take away here, it’s that this sets some high expectations and doesn’t meet them. Nowhere near as funny as the publicity pretends. A little bit more thought, and maybe not so lowbrow, and it might have hit the sweet spot.

Queen of Kenosha
Small-town musician in Noo Yawk tries to return a wallet and get pistol-whipped for her troubles. It leaves her open to an offer she can’t refuse.
I’ve read this author’s previous works, which took place in the hockey world, and it’s the same format here. The artwork is especially similar, but the story is completely different and much more ambitious, in fact maybe too much. There’s been plenty of Nazi conspiracy stories over the decades, but I can’t remember seeing one where they’re basically dropped into what’s always been a “commie” plot.
Though it’s an overused talking point, the difference between a black-and-white follow-orders-at-all-costs viewpoint and a don’t-have-to-kill-everyone approach is done well here.
Each issue has recommended songs, with one on each playlist by the fictional protagonist, so of course you can’t hear it. Another is “Both Sides Now”; I sure am getting tired of that song, it’s everywhere. And you’d think that since this takes place in the early 60s, songs from that era would be a better choice. I haven’t noticed any connection between the songs and the action, but I was amused by the inclusion of a Pretenders song. But it’s the insertion of a good Dire Straits song that made everything okay.
When on the big mission, they dress all in black but don’t paint their faces, neck, and hands. Worse, her blonde hair is loose. Author fail on the spycraft.
More than anything, there’s a huge plot twist at the end. . . which I’d guessed about halfway. I was hoping I was wrong, thinking it too contrived, too much of a coincidence, but it happened anyway. Actually not that big a deal in this book, but in the sequel it’ll be huge, and it won’t sit right then.
At the end are the lyrics to the made-up songs by the protagonist. Since this is a collection of all the issues, I don’t know if the lyrics were included with the song, but in this volume I would have liked to read them when the title was first unveiled.
There’s a lot of good stuff here, but also much that could have been done better.

Gauguin: Off the Beaten Track
The foreword tells you that this isn’t about the artist as much as about the guy who was his generation’s version of a hippie, though by this time in his life he’d become more cynical.
The graphic novel starts with paintings being sold at auction for what seem to be really low prices, though back then it could have been a lot. They’re won by a smug-looking accountant type, and then we go back two years to the sight of Gaugin sleeping on a ship with roaches crawling all over him. Lovely. From there the story switches between his arrival on the small island and the previous guy showing up after his death.
Some of the friends he makes are interesting. It’s fun to see him interacting with people from Vietnam, India, and of course the locals, though they’re all different too.
“You’ve lost your mind!” “And you never had one to begin with!”
“You must—” “When I hear ‘you must,’ I rebel!”
There some slight x-rating to a couple of panels, but the artwork is done in such a non-realistic style—even looks like Gaugin painted it—that’s it’s hardly noticeable and pretty much inoffensive. . . which kinda sums up this book. It paints a different side of the artist who’s only famous for these paintings, who is not in the consciousness of most like Picasso or such. It’s interesting, but not more than that.

An unconventional new cop—with tats, piercings, etc.—in a small town in Sweden works on missing persons case. We get to see what happened to that missing person, and it’s not nice, so we’re given a sense of urgency for the cop and her partner to get there and save the day.
She knows most of the players, which is handy, though who knows if that’s a great idea, were she to run into someone she actually likes. There’s also an idiot too-much-testosterone older cop who looks like he came out of any American police show. The book ends with a small discussion on the Swedish subculture that was the background for the story, which was interesting enough to make me look it up.
The writing, or should I say the translation, is pretty good, except for too many fake-sounding instances of “Ha ha.” The artwork was a bit Day-Glo for my tastes, but since the protagonist is a fan of superhero comics that’s not a big deal. And even though the story was a bit by-the-numbers, the characterizations, especially the lead, made it worthwhile.

A Sea of Love
A comedy of errors at sea: an old fisherman sets off on what he thinks is just another day at work, and then one thing after another goes wrong. In the meantime, his wife doesn’t give up looking for him, and her adventures are a lot more fun.
Right away it makes me laugh with how huge the fisherman’s eyes are with the glasses on. It starts with the typical morning routine, with recognizable moments between the married couple, going from mad to laughing in a second. Totally sympathize with him on the sardine situation. The part where he meets up with the bigger boat seemed to take forever to get through, could have been done quicker. And never fire a flare near an oil tanker. . . just sayin’.
She doesn’t take off her ridiculous hat in the swimming pool; funny. Her housekeeping/cooking skills make her a star. She was smart all the way to interrupting Castro’s speech, a misstep not only for her but for the book; too ridiculous, though not as much as her becoming an internet sensation. Still, it was nice to see her having as much of a role as he did.
Some funny moments, some poignant. Neither the fisherman nor his wife ever give up; it’s inspiring. Even the bird carries out its agenda without fail. The ecological lessons are rousing in a different way, more of a call to action.
The artwork isn’t meant to be realistic, almost caricature but not over the top.
I think this could have been 25% shorter, and I would have liked it more.

Lady Mechanika, Vol. 4: Clockwork Assassin
Okay, I’m gonna pretend the Day of the Dead volume never happened. Also a bit sad I missed the Free Comic Book Day edition, but what can you do?
A mysterious lady who could easily pass for Mechanika slashes an industrialist on an empty street. Luckily for Mechanika it’s her “admirer” Detective Singh who’s on the case, but after two more murders even he’s not sure of her innocence.
I love that Harry says he’s the brains and she’s the brawn, and Mechanika doesn’t object.
“Umph. That was graceful. Executed with all the poise of a proper lady.” I keep saying it every time: my favorite trait of Lady Mechanika is her always surprising sense of humor.
The bad guy is not that hard to guess, but then I’m not here for the story. The real reason to be here is the artwork, particularly but not just the renderings of Lady Mechanika.
The girl reminds me of Emma Watson. . . or a certain witch she played.
So, nothing that screams out new, but more of the same good stuff.
As always, there are extra visual goodies at the end; I will never believe Mechanika stopped moving long enough to pose for them.

Infinity 8 Vol. 1: Love and Mummies
In a plot far too confusing to be summarized here, a spaceship cop is sent outside into a space junkyard to find out what’s going on, and hopefully tell the reader too.
It’s one thing for her to be wearing such a tight spacesuit—justifiable, but not likely—but the uniform she wears on the job is ridiculous, and leads me to not be able to take her seriously as a security agent. Another female agent is dressed the same way, cleavage practically falling out. Bad job by the artist there, but who knows what he’s thinking.
Lots of scenery porn in the shape of. . . well, a lot of different shapes of aliens. The ship is shaped like a high-heeled shoe!
Best line: “Kiss my ass.” “Okay. Is that how humans do it?”
Though it happens a lot in these stories, I still don’t like how Captain Obvious she is. Turns out she’s kinda dumb too. An officer never gives up their weapon!
Brightly painted, especially for being in space.
After a page of in-story commercials, some of them funny, there’s a big sign that says “14 pages of extras!” Cute, but too late to make a difference.

Skin & Earth HC
In a near-future Earth ecologically devasted, a young redhead goes from college through a nice neighborhood and reveals that she’s part of a lesser caste, to the point where she has to wear a mask so that she doesn’t breathe on this society’s higher-ups. A guard at the checkpoint back to the poor area, who should be more sympathetic considering he’s no highborn, provides further exposition while trying to bully her.
Of course she’s in love with a jerk. There’s a lot of talk and exposition, but nothing much happens. She doesn’t seem particularly smart, considering she tried to take a tattoo off with a knife. Then she meets a mysterious woman in a dream and they go off to get their revenge on the guy.
I did do a little research after reading the intro; turns out this is written by a musician, and the main character is kinda based on her, at least the visuals; the artwork, especially her red hair, is very true to life. The rest of the eye candy is okay, not meant to be realistic.
Favorite line: “I’m never drinking again!. . . boobs look nice, though.”
Other worthy utterings:
“It’s like some fucked-up Renaissance painting.”
“Show him what it’s like to fuck with a goddess.”
“Are you saying you’re forever years old? You look good!”
“I don’t know what this is all code for, but if you’ve got pills, I’ll take them.”
“You have a dangerous blend of sadness and curiosity.”
“I have other plans!” (I need a plan.)
Good use of chain metaphor.
Problem: if she’s not wearing the mask, how does anyone know if she’s a pink or a red? And I don’t mean her hair.
More to the point: each chapter has a Qcode for songs that go with the book, but as of my reading of this review copy, they only take you to the same general website of what looks to be the publisher. No worries, I found them on youtube, with a couple having videos. I found the songs, like many nowadays, overproduced; acoustic versions might be better, but there are some good hard-rocking melodies in there. As for the videos, one of them shows her making the artwork, while another has a couple of the panels recreated in real life, like the part when her “ghost” leaves her body.


Poetry Tuesday: Deep In the Forest

Anonymous Swedish 17th century.

Deep in the forest there is a pond,
small, shaded by a pine so tall
its shadow crosses her surface.
The water is cold and dark and clear,
let it preserve those who lie at the bottom
invisible to us in perpetual dark.
It is our heaven, this bottomless
water that will keep us forever still;
though hands might barely touch they’ll never
wander up an arm in caress or lift a drink;
we’ll lie with the swords and bones
of our fathers on a bed of silt and pine needles.
In our night we’ll wait
for those who walk the green and turning earth,
our brothers, even the birds and deer,
who always float down to us
with alarm and startled eyes.


Book Reviews: Russia, Sweden, Mars, and Canada

“Tell me I’m the best.”
Her face went through a series of contortions until finally bawling, “If I lie my head will explode!”

Rasputin Volume 2
Considering I’ve read a graphic novel about a Japanese monk from hundreds of years ago, the story of the legendary Russian mystic doesn’t seem nearly as weird in comparison.
Someone kills a Hillary Clinton clone at a speech only to have Rasputin bring her back to life as he talks about watching his father die in the snow. A reporter saw him do it and wants to know how it happened, and the story switches between the present and his telling of how he became the way he is.
Which is incredibly confusing. I’ve done a bunch of research on Rasputin, and if this is how he managed to survive all those assassination attempts. . . hell, it’s as good as any other. But I still didn’t understand how it worked, and I doubt the reporter did either. There appears to be plenty of clues in the narrative, they just didn’t mesh. At one point it’s said he saved JFK after he was shot, making this an alternate universe, but I didn’t understand what that had to do with the story.
What really saves it is the humor; there’s one point where he actually says, “Be quiet, ghost.” Yeah, that’ll work.
I’m not a fan of the artwork; too angular. However, props to the depiction of Maria, who is the cutest little blonde girl I’ve ever seen drawn. The snow fairy—I doubt that’s what it was but can find no other way to describe it—is also beautifully done.
Bonus—script, complete with links and spelling mistakes; quotes, bios.
The final grade below is more for the story than the artwork, although it was damned confusing at times.

Closed Circles
Rich Swedish guy driving his yacht is shot at the same time as the starter’s pistol goes off for a boat race. I’m liking this already.
As expected, this book follows the murder investigation, but also delves into the private lives of the lead detective and includes several other plots that really have nothing to do with the main story, in fact could have been separate stories on their own. One in particular seems to come out of the previous book in the series, which I have not read, and is therefore not only confusing but irritating when I’m trying to solve the murder along with the detective.
There’s a ton of characters, far too many to keep straight in my mind. Oddly enough one of them had the same name as a girl I used to know, but that’s neither here nor there. A lot of them don’t have what you’d call typical Scandinavian names either; I don’t know if that gets confusing for native readers, but it sure made things difficult for me. There were plenty of times when I wanted a character sheet; too often a name was mentioned and I had no idea which one it was, yet I wasn’t invested enough to go back and check. Another problem was too many chapters; felt like there was a new one every time the point of view changes, which was definitely annoying. There’s a lot of padding, like the mistress who misses the dead guy and snuggles with her cat. So what?
The detective and his colleagues are good at their job, though they do miss some obvious possibilities (which is weird for me to say after complaining of padding, I know). Halfway through I made a note: “So far no one had mentioned the possibility of a paid assassin.” It eventually does come up, but by then the story had passed it by.
There were several motives offered, including a pretty good one having to do with medical research. With so many suspects that’s to be expected, and it’s well done. When I was finished and looked back on it. . . I suppose the clues were there, at least with the drugs, but with so much going on it was easy for them to get buried, so it felt like the killer’s motive was out of the blue, and that’s not a boat pun.
The ending at the boar hunt was a letdown, the author making it too obvious what was going to happen. I have mixed feelings about the epilogue as well, as I was hoping the cops would be there when she landed, yet found it unnecessary.
Even though this book is way bloated and has too many chapters, I liked it well enough. Hadn’t seen that part of Sweden—except for Solna—but could picture it easily.

Spaceport West
The Brits try to colonize Mars; it doesn’t go smoothly. There are androids and Russians and a reality show crew, so. . . fun.
I can see why people are comparing it—at least in format—to Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, especially with the info inserts. But where Douglas Adams was truly hilarious, this is a little too cutesy and earnest; would have preferred a little restraint, and definitely more successful attempts at humor. Some of the characters, especially the lead, are well done, while others are mere caricatures used to move the plot, such as it was, along. There was quite a bit about life on Mars, some of it described exquisitely, with plenty of reasons for not wanting to go there. Most of all, do not undertake this sort of mission when politicians are being asses—in other words, their usual self—about it.
Wow, that ended out of the blue, especially considering it’s a short book, just a little over novella length. Probably a set-up for a sequel.

Alex vs. the Four-Headed Gargantuan
Kid gets newspaper route and must face challenges, from angry dogs and bullies to struggling with being honest. Though listed under graphic novels, this is mostly written, with occasional drawings showing how he views the encounters in his head as his alter-ego, Super Paperboy!
It’s all about learning lessons as he grows up, like helping people without expectation of reward; in his fantasy he’s bringing rain to a drought-stricken land. On a class field trip he wants to buy something at the museum store with his hard-earned money, but when he can’t settle on one thing he instead buys ice cream for all his classmates, and finds he enjoys the giving feeling. He tries to buy off the bullies with some cookies, and knows a secret of their leader, so impasse for the moment, although that turns into a life lesson as well when it he realizes things aren’t always as they seem.
Super Paperboy Gets His Super On—nice chapter title.
It’s never stated outright, but with the weather and the mention of “Loonie!” I figured out the story takes place in Canada.
So, lessons that masquerade as cute stories. The artwork is no big deal, but gets the job done.


Poetry Tuesday: A Swedish Spell

Having just watched Brave–yet again–I was in the perfect mood for this anonymous musing from 9th century Sweden:

I read for wolftooth and bearclaw
that they won’t touch my sheep, my cow,
neither large nor small.
I pray them away, past the very last crag
where the swan darkens
and the raven whitens.

And now, some Swedish swans in the dark for your perusal. . .

Stockholm swan dawn

Stockholm swan dawn