Stupid dream.

I had a dream about the mess in Boulder last night. It was exactly the way it was seven years ago: I was a bright-eyed young Adventurer, the ink not even dry on my degree, and I was giving my first-year thesis presentation to a PACKED auditorium. Like in real life, I was giving a revised theory of the Olstermann Hypothesis (for those of you not of the Life, the theory that instead of our bodies being supported by "skeletons" that become Calcs on death, our muscles and organs etc are in fact supported and protected by a BONE-LIKE structure of hyper-condensed meat). Since this was a dream I'd come up with some startling new conclusion that made sense at the time, but I can't recall for the life of me what it was.

Anyway, everything is going along just as it should. It's like when I take the dirtbike over a hill and soar through the air, time just seems to slow down and my moment of glory will last forever. Or whatever.

And then, just as I start in on my synthesis of Aquinas and Olstermann, it starts.

TOE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- FOOT BONE
FOOT BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- SHIN BONE
SHIN BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- KNEE BONE

Soft at first, and I think someone's pranking me. Maybe it's Matthews or Thompson... but no. It gets LOUDER. I realize it's coming from EVERYWHERE, a chorus of people standing up from their seats, singing in unison.

Young people, my age or not much older. Everyone is just dead silent, watching as these jerkoffs march out to the center aisle and proceed to dance toward the stage. There's about two-dozen of them in all. Are they CRAZY? Who would be ballsy enough to make a mockery of the National Adventurers' Conference?

KNEE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- THIGH BONE
THIGH BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- HIP BONE
HIP BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- BACK BONE

They march right up onto the stage and start ripping off their clothes. (It's not what you think, trust me.) Underneath their regular clothes they've got some kind of black Lycra or Spandex painted with Calc-pieces, as if they were a PART of their OWN BODIES. It's disgusting. Even remembering it makes me feel like I'm gonna spew a bit. Hell, I'm surprised I didn't upchuck right there on the stage back in 2001. I know there are even some Calc hunters raised Protestant that would've lost their lunch at this grotesque... well, whatever it was. The jerks keep singing:

DEM BONES DEM BONES DEM DRYYYYY BONES
NOW THERE'S THE WORKING OF THE LORD

And as I'm standing there, dumbfounded, one of them steps forward and GRABS my MIC like I wasn't just giving a presentation. He starts rambling on and on about civil rights and the decomposition of flesh and some crap like that. I realize what this is. A God-damned DEMONSTRATION. Here, of all places, and DURING MY THESIS.

Even now I can still see him, burned into my mind like he was seven years ago. Short, shorter than most. Thinning brown hair. Stubble. Wire-rimmed glasses. Southern accent. Southern accent? Ha! A damned DRAWL is what it is.

Calaveras, he says his name is. Calaveras.

And in the dream, just like on the stage seven years ago, I can't hold it in anymore. I take a running jump at him, make contact with his lower chest, and we both go flying off into the aisle. I'm punching the everloving crap out of this guy, showing him what's what, and I know if I had The Bat with me then Calaveras wouldn't be the thorn in my side he is today.

But this was a dream so of course Calaveras basically folded in my hands like wet construction paper. Then I got hungry and went looking for a sandwich, but a bridge was in the way so I jumped over it. Don't remember any more.

Yeah, it got stupid there at the end but for a good while it was pretty vivid. I wish I could remember what sort of discovery I'd made in my dream, maybe it was something that would get Calaveras off my case once and for all.

"Skeletons"

Okay, I've got to address this issue.  The Calc-Sympathizers are claiming that Calcs are really just human remains, or "skeletons," that have been re-animated by greater forces.  While on one hand, this makes some degree of sense and explains why they look so much like us.  On the other, it in no way explains why the Calcs are such magnificent assholes.

Sure, I've known assholes.  I've been one from time to time.  And I'm pretty sure that son of a bitch Calaveras is a Secret Calc.  But constantly hoarding gold for no good reason?  Hanging around in dungeons where nobody in their right mind would go?  Those just aren't the kind of things dead humans would do.  And people wear CLOTHES, not just furred boots.

No, the Calcs are a totally different race.  They do their own, terrible, thing and they answer to the call of the Bone Bitch (I've never understood that name, but that's what the other Adventurers call it.  [I understand the "Bitch" part]).

I don't know, these guys just don't understand the clanky sons of bitches like I do.

The Bone-Headed Media, Part 1

So I realized I've come pretty close to slipping away from this blog AGAIN. I decided the best way to keep my interest up until I get into the habit of writing so often is to discuss issues I have strong feelings about (That is, things that piss me off). One of these things is the Calcs and their portrayal by what we that live the Life like to call the "bone-headed" media. I have a whole notebook of this stuff, more than would make an entry, and my pals have got some of their own gripes that I'll write about if I ever feel low on creative juice. For now I'm going to focus on one thing per entry, so consider this part one of whatever.

I've talked about Hollywood and Calcs before, but only in passing. The most obvious and flagrant Calc-sympathizing, however, comes from a rather unfortunately and incomprehensibly POPULAR director, Tim Burton. Rather than spell everything out a second time, here's a copy of a letter I sent to him last week:

Tim Burton
c/o Mike Simpson, William Morris Agency
One William Morris Plaza
Beverly Hills, CA 90212

May 13, 2008

Dear Mr. Burton:

My name is Jonesy Sawbones. It has come to my attention as a lawful citizen of this country with the interests of future generations in mind that your films promote the most VILE possible variety of subversive behavior in today’s youth. I refer, of course, to your obvious sympathetic stance on the matter of Calcoids or, as I’m sure you prefer to refer to them, “Skele-Americans” or “the flesh impaired.”

I call them Calcs, Mr. Burton, because I like to call things what they ACTUALLY ARE. I am a professional, licensed Adventurer with an emphasis on Calcoid Studies (BA from Notre Dame, class of ’00). I know my area, Mr. Burton, and I know it damn well. I know that your portrayal of no-meats is erroneous and dangerous. I will admit that your films display a capacity of imagination that is admirable, but the ends to which you turn your imagination must have value as well. Children in particular are taken with your pictures, seeing as how you have a gift for fantastic worlds that would appeal to them. But you poison their minds, Mr. Burton, by telling an entire generation of children that boneys are not dangerous. They grow up thinking that Calcs are “cool” or “rad.” They buy clothes patterned with Calcoid faces from Hot Topic -- merchandise based EXPLICITLY on your films.

I know the truth. I know that a no-meat would just as soon congratulate them for wearing a “Corpse Bride” t-shirt than it would slaughter their family and ransack their gold reserves.

Your film The Nightmare Before Christmas is a pretty outrageous piece of calc propaganda. The HERO (if I can even call it that) is himself a hideous stickpile of a no-meat with designs to conquer the cherished holiday of Christmas. I will point out that this has never been attempted by any Calc in history, and probably wouldn’t be unless it is revealed that Santa Claus had a considerable cache of gold-pieces or, perhaps, a unique flail. I also take issue with your portrayal of a singing Calc. While not unheard of, this is fantastically rare (the last documented case of a so-called “musicalc” was the discovery of one in a Thule Society bunker by Allied Forces in Germany in 1946). Your films are merely a perpetuation of a particular stereotype of Calcs, one that portrays them as nonthreatening and entertaining. But what will you do, Mr. Burton, when the ascendant generation finds itself so integrated with boney “culture” that they do not even put up a fight when the rattling masses click and clack their way into our cities, absconding with our gold, women, and rare items?

When that happens, Mr. Burton, you’ll need people like me to set things straight.

Sincerely,

Jonesy Sawbones

Adventurer

I'll let him mull that over for a while, let him reflect a little. If I get a response I'll let you guys know.

News and a Hangover

So last night, after the crap haul, Matthews and me went out for some drinks to wind down. He tells me about this Anti-Calc Coalition that's been talking to Calc hunters in some sponsorship thing. What I want to know is when these people are gonna talk to me about it.

EVERYONE knows when you want some boneys cleared out and done right you call up ol' Jonesy. I suppose they're too busy issuing cease and desist edicts to Hollywood fatcats who like making picture shows that tell goddamn lies about the clinky fuckers. Well, fellas, when you get SERIOUS about getting rid of those Calcs, you just ring me up.

Till then, I've got to check my couch for change to try and get enough cash to buy some hair of the dog and a liter of juice for my dirtbike. Then I'm off to clean out some crappy hole in the ground.

Literally.

I got the mayor over in New Springburg calling me up every half hour complaining about all the rattling sounds coming out of his drain. I swear, I miss the days when these dicks were taking over towns in the Midwest, at least you didn't have to get waist deep in human sewage to crack some skulls.

But, well, my landlord has been yelling at me this week that he's not gonna take 20 dull, rusty knives for rent this month, so I gotta pony up some cash or I'll be living in my van for a while again.

Keep it fleshy.

Calc Hunting

I can't even begin to describe my day today, but I'll start nonetheless. The mansion, of course, was the perfect breeding ground for Calcs. I say "breeding ground" but we don't really know where they breed, or even IF (hoping on not), so let's just say that I see these assholes in places like this all the time. Clumsy and slow, (like always) and they seemed to be standing still staring at a wall when we entered the room, (again, as always). These guys were of the "fur boots and horned helmet" types, carrying what looked to be about-a-billion-year-old maces. It's like they're making fun of us when they try to wear human things; doubtless these artifacts were taken from the last poor souls these bloodless Calcs encountered.

Matthews prides himself on his proficiency with the rifle but the repeated ricochets off of the helmets just knocked these guys off balance. This gave them something to look at and soon enough, it was time to earn our money. We've found that simple blunt force works best against these guys, so most of us carried a favorite item from the tool shed; others, the sports department. I myself work with a treasured wooden baseball bat. Matthews claims that there is a certain spot on Calcs that, when hit with a bullet, will bring them down in one shot. We have yet to see that actually happen.

Afterwards, we hauled the maces and helmets back to the store, and I mean HAULED. Lord knows how those things could even move their heads anywhere except straight down, staring at their stupid boots. We left the boots. Tony is a good man and he generally gives us a good deal, but for some reason we never have been able to make a profit off of Calc loot. Ever. He actually laughed when he saw the helmets as we grunted them in. Appraising them, he hefted the mace to clang against the helmet, either because he could or because he wanted to prove a point.

"A buck a piece."

I was shocked. They were rusty, sure. They were heavy, DAMN sure. But they were also OLD. That had to be worth something. Tony countered with the argument that, on top of the extremely poor quality of the merchandise, nobody wanted to buy "Calc shit." So it was either argue all day or just take the ten bucks.

One day, a Calc is going to drop something that's actually worth something. And I'll be there.

The Golem Fight

A golem. I think I'm spelling that right. I'm not really trained to take on these things, having majored in Calc Studies, so I'm not even really sure what the hell they are. All I know is that it was like 3 storeys tall, built like the Michelin Man but made out of rock, and pissed off.

It was walking down the strip, well, THROUGH the strip, destroying everything it touched. I had only one plan and it wasn't a great one, as Matthews repeatedly let me know. The Bat was useless, of course, so it stayed behind. But I still had my dirtbike and several sticks of dynamite that I'd hauled up from some Calc-ridden crypt. And Matthews had the set-up for the ramp in my van. It was a perfect idea, but it also had to be executed perfectly.

And the plan was to ramp off with the lit dynamite strapped to the bike and hit the golem right in the throat, while I backflipped off the bike to safety. I've been practicing the backflip for a while now (ok, ATTEMPTING the backflip, it's hard to do) so I thought I was ready. I didn't know the timing on the fuses so I just eyeballed it.

Before I jumped, I gave my wallet to Matthews; I'm not sure why. There's not a lot in there but maybe it'd make it easier to identify me afterwards. We set up the ramp ahead of the thing's trail of destruction, so I just had to wait until I got a clear shot. And soon enough, that stony bastard's head was right in my sights. I only lit one stick of dynamite, thinking that the rest would go easy enough. I counted to 5 and then revved the engine.

I was airborne before I knew it and aimed right on the neck. It was perfect. But as I tried to dismount, my pant leg got caught up on the kickstand, so I was fighting that in free fall. I managed to get free but now I was just flying straight at the rock monster's crotch. I curled up into a little ball but still hit it pretty hard. And the bike was right behind me as I fell to the ground. I'd aimed it up dead on, apparently, but mis-timed the fuses. They were still lit and ready to blow as the bike landed right next to me.

I'm not sure exactly what happened next but I woke up in the sewer. I guess I rolled into a grate. Afterwards, I learned that the blast took out the bastard's legs and he fell over, so part of my plan worked. But then it just kept on crawling through the city until some other Adventurers finished it off with backhoes and bulldozers. Should've thought of that.

Live and learn. Earned enough from the city to finish paying off that old bike and start paying off a new one.

The Bone Beast

I finally met the Bone Beast today. I'd heard about it from other Adventurers but I never really gave it a thought. The thing is enormous, about the size of a semi truck. It's just a mass of Calcoid parts, all jumbled together. When it needs legs, it forms legs; when it needs arms, it makes arms. It's hard to just watch the thing without going crazy.

Then I heard the music, if you can call it that. My ears have been numb to normal sound since my days as bass player for "Ample Supply of Rusted and Disappointing Loot." (We rocked but there wasn't really a market for a band that sang about being disappointed back then. Maybe we could start it up now). Matthews described it as "atonal, flute-like, unearthly music," before he ran off. All I know is what I saw terrified me.

People who were listening to the "song" were doing just like the other guys said, immediately turning into Calcs. The goddamned clanky sons of bitches were just leaping out of the skin of the these people. And they just started dancing to the "song," like they didn't have a care in the world. It creeped the hell out of me.

I, well, I ran too. Too many Clankers.