The Splendid Quill
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  • January8th

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    I’d like to share a story with you. By no means could this story be construed as good, but be that as it may, I feel compelled to share it none the less.

    Some background. Or rather, some context. The year is 2001. In this year I found myself experiencing a resurgence in the punk culture brewing in Albany, I had a red pleather jacket full of cliche buttons that I was perhaps too fond of and way to many friends in the Hartford area. Connecticut…New York…it’s not like Massachusetts was in the way or anything.

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  • November26th

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    That’s what Howard said. It’s from a note sent to him several years ago. I shant go into the detail since it’s irrelevant to the discussion at hand, but it has a lot of meaning. In any case, it seems to well illustrate how this Thanksgiving has shaped up. And while we’re on the subject I have a few things to share with everyone.

    For the vast masses that represent my readership, I want to thank you here in the golden light of a Carolina evening on this Thanksgiving. I don’t think I could do it without you. All three of you. That includes my wife and my mom. And half the time I think Nancy just tells me she’s keeping up with it. How sad is that? It’s almost British it’s so sad.

    However, what has been distinctly unBritish is-this Thanksgiving. We’ve intrepidly traveled to North Carolina where I promptly learned I’d been volunteered to cook the turkey. In a broken oven. But, I cleverly hired a few tarheels to rub sticks together long enough to get the bird done. And she’s a beauty at that. There was also a charming beauty to the way the electric coil of the oven exploded half way through the cook cycle. It caught fire and slowly burned an electric fire from the front to the back of the burner. Ever calm, I opened a beer and assured all the guests that a) the house would not burn down and b) the turkey would still be bitchin’.

    It occurs to me that my streak of being right has remained unbroken, other than that sorry scene in 1989 regarding the Berlin wall. But we’re not here to talk about that. What I actually came here to talk about is this ad I stumbled across. It’s from New Zealand. Even better, it’s a PSA. That’s stop motion. And about the wild west. Of New Zealand. Did I mention that yet? Anyway, turn up the volume, enjoy the accent and the truly amazing animation. One day I’ll do something like this at work.

    Maybe Monday.

  • February4th

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    mii_wantedposter.jpg


    They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I’ll give you a few for context, though.

    1) Japan
    2) Wanted Poster
    3) Mii Composite Sketch
    4) Awesome

  • July28th

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    I sort of don’t know what to say about this. I was poking through CNN.com during lunch, as I often do, when I stumbled on an article about Mr. Rogers. Having grown up with him in my house and affectionately calling the show, “Rogerhood” I decided to read it.

    What I like about CNN is that they’ll throw in relevant links within the article. In this case, there was one that led me to a video post that gave me the heebie jeebies. For real.

    First of all, the fact that some sick dude made this thing just boggles my mind. FOR KIDS. Stop motion is supposed to be this magical art designed to bring the mystic to life! And yet, here this clip stands, a testament to the wackness of humanity. I could only have wished to have been a fly on the wall when someone sold this concept…

    See, it works like this. We take Mark Twain, because the kids love him. And we do a redux on the Mysterious Stranger! It will be a fabulous night in front of the TV with the whole family. They’ll all gather ’round by the glow of diode ray tubes and watch as Huck and his friends journey to Hell and have grand time with Satan! Won’t that be a laugh! So what do you think, will you green-light this project?

    I mean….holy cow, right?

  • July1st

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    harryhausenheader.jpgIn the first grade, I remember thinking how big the second graders were. I looked up to them, we all did. I wanted to be one of them. I desperately wanted to wear Karl Kukta’s Mighty Mouse jean jacket, win at dodge ball and get Ashley Dillehay to talk to me.

    But I couldn’t. I was only a little first grader.

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