Bleg: Anybody out there read "Gun World?"

I'd like to get in touch with Jan Libourel, and there's not much on the internets. I'll look for a Gun World on the newsstand later today when I'm out, but if anyone has a copy, can you post the contact info for Libourel, or at least the front office?

I'd like to ask Mr. Libourel a question or two about Josh Sugarmann (I'm going to contact Josh, too, but I don't think he'll talk to me.)

Something You Don't Do Every Day

I chatted with my neighbor over my fence this evening, which is just not something that happens very often. They're nice enough people, and we're introverted and gruff but lovable, and yet we just don't do a lot of what used to be the stereotype of the American homeowner.

We discussed my progress on the porch and landscaping around the shop (natch) and Donovan explained his book to her, then told her about getting a letter from one of Queen Elizabeth's Ladies-In-Waiting. She recommended Children of Men, I recommended Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians. (That's right, kids, it's spelled with a "u" and it's not a verb in present tense; you can't "verse" someone unless, possibly, you are spitting mad rhymes in his general direction.)

Monster Hunters!

The Facebook group for fans of Monster Hunter International is loosely themed around regional groups of Monster Hunters, some with their own unique patches. Here's what I'm thinking . . . . what are the monsters you'd be hunting if you were a regional Monster Hunter? So, sure, I'd probably have to kill vampires and werewolves, but being in southern central Illinois, I'd probably encounter things you wouldn't see in Texas or Utah or Transylvania:

• Piasa Birds. These American dragon/gryffins were said by the Illini tribes to be giant birds with four legs, huge talons, scales like a serpent, huge fangs, red eyes, and antlers like a whitetail deer. "Piasa" means "bird that devours men." That's the kind of name that avoids comical Scooby-Doo style misunderstandings: "There's a Bird-That-Devours-Men behind you!" We know what the Illini thought they looked like because the tribe thoughtfully painted a life-size Piasa bird on the cliffs overlooking the Mississippi just north of St. Louis, near Alton. Today they're just an old myth preserved as a few big signs and a local high school sports mascot . . . but my grandmother claims to have seen one to this day.
• Mud Monsters. The Murphysboro Mud Monster was first reported in 1973; it was a strange, Sasquatch-like monster thought to roam the forests and swamps of southern Illinois. It was supposed to be about seven feet tall with white fur all over its body, and left tracks about a foot long and three inches wide. It was known for its blood-curdling screams, which could send anyone running fear in the woods at night. The only actual attack attributed to the Mud Monster was later blamed on dogs, so my guess is that these creatures are actually fairly peaceful. I'm picturing small Mud Monster camps throughout the Shawnee Forest and in the swamps along the Mississippi. I bet the reason they seemed to appear suddenly and then disappear again after two weeks in 1973 is simple: that was one Mud Monster, a rebellious young hippy one who insisted on seeing the world and making friends with humans. After two weeks of trying, he moved on to Los Angeles, got a bit part on one episode of Star Trek, and became a producer. Nobody has ever really questioned him since.
  
• Zombie Mary Todd Lincoln. 'Nuff said.
  

Something New

Well, I haven't found a "real" job yet, but today I got an offer to do some writing on an ongoing basis. I expect to make more of an announcement next week.

Voter Registration Drive Goes Horribly Wrong In Chicago

Chicago-area Democrats continue to be shocked at the Burr Oak Cemetery scandal; some are going so far as to call it the worst voter-registration effort in Chicago history.

"I don't know what these guys were thinking," one unnamed "supervisor" in the Chicago Department of Streets and Sanitation observed as his crew took a break from shoveling steaming-hot asphalt into the driver's brother-in-law's liquor-store parking lot. "I heard they cleared about 300 grand, and that's fine and all, but you actually move the corpses and even the newspapers get wind of it. The point is a simple list of names that pass a quick check, not turning a buck with mass graves, but you can't teach these kids these days anything."

In other news, Mary Mitchell says one of the coffins belonged to Emmett Till, who, it must be observed, has frankly had to put up with a surprising amount of hatred and disrespect from the world. When he was alive, white racists beat him to death for . . . . well, shits and giggles, I suppose, though they gave the excuse that he had been making eyes at a white woman. 50-some years later, the poor kid's body is being dug up and dumped in a shed for possums to live on so some thugs can make a little extra on the side.

Michael Jackson Still Dead, Says Michael Jackson

Tamara is going to love this.

I don't know why I didn't predict it, except that I haven't been paying attention lately as I look for a job, but the creepy, fake TV psychics are coming out of the woodwork to let everyone know what Michael Jackson is thinking now that he's dead. Apparently he misses his kids and thinks Sylvia Browne's desk is too close to the credenza . . . with more stunning revelations to come on Oprah. Of course.

Overheard at Bedtime II: The Re-Overhearing

The family is gathered in the living room just before bedtime for the three sons. Son I and Son II, twins separated by mere minutes in age, are 13 years old and beginning to realize that the adults don't actually know anything worth knowing. Son III is two years old and beginning to realize that there are endless ways to stay awake an extra 15 minutes.

Mama: "Bedtime for Sean!"
Son III: "No."
Son II: "You hear that, Sean? It's your bedtime!"
Son III: "No."
Mama: "What?!"
Son III: "No."
Son I: "He said it's Sean's bedtime. Like it's time for Sean to go to bed."
Son III: "No."
Mama: (Wearily) "OK, fine, great, now go to bed. I was sure you said 'Sean's bath time' and he was going to thi--"
Son III: (Sprinting to bathroom) "My bafftiiiiiiiiiie!"
Papa: "You just said 'bathtime,' honey."

Son III: (Stripping off shirt) "My bafftiiiiiiiiiie!"
Mama: (Teeth audibly cracking like ice under pressure) "Yes, thank you, I know that.
Papa: "So now he thinks he can put off bedtime if he g--"
Mama: "YES."
Mama: "THANK YOU."
Mama: "I KNOW."

Son III: (Head peeking into living room) "Bafftie?"