Very good. Yog-Sothoth, key of the gate, knower of the gate. My froth, my primal slime. Yog-Soth-oth: the tip of the key taking a trip of three to tap at the gate. Past. Present. Future. It was Yog, in the past, frothing in the slime. It was Sothoth in the future, one globe in the past. But at the Gate it was always Yog-Sothoth. Or something like that, lol.

I think you've just invented your own subgenre, man! My sin, my soul, my Yog-Sothoth... had I not worshiped, one ageless eon, a certain Outer God...

I think H.P. might smite us, lol. On the other hand, he would have probably loved blogging.

Or Nabokov, for that matter... ...aaaand, that just made me imagine a meta-mashup where Nabokov's famous passion for collecting and cataloging butterflies gets crossed with something from Reanimator, and the result is half Xerces Blue, half squid monster. Sort of a lepidopterous version of Wilbur Whately.

Good thing I wasn't drinking anything just now--that would have caused definitely caused monitor speckling. Now, a butterfly Wilber Whately--that's a vision indeed.

You're welcome!

Now I'm having too much fun. For your further elucidation (with respect to the Kinks): I met it in a cave down in old Dunwhich Where you drink absinthe It tastes quite eldritch, E-L-D-R-I-T-C-H, eldritch It walked up to me and it asked me to dance I asked it its name and in a dark chthonic voice It said Cthulhu,C-T-H-U-L-H-U, Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Well, I'm not the world's most psychical guy But when it squeezed me tight it nearly broke my mind Oh my Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Well, I'm not squamous but I can't understand Why it walked like a cephalopod but talked like a man Oh my Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Well, we drank absinthe and danced all night Under flickering torchlight It picked me up and sat me on its bothria And said, "Dear boy, won't you visit my plane?" Well, I'm not the world's most passionate guy But when I looked in its eyes well I almost fell for my Cthulhu C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu I pushed it away, I walked to the gate I fell to the floor, I got down on my knees Then I looked at it and it at me That is not dead which can eternal lie I always want it to be that way for my Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Gods will be boys and boys will be gods And with strange aeons even death may die Except for Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Well, I left home just an aeon before And I'd never ever met an old one before But Cthulhu rose and took me by the hand And said, "Dear boy, I'm gonna make you mad" Well, I'm not the world's most ethnologic man But I know what I am and I'm glad I'm a man And so is Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu, C-C-Cthulhu

Holy crap, dude. That is... amazing. I'm speechless. And more than a little blown away. This is without a doubt the first time I've ever heard of anybody doing a Kinks/Lovecraft mashup. It's madness, I tell you.

Thanks! It just sort of snapped into my mind Lolita-->Lola + Cthulita = a good time for all or mountains of madness, as it were.

Hello madness, my dread friend I've come to talk with you again Because a vision darkly creeping Infected me while I was sleeping And the eldritch vision that was forced into my brain Still remains Along the streets of Arkham In fever'd dreams I walked alone Narrow wet streets of cobblestone 'Neath the poor shelter of a broken street lamp I turn my collar to the cold and damp When my eyes were stabbed by a flash of meteoric light That split the night And revealed the streets of Arkham. And in that naked light I saw Ten thousand people maybe more People talking without speaking People hearing without listening People of ghastly mien, and visages deformed A horde malformed That filled the streets of Arkham. "Fools!" cried I, "you do not know! The Old Ones like a cancer grow! Do not follow any longer the path that will lead you back to Shub-Niggurath!" But the creatures were locked into a shambling step To Nyarlathotep Down the dark streets of Arkham. And those people bowed and prayed To noisome idols half decayed The last vestiges of their humanity Lending to the scene profanity. And in their cold voices cried: “That is not dead which it can eternal lie, And even death may die. And reborn on the streets of Arkham."

Sheer brilliance! I love it. I think S&G should apologize for not having made this the original version of that song. And I say that even though "Sounds of Silence" might be my favorite S&G song. But it really could have used more references to Shub-Niggurath. Man, where do all you talented people come up with this stuff?

That was great Scott. Of course, now that we've discovered that Nabokov, the Kinks and Simon and Garfunkel are all secret worshipers of the old ones we'll have to watch out for dark visitors in the night. Well, at least watch more. More references to Shub-Niggurath improves just about anything.

Glad y'all liked it. After the inspiration of Lolita-cum-Cthulu-cum-Lola, it all just poured out. In an irrestrainable dark fetid stream. Accompanied by half-heard chanting in a maddeningly almost-remembered arcane near-bestial tongue. What is a bit disturbing is how few changes were required to return the coffeehouse-folkrock ballad version to this, the original text - as found in obscure script upon a stele retrieved from the greatest depths of a now damned-and-disnamed mine in the New England area, a mine which shortly thereafter flooded and killed thirteen miners, the script translated at great effort by a triumvirate of learned fellows at Miskatonic University, which translation when seen in its dire fullness instantly drove two of those unfortunate academics to suicide and left the sole survivor a lunatic, raving from his restraints about The Dark Light That Seeks To Penetrate The Crack Between The Worlds. And now I have to wonder: does Ray Davies have webbed toes? Or Paul Simon? (I think it fairly likely that Art Garfunkel does -- I always figured that big curly wig was hiding hideous excrescences.) Cycling the Mythos, -=Scott=-

Steve -- I have a transvestite customer whom I have (mentally) nicknamed Lola. I will never look at him/her the same. I think you are right -- it would have been duck-to-water time, with ol' H.P. and blogging. I seem to recall from a biography on him that in his youth he was but an indifferent letter-writer, but then discovered "amateur publishing" and became an avid, perhaps compulsive, correspondent. I also seem to recall that he thought his early works unworthy, and it was one of his pen-pals who was responsible for his first sale(s), by submitting works for him. Hmmm -- I feel a collection coming on: "Songs in the Key of Cthulu."

Scott, "Songs in the Key of Cthulu." That sounds wonderful.

Songs in the Key of Cthulu You heard it here first, folks...

Okay, you are all waaaaay to clever. I feel totally inadequate. But you brightened my afternoon immeasurably. You also made me really want to play Call of Cthulu again.

Melinda, Blush, but really it's all covered in the Miskatonic U course catalog: Music Theory--The Necromousikcon.

Way up in Massachusetts where the coast is cold There live the decadent remnants of a race that's old Mutant bastard children of The Dwellers In The Deep Awaiting the new dominion of The Ones Who Sleep - Those mighty alien masters ancient dread and fell Who would bring back the Darkness that predated our Hell. Oh, no! Dwellers Below! Oh no! The Shadow shall flow! Oh no - The Dwellers Below. Where New England people gather and they've stories to tell They'll agree those folks in Innsmouth have a fishy smell It seems those naughty Deep Ones like to give it a whirl At putting eldritch semen into human girls The resulting 'bominations, they aren't very nice - Pointed Head! Scabrous Skin! Bulgy Eyes! Oh, no! You nasty Deep Ones, oh no! Oh no - don't you go there, below! Oh no - you Deep Ones, oh no. They pray to Mother Hydra like She is their queen (how she gives them birth unholy is a thing obscene) They honor Father Dagon as Her consort and king Performing ancient rituals as His praises they sing. But it's to CTHULU that they offer human sacrifice - To Feed! His Dark! Appetites! Oh no! CTHULU, oh no! Oh no - to CTHULU, don't you go! Oh, no - CTHULU Oh No!

*blinks* This is fantastic, Scott. Inspired. You guys are amazing. (And you know, I always felt the Chuck Barry version just didn't sound quite right.)

Another great one, Scott. We'll have an album soon.

(Thanks to the Moody Blues) Nights in old Arkham, never dreaming alone, Letters I've chiseled, deep in the stone. Things on the doorstep, are not what they seem. Witch cursed and haunted, the face in the dream. Because I'll find you, yes I'll find you, oh how I'll find you. Gazing at altars, some now just sand, Whispers at midnight, Azathoth is at hand. Some try to tell me, thoughts that must bend, Just what you want to be, you will be in the end. And I'll find you, yes I'll find you, Oh how I'll find you, oh how I'll find you. Nights in old Arkham, never dreaming alone, Letters I've chiseled, deep in the stone. Things on the doorstep, are not what they seem. Witch cursed and haunted, the face in the dream. Because I'll find you, yes I'll find you, Oh how I'll find you, oh how I'll find you, Because I'll find you, yes I'll find you, Oh how I'll find you, oh how I'll find you, Breathe deep, the gathering doom Watch stars fade, turning to gloom Elderly hermits, by the blasted heath Tell tales of what lies beneath. Impassioned Shoggoths, merging as one There in the darkness, never knowing the sun The Deep Ones have sung Where they were young. Cold intellects, rule the night The colours of darkness, stamp out our sight Too frozen to feel, Nyarlathotep decides, which is quite real And which is a dream.

Steve, you have no idea how much I listened to the Moody Blues in college. Which means I love, love, LOVE this. I like it more than the original, quite honestly! Geez you guys are creative. Clearly I need to up my game.

I hadn't revisited H.P. for awhile--I'd forgotten how many details there are in all those works. Of course, now, I'm hearing odd echo's in many songs. As Scott mentioned, it is somewhat disturbing how eagerly these things flow into the verse structures. I mean like: Oh! Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? Nyarlathotep! Nyarlathotep! Absorbent and yellow and porous is he! Nyarlathotep! Nyarlathotep! Hmm, coincidence? Or plan to take over the world?

Okay, Steve -- This one seriously endangers the original. That so beautifully reflects the mysterious, pretentious tone of the piece that I think it will supplant the original lyrics for me, ever after. *Definitely* some album material, here.

Now I'm truly frightened. Then again, SpongeBob does live in a "pineapple" under the sea. Where, no doubt, he is dreaming, dreaming...

(And the pineapple, as we all know, is the most non-Euclidean of tropical fruits.)

Agreed, agreed, agreed. That's the genius of this Moody Blues mashup! From now on, forever, I'll always imagine that voiceover/narrator in certain Moody Blues songs as the doomed madman narrator of a Mythos story. Or maybe H.P. himself. The scary thing is just how well it works. Oh, man, I'm going to have to give all their classic albums a listen now. (Do I dare?)

Just don't play those old albums backwards. "When concerned friends finally managed to force the door of his study, they were rewarded with a sudden amplification of the music they had been able to half-hear through the door. The music - strange, atonal, somehow alien and *wrong* - set their wits on edge, and only their concern for Ian stiffened their resolve enough to continue. They found a player which had been cleverly arranged to play the antique disc in reverse. But of the reclusive scientist no trace remained. No trace, in that room with stout door locked from within and the windows long barred. No trace, save one: an arcane symbol, scrawled upon his oaken desk. Inked in what they knew could only be his own blood."

We were traveling along the Eastern seaboard and visited Mystery Hill, "America's Stonehenge", in North Salem, New Hampshire. The site is the most prominent and extensive of the hundreds of megalithic sites along the coast; it has been altered over the years (quarried) but still has some impressive stone chambers and represents a genuine mystery as to who built it and what it was used for. A house was built at the site in the 19th century and some of the vaults were used as basements, but the chambers far predate that structure. While going through the museum/gift shop, Patricia spotted a familiar name: "Lovecraft." It was on a pamphlet written by a local historian; the pamphlet made a good case that H.P. based a lot of Dunwich on the Mystery Hill site. Many of the local landmarks and names are used in the story, and Lovecraft is known to have spent time in the area. So we are taking the self-guided tour through the site, examining the stone chambers and the "sacrificial altar" and reading from the pamphlet as we go. And we came to the part of the site where the house had once stood. Near the spot are several "wells", shafts with no sure purpose as they were appropriate for drawing water. I'm reading from the pamphlet, about how Lovecraft had visited this place, the house on the remote site with the basements of ancient age, adjacent to wellshafts leading even deeper. And Patricia, her face aglow, places her hands upon the stone lipping the well and says, "This is where Cthulu emerged!"

Heck, I still haven't listened to my audiobook of the Necromonicon! It's read by Bill Nighy, so at least I'll be entertained while I go mad.

THE GUN BARKED TWICE, cuffing my already-sore ears like quick slaps from a contemptuous boxer. My face winced but my hand stayed steady. Too steady. I cursed. It looked like I'd put a slug into each ventricle of his heart, a nice grouping but now there was no chance of continuing our conversation. The conversation that I had punctuated with a double tap, so it might seem that I had only myself to blame. But when the other party in the dialogue sees fit to respond by leaping at you with a knife, it's better to have a quick reflex than a thoughtful and dead detective. Still, there were several questions I wished he were alive enough to answer. There was something fishy about the whole setup, and it wasn't just the smell from the character on the floor. Which got stronger as I knelt to examine the body. I don't know what herbal supplements he was taking to make him outgas like that, but it couldn't have made him popular in movie theaters. I rolled him over. His clothes were nothing special, jeans and a cotton shirt of a vaguely nautical cut. The shoes though had to have been custom jobs - his feet were amazingly wide and broad. With his legs flopped on the floor, his feet almost looked like those flippers that skin divers use. I pulled the cloth cap off of his head and wished I hadn't. What an unlovely visage! I had only seen him in the shadows of the room, but now were revealed a distinctly pointed head, patchy hair, and eyes that bulged even before two 124-grain HydraShok slugs went into him. Maybe the herbs were an attempt to treat his unfortunate dermal condition. I've seen prettier skin on a toad. There was nothing in his pockets, not even change. But around his neck was a thong, and on the thong was a figure, the sort of figure that I think the incense-parlor sheilas would call an amulet. And the sight of that made me grunt and sit back on my heels. I dug in my pocket and hauled out the item that had brought me to this dingy corner of town. I sometimes come into possession of things, things that other people want or want back and are willing and sometimes even happy to part with a bit of cash to get. And I now dangled from my hand the thing that had brought me into contact with PinHead FishStink here. It was exactly the same as the one around his neck: a finger-long carving in a greenish-black stone, of some sort of animal or fish or fell entity. It was hard to tell exactly what the form of it was -- the eye kept sliding off it, or maybe it actually changed as you looked at it... I shook my head. No time for reverie, even in this part of town those two punctuation marks might have been noted and I wasn't in the mood for another conversation, this time with the cops. Rather than touch him any more -- that skin condition looked like it might be contagious, even after death -- I flipped out my trusty Spyderco and cut the thong around his neck. I was equally reluctant to touch his moist chest and the second amulet, so my handkerchief came into play. Both amulets went into a pocket. Nothing more I could learn from the body. Which left only the knife. The knife that he had pulled out and leaped at me with every seeming intention of driving into my heart which had resulted in my perforating his. I know something about knives and I had never seen quite one like this. It had a slightly-curved blade like a kindjal, but it had three fullers like an older kukri. The handle was something else again -- ornately carved in a twisty pattern that could contain many shapes. And from a material, I realized with the first chill of the day, that looked like the same stuff the amulets were made from. It didn't look like it would be comfortable in my hand. With a second chill, it occurred to me that it hadn't been made for a hand like mine. I gathered it up in another handkerchief (experience has shown that it helps to have a spare) and it went into another pocket. Time to leave. With the knife, the amulets, no money, and some questions. Questions like: who was FishBoy, what culture was the knife from, what were the amulets all about, and why was he so willing to skewer me to get mine when he had one already? But most of all -- and this was the sort of remarkable question that has gotten me into so many tight places: Why did he call me a Dago before he tried to kill me?

Thanks guys.

Under the sea, indeed. And Patrick is held in dreaming slumber beneath a stone as Squidbert plays slow romantiques. I'm thinking the SpongeBob doll was the wrong gift to our niece...

That sounds like an interesting place.