Hi folks, Ryan the Werewolf here. Looks like it's going to be a pretty relaxed meeting this week. A couple of our regulars are off on vacation or something, and I don't know about the rest of you but I am definitely in that chill-down stretch leading to the dark of the moon on the 31st, so unless somebody here is having some real issues...? Anybody? Rough week?
Okay, good, then I move we adjourn the official meeting right now and cut right to the social hour. Do I have a second? Okay, all those in favor, say aye. Opposed? The ayes have it.
Well. So here we are, the dog days of summer. I like the sound of that. "Dog days." Dunno about the rest of you, but I really love this time of year. I can spend all day laying on the deck napping in the sun, and none of my neighbors bats an eye. I can even fill up the kids' pool with water and lay in it all afternoon, and nobody complains. And talk about meat! This is the one time of year when I can eat nothing but nearly raw red meat, every day of the week, and nobody looks at me like it's weird. Of course, I do have to fire up the grille and make a little pretense of scorching the steaks on both sides, first, but that's a small price to pay.
You know what's the one thing I don't like about this time of year? Sleeping. When it gets hot like this I have the hardest time in the world sleeping in a bed at night. So my solution is I move down to the couch in the family room in the basement, and give the old Tivo and my Netflix account a real workout.
And that's the question I'd like to hear you all answer tonight. What's your favorite were-thing movie? I mean, there's Lon, of course. You just can't question any movie with Lon. But what's next on your list? An American Werewolf in London? The Cat People? I don't know about you, but that Nastasja Kinski — like, rowr! She's enough to make me think about going feline.
But there's one I think is really great, that maybe most of you are missing, and that's Wolf, with Jack Nicholson and Michelle Pfeiffer. I just watched it the other night, and it is so cool. All the stuff in it about the publishing business is pure bull, of course, but when Jack transforms, he is just — man, he turns into Hugh Jackman! And not faggy tap-dancing Hugh Jackman, but X-Men Hugh Jackman! God, I wish I looked that good when I transform.
Anyway, that's my pick. What've you got?
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Were-Care
The idea had come to Karen as she was completing her degree in early childhood education. There had been classes on dealing with all sorts of children with special needs. Academically gifted children, academically challenged children, physically challenged children, children with ADD and ADHD, the list went on and on. But there was no listing for children with Acquired Lycanthropic Polymorphism Syndrome.
The twins, Karen’s younger brother and sister, had been bitten by a were-fox before they even learned how to walk. Both their parents held down full time jobs, so much of the twins’ care fell to Karen. Karen’s parents felt guilty dropping such a big responsibility on an 11 year old girl, but Karen loved it. She taught them to walk, to talk, potty trained them and taught them not to devour people or pets during their full transformations.
Caring for the twins sparked Karen’s interest in early child care and early childhood education. She had the idea while still a freshman in college. She spend all her spare time refining and researching and, by graduation, had a complete business plan for Were-Care, the world’s first child care facility entirely dedicated to children with ALPS.
Karen picked San Francisco to open Were-Care. She picked that city because it was well known for tolerance to any and all people who might traditionally be viewed as abnormal. Unfortunately, that tolerance did not extend to children with ALPS. Parents, who would have been appalled if their child refused to play with a third world child adopted by two flamboyant lesbians with AIDS, actively avoided any child with the “taint” of ALPS.
Her years of research had given Karen several possible locations in the city for her center plus the names of influential contacts in the San Francisco were community. She had even found others like her; older brothers and sisters who had helped raise ALPS children, to work in the center. Discreet mailings to parents of young ALPS children led to interviews with parents. When the parents saw Karen’s preparations, applications for children to attend Were-Care poured in. The school was filled in less than a week and even had a waiting list.
From the beginning, things went smoothly. The child care center was unobtrusive, simply having a small sign reading “Child Care and Preschool” out front. People unassociated with the school assumed it was simply another preschool catering to the wealthy and paid it no further attention.
Everything went smoothly for six wonderful months, until this morning.
Karen was already planning to expand her business. The waiting list was growing and she desperately wanted to help those parents and children on the list. If expansion hadn’t been in the works, she wouldn’t have agreed to interview a father who wanted to be added to the waiting list. Maybe the man would have gotten past the secure door anyway. She would never know.
At 10:00 AM sharp, the intercom buzzed in Karen’s office. “Yes?” she said, answering the buzz.
“Hi, I’m Jim Cradle. I have an appointment with Karen Hutchins?” a man’s voice replied.
“You’re right on time, Mr. Cradle. I’ll be right up to let you in,” Karen said.
Jim Cradle turned out to as nondescript as a person could be, but he smiled and shook her hand as she let him in. Starting off toward her office, Karen said over her shoulder, “My office is just over here, Mr. Cradle.”
“How did you hear of us,” Karen asked as the two of them sat down.
“Oh, you know,” Cradle replied, “I just poked around. Do you know that I couldn’t find out anything about your facility except that it’s new and exclusive? Haven’t you ever heard of advertising?”
“Our parents value their privacy,” Karen replied, her voice cooling considerably. “I don’t know what newspaper you work for-“
Karen froze as a gun appeared in Mr. Cradle’s hand. “I don’t work for a newspaper. You might say, I’m more of a freelancer. I had to ask myself, what kind of preschool would go out of its way not to advertise itself? Obviously, a very exclusive one. And exclusive means expensive. And expensive means parents willing to pay a lot of money to get their precious little babies back unharmed.”
“B-b-but our parents aren’t rich!” Karen protested.
“Yeah, and I’m Santa Claus,” Mr. Cradle sneered. “Now, I’ve found three year olds to be the best bunch to take. They’re just old enough that you can scare them into being still. So, you and I are going to go down to your three year old room, load them all into your big van and drive out of here.”
“I’m not lying! These children aren’t-"
“Look, either you can come along and help keep the brats quiet and safe or I can shoot you and take whoever is in charge of the three year old room,” the man said. “Your choice.”
Frightened and dejected, Karen got up and led the man down the hall to the three year old room. Along the way, she tried once more to convince Mr. Cradle, or whatever his real name was, that he was making a mistake.
“Please, please listen to me,” she said. “These children come from mostly middle class families. They don’t have a lot of money to pay a ransom!”
“For the children’s sake, you better be wrong about that,” Cradle said as they entered the three year old room.
The children were all sitting at tables, getting out their morning snack. The teacher was busy passing out napkins and pouring juice into paper cups. All the children smiled when they saw Karen.
“Hi Miss Karen!” they all called out.
The teacher looked up briefly, smiling to Karen then started to go back pouring juice. Then she froze as her brain registered the man with the gun.
“K-karen? What’s going on?” the teacher asked, her voice quavering.
“It’s a kidnapping, lady,” Cradle answered, waving his gun around, “and you get to help keep the little monsters in line.”
The bossiest of the three year olds, a girl named Caitlyn, said “Miss Janet didn’t ask you, mister. She asked Miss Karen. You’re being rude!”
“Rude?” laughed Cradle. “I’ll show you rude!” He shoved Karen toward the tables. She crashed into them spilling drinks and snacks all over the floor and the children. The children cried out in surprise and fear.
“That man was mean to Miss Karen!” said the Caitlyn, walking over to stand right in front of Cradle. “Let’s be mean to him!”
Cradle laughed, “Do your worst, little girl. I’m not worried.”
Caitlyn was worried, though. Doing her worst was what she’d been taught not to do. Then Miss Karen said, “You heard the man, Caitlyn. Do your worst. All of you do your worst.”
In that last instant, as a dozen children transformed into were creatures, Cradle probably realized that he had picked the wrong child care facility for his plan. Fortunately, Cradle was a big man. There was enough of him for all the classes to enjoy.
The twins, Karen’s younger brother and sister, had been bitten by a were-fox before they even learned how to walk. Both their parents held down full time jobs, so much of the twins’ care fell to Karen. Karen’s parents felt guilty dropping such a big responsibility on an 11 year old girl, but Karen loved it. She taught them to walk, to talk, potty trained them and taught them not to devour people or pets during their full transformations.
Caring for the twins sparked Karen’s interest in early child care and early childhood education. She had the idea while still a freshman in college. She spend all her spare time refining and researching and, by graduation, had a complete business plan for Were-Care, the world’s first child care facility entirely dedicated to children with ALPS.
Karen picked San Francisco to open Were-Care. She picked that city because it was well known for tolerance to any and all people who might traditionally be viewed as abnormal. Unfortunately, that tolerance did not extend to children with ALPS. Parents, who would have been appalled if their child refused to play with a third world child adopted by two flamboyant lesbians with AIDS, actively avoided any child with the “taint” of ALPS.
Her years of research had given Karen several possible locations in the city for her center plus the names of influential contacts in the San Francisco were community. She had even found others like her; older brothers and sisters who had helped raise ALPS children, to work in the center. Discreet mailings to parents of young ALPS children led to interviews with parents. When the parents saw Karen’s preparations, applications for children to attend Were-Care poured in. The school was filled in less than a week and even had a waiting list.
From the beginning, things went smoothly. The child care center was unobtrusive, simply having a small sign reading “Child Care and Preschool” out front. People unassociated with the school assumed it was simply another preschool catering to the wealthy and paid it no further attention.
Everything went smoothly for six wonderful months, until this morning.
Karen was already planning to expand her business. The waiting list was growing and she desperately wanted to help those parents and children on the list. If expansion hadn’t been in the works, she wouldn’t have agreed to interview a father who wanted to be added to the waiting list. Maybe the man would have gotten past the secure door anyway. She would never know.
At 10:00 AM sharp, the intercom buzzed in Karen’s office. “Yes?” she said, answering the buzz.
“Hi, I’m Jim Cradle. I have an appointment with Karen Hutchins?” a man’s voice replied.
“You’re right on time, Mr. Cradle. I’ll be right up to let you in,” Karen said.
Jim Cradle turned out to as nondescript as a person could be, but he smiled and shook her hand as she let him in. Starting off toward her office, Karen said over her shoulder, “My office is just over here, Mr. Cradle.”
“How did you hear of us,” Karen asked as the two of them sat down.
“Oh, you know,” Cradle replied, “I just poked around. Do you know that I couldn’t find out anything about your facility except that it’s new and exclusive? Haven’t you ever heard of advertising?”
“Our parents value their privacy,” Karen replied, her voice cooling considerably. “I don’t know what newspaper you work for-“
Karen froze as a gun appeared in Mr. Cradle’s hand. “I don’t work for a newspaper. You might say, I’m more of a freelancer. I had to ask myself, what kind of preschool would go out of its way not to advertise itself? Obviously, a very exclusive one. And exclusive means expensive. And expensive means parents willing to pay a lot of money to get their precious little babies back unharmed.”
“B-b-but our parents aren’t rich!” Karen protested.
“Yeah, and I’m Santa Claus,” Mr. Cradle sneered. “Now, I’ve found three year olds to be the best bunch to take. They’re just old enough that you can scare them into being still. So, you and I are going to go down to your three year old room, load them all into your big van and drive out of here.”
“I’m not lying! These children aren’t-"
“Look, either you can come along and help keep the brats quiet and safe or I can shoot you and take whoever is in charge of the three year old room,” the man said. “Your choice.”
Frightened and dejected, Karen got up and led the man down the hall to the three year old room. Along the way, she tried once more to convince Mr. Cradle, or whatever his real name was, that he was making a mistake.
“Please, please listen to me,” she said. “These children come from mostly middle class families. They don’t have a lot of money to pay a ransom!”
“For the children’s sake, you better be wrong about that,” Cradle said as they entered the three year old room.
The children were all sitting at tables, getting out their morning snack. The teacher was busy passing out napkins and pouring juice into paper cups. All the children smiled when they saw Karen.
“Hi Miss Karen!” they all called out.
The teacher looked up briefly, smiling to Karen then started to go back pouring juice. Then she froze as her brain registered the man with the gun.
“K-karen? What’s going on?” the teacher asked, her voice quavering.
“It’s a kidnapping, lady,” Cradle answered, waving his gun around, “and you get to help keep the little monsters in line.”
The bossiest of the three year olds, a girl named Caitlyn, said “Miss Janet didn’t ask you, mister. She asked Miss Karen. You’re being rude!”
“Rude?” laughed Cradle. “I’ll show you rude!” He shoved Karen toward the tables. She crashed into them spilling drinks and snacks all over the floor and the children. The children cried out in surprise and fear.
“That man was mean to Miss Karen!” said the Caitlyn, walking over to stand right in front of Cradle. “Let’s be mean to him!”
Cradle laughed, “Do your worst, little girl. I’m not worried.”
Caitlyn was worried, though. Doing her worst was what she’d been taught not to do. Then Miss Karen said, “You heard the man, Caitlyn. Do your worst. All of you do your worst.”
In that last instant, as a dozen children transformed into were creatures, Cradle probably realized that he had picked the wrong child care facility for his plan. Fortunately, Cradle was a big man. There was enough of him for all the classes to enjoy.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Pride
“Hi, my name is Shannon, and I’m a were-lion.”
[Group: “Hi, Shannon.”]
All of you are monsters, completely out of control. You don’t deserve to live.
“Sorry, I must have spaced out there for a minute.” She gives a little chuckle.
“ I guess a good place to start is at the beginning. It’s not really something I like to relive, but…
But my therapist thought it might be useful for me to…
[Someone in the crowd lets out a nervous cough]
“Um, anyhow, my symptoms started at an early age. The first time occurred when I was about three years old. My mom took me to the park. I remember it being a really beautiful day and having the feeling that nothing could get any better or worse…you know the way you feel about the world when you’re a kid. My younger sister hadn’t been born yet so I got the kind of undivided attention from my mother that can really spoil a child, ya know? I remember her pushing me on the swing and then I ran up the ladder and flew down the slide until I couldn’t see straight. Then I sort of dizzily hobbled over to the sandbox.
“We had brought a bucket and shovel and I was enjoying filling it with sand and dumping it out again. We had been the only ones at the park. Out of nowhere a little boy, a few years older than me, plopped down near me in the sandbox. The details are a little fuzzy, he must have tried to take the shovel and bucket away from me because I would never have attacked him unprovoked.” She looks around at the group nervously, trying to decipher whether or not they believe her.
“Either I blanked out during the attack or it’s just because it was so long ago and I was pretty young, ‘cause I don’t remember it. Just images really. I remember the screaming, my mother pulling me off a lifeless mass only slightly larger than myself. Probably the clearest picture in my head is the way the sand looked. Kind of like the beach after a rain—pockmarked and wet. Except it was blood, and it was red. And I remember when my mother pulled me away the wet sand stuck to the bottom of her feet, exposing the dry, white sand underneath in the shape of her sandals.
“I was a big accomplishment for my pediatrician. I remember my mother being surprised at my having ALPS and showing symptoms so young. The doctor just gave a nerdy grin and said ‘the force is strong with this one’. After we saw him we stood in a narrow hallway to pay the receptionist and schedule our next appointment. You had to be blind not to notice the pictures of all the doctors in the practice on the wall with plaques underneath championing their medical accomplishments. I used to like to count all the plaques and secretly congratulate the doctors when they got a new one. When we stood in the hallway after our second visit, I noticed our doctor had a new plaque under his picture. My mother said it announced that he was the first and thus far only doctor in the practice to diagnose anyone with ALPS. But after our next visit I noticed it wasn’t there. I found out later they were starting to get complaints. People were afraid to sit in the waiting room. In the eyes of the non-were, any and every kid now had the ability to maul them to pieces. The sudden burst of tears from a child that decided he didn’t want to play with a toy fire truck or found he was scheduled for a shot just unglued everybody. I think they even had a receptionist quit. So they took the plaque down.
[Her posture changes and the faraway look vanishes. She stands taller and looks more confident.]
“In reality they found a good cocktail of drugs for me rather quickly. And with the exception of a few unfortunate incidents in adolescence, I’ve been problem free. I still change, but it’s really very slight—only my husband notices the difference.
“That’s all I have to say. I hope my story has been of some encouragement to you. Just keep trying all the drugs out there until you find the ones that work best for you. And don’t underestimate the power of self-determination. So much can be achieved if you only will yourself to do it.”
[Group: “Hi, Shannon.”]
All of you are monsters, completely out of control. You don’t deserve to live.
“Sorry, I must have spaced out there for a minute.” She gives a little chuckle.
“ I guess a good place to start is at the beginning. It’s not really something I like to relive, but…
But my therapist thought it might be useful for me to…
[Someone in the crowd lets out a nervous cough]
“Um, anyhow, my symptoms started at an early age. The first time occurred when I was about three years old. My mom took me to the park. I remember it being a really beautiful day and having the feeling that nothing could get any better or worse…you know the way you feel about the world when you’re a kid. My younger sister hadn’t been born yet so I got the kind of undivided attention from my mother that can really spoil a child, ya know? I remember her pushing me on the swing and then I ran up the ladder and flew down the slide until I couldn’t see straight. Then I sort of dizzily hobbled over to the sandbox.
“We had brought a bucket and shovel and I was enjoying filling it with sand and dumping it out again. We had been the only ones at the park. Out of nowhere a little boy, a few years older than me, plopped down near me in the sandbox. The details are a little fuzzy, he must have tried to take the shovel and bucket away from me because I would never have attacked him unprovoked.” She looks around at the group nervously, trying to decipher whether or not they believe her.
“Either I blanked out during the attack or it’s just because it was so long ago and I was pretty young, ‘cause I don’t remember it. Just images really. I remember the screaming, my mother pulling me off a lifeless mass only slightly larger than myself. Probably the clearest picture in my head is the way the sand looked. Kind of like the beach after a rain—pockmarked and wet. Except it was blood, and it was red. And I remember when my mother pulled me away the wet sand stuck to the bottom of her feet, exposing the dry, white sand underneath in the shape of her sandals.
“I was a big accomplishment for my pediatrician. I remember my mother being surprised at my having ALPS and showing symptoms so young. The doctor just gave a nerdy grin and said ‘the force is strong with this one’. After we saw him we stood in a narrow hallway to pay the receptionist and schedule our next appointment. You had to be blind not to notice the pictures of all the doctors in the practice on the wall with plaques underneath championing their medical accomplishments. I used to like to count all the plaques and secretly congratulate the doctors when they got a new one. When we stood in the hallway after our second visit, I noticed our doctor had a new plaque under his picture. My mother said it announced that he was the first and thus far only doctor in the practice to diagnose anyone with ALPS. But after our next visit I noticed it wasn’t there. I found out later they were starting to get complaints. People were afraid to sit in the waiting room. In the eyes of the non-were, any and every kid now had the ability to maul them to pieces. The sudden burst of tears from a child that decided he didn’t want to play with a toy fire truck or found he was scheduled for a shot just unglued everybody. I think they even had a receptionist quit. So they took the plaque down.
[Her posture changes and the faraway look vanishes. She stands taller and looks more confident.]
“In reality they found a good cocktail of drugs for me rather quickly. And with the exception of a few unfortunate incidents in adolescence, I’ve been problem free. I still change, but it’s really very slight—only my husband notices the difference.
“That’s all I have to say. I hope my story has been of some encouragement to you. Just keep trying all the drugs out there until you find the ones that work best for you. And don’t underestimate the power of self-determination. So much can be achieved if you only will yourself to do it.”
Sunday, July 6, 2008
A Whiff of Brimstone
"Hi, my name is Ryan, and I'm a werewolf."
[Group: "Hi, Ryan."]
"This has been a rough week for me. Most of the time I do okay, I guess. It's been months since I've even thought about taking a little nip. But this past week, I got hit with a double-whammy. Thursday night was the dark of the Moon, of course, which always gets me down to start with, and then Friday, well —
"Look, I don't like to admit it. It's this whole hyper mucho mega-macho thing, I think, because I've yet to meet another werewolf who will admit it. And it really does peeve me, because I still remember how much I used to love the Fourth of July when I was a kid: the sparklers, the snakes, the bottle-rockets, the ladyfingers; sitting on the blanket in the park by the lake with my parents, watching the summer night sky explode in fireworks. But now...
"I tell people it's the smell of the brimstone — the sulfur. Everyone understands that. People with ALPS, everyone knows they have extremely heightened senses of smell, and all sorts of common things can provoke unpleasant reactions.
"Except the truth is, it's the sound. I can't understand why. On an intellectual level, I know exactly what that sound is, and I know it's mostly harmless. But on some deep, visceral, primordial level, the sound of firecrackers exploding scares the screaming bejeebers out of me, and makes me want to — oh, I don't know. Dig a hole and hide under the refrigerator, or something. New Year's Eve, Cinco de Mayo, the Fourth of July: I've spent entire nights hiding under my bed, curled up in fetal position, wincing every time a firecracker pops in the distance and begging God to make it rain so that the fireworks will stop.
"If it was just one night, I think I could handle it. But the little bastards down the street never settle for just one night, do they? No, they start up sniping with bottle-rockets and Black Cats about a week in advance, and by the 3rd they've hauled out the serious artillery and are keeping up a steady barrage of heavy mortars and screamers. Then there's the Fourth itself, with the ordnance going off pretty much nonstop from dawn 'til two or three the next morning, followed by the 5th, when all the local morons go into use it or lose it mode and try to burn up everything they've got left over. So by the time we get around to the 6th —
"Well, let's just say it wasn't bad enough yet to warrant calling my sponsor, but I was definitely way overdue for this meeting. And I have to tell you, I really like it here, with you folks. I feel safe. I feel understood. I feel —
"Hey, what's that smell? Can't you all smell it? It smells like —
"SCOTT! So help me God, if you so much as touch that lit match to that fuse in here I will rip your worthless gizzard out and serve it as an appetizer! Are we clear on this point?
"Now, where was I? Oh yes, well — why thank you, yes I would like another cup of coffee. Decaf please, I'm trying to learn to relax."
[Group: "Hi, Ryan."]
"This has been a rough week for me. Most of the time I do okay, I guess. It's been months since I've even thought about taking a little nip. But this past week, I got hit with a double-whammy. Thursday night was the dark of the Moon, of course, which always gets me down to start with, and then Friday, well —
"Look, I don't like to admit it. It's this whole hyper mucho mega-macho thing, I think, because I've yet to meet another werewolf who will admit it. And it really does peeve me, because I still remember how much I used to love the Fourth of July when I was a kid: the sparklers, the snakes, the bottle-rockets, the ladyfingers; sitting on the blanket in the park by the lake with my parents, watching the summer night sky explode in fireworks. But now...
"I tell people it's the smell of the brimstone — the sulfur. Everyone understands that. People with ALPS, everyone knows they have extremely heightened senses of smell, and all sorts of common things can provoke unpleasant reactions.
"Except the truth is, it's the sound. I can't understand why. On an intellectual level, I know exactly what that sound is, and I know it's mostly harmless. But on some deep, visceral, primordial level, the sound of firecrackers exploding scares the screaming bejeebers out of me, and makes me want to — oh, I don't know. Dig a hole and hide under the refrigerator, or something. New Year's Eve, Cinco de Mayo, the Fourth of July: I've spent entire nights hiding under my bed, curled up in fetal position, wincing every time a firecracker pops in the distance and begging God to make it rain so that the fireworks will stop.
"If it was just one night, I think I could handle it. But the little bastards down the street never settle for just one night, do they? No, they start up sniping with bottle-rockets and Black Cats about a week in advance, and by the 3rd they've hauled out the serious artillery and are keeping up a steady barrage of heavy mortars and screamers. Then there's the Fourth itself, with the ordnance going off pretty much nonstop from dawn 'til two or three the next morning, followed by the 5th, when all the local morons go into use it or lose it mode and try to burn up everything they've got left over. So by the time we get around to the 6th —
"Well, let's just say it wasn't bad enough yet to warrant calling my sponsor, but I was definitely way overdue for this meeting. And I have to tell you, I really like it here, with you folks. I feel safe. I feel understood. I feel —
"Hey, what's that smell? Can't you all smell it? It smells like —
"SCOTT! So help me God, if you so much as touch that lit match to that fuse in here I will rip your worthless gizzard out and serve it as an appetizer! Are we clear on this point?
"Now, where was I? Oh yes, well — why thank you, yes I would like another cup of coffee. Decaf please, I'm trying to learn to relax."
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