(cam) Bombilating Roorback

And so it came to pass that Cameron, who was also Omnipotent Ilåsmïvs the Invincible and Triumphant as well as Chigby, came to the Bee in a Car.

My childhood was harsh, for in the hexagonal caverns of that ancient hive The Queen Bee, smelling only slightly of prison abuse, nursed my frail larval body on a thoraxial nectar. The bittersweet fluid was as viscous as it was encultured by hallucinogens, stimulants, narcotics, sedatives, and something she described only has "blaspheremones." On this unsteady diet I grew, unsoberly, towards the highest ideal form: all-knowing nerd guru. When, at long last, I burst free from the honeycombs and catacombs of that awful bee house, I knew there was but one thing to do with myself: find a car, and get in it.

Here you see me in my present form. The photo is ambiguous: am I prepared to fight this Jet-Li-esque gunman, clashing glasses to begin an epic stuggle and delivering the death-blow just as I drain the last drops of the pinot noir? Or is the whip I carry not a weapon of battle but an instrument of pleasure? Do my dreams of enslavement demand more than the average dungeon-mistress—do I need to be shot instead of merely chained and whipped? All this and more you will discover, dear reader, over the course of my car ride as a bee.

Of myself, I can say that my relationship to the holy trinity of kingdoms of Nerddom, Geekery, and Dorkhood is that of the Xenomorph facehugger to its human victims. I have a prehensile tail choking it as I extend muscular tendrils into its throat and inner organs. I use it as a living incubator for an unstoppable killing machine. My obsession and subsequent self-immersion in the font of this Holy Office, whose bishops are Star Trek, Dungeons & Dragons, and Magic: The Gathering, whose bibles are college-level science and math classes, fantasy novels, and Howard Philips Lovecraft, and whose crucifixes are polyhedral dice. These things, though liable to get me beat up should I ever return to elementary school, now are a source of great power!

Yet despair not, lovers of culture and the arts. Let me disabuse you of the notion that, though the above paragraph strongly implies it, my posts here will be limited to reviews of the latest Brom piece or draft picks for Planar Chaos. My true taste is for the highbrow, the lofty, and the contemptuously haughty. You want polysyllabic words, strung together in abstruse, impenetrable clauses? Oh, I have that. You want irrefutable logic, bound so tightly in rhetoric that no Vulcan could quibble with the merest syllogism? No need to ask. Do you desire cultural criticism of an academic and disinterested variety, whose ivory tower viewpoint neutralizes all innate bias and carefully categorizes all possible perspectives on a topic? Well, no dice! It is my goal to raze the ivory tower to the ground and hoist the burning corpse of academia to the sky before an army of miscreants. Nevermore shall we be hostage to such pretension, nor shall such cloistered reasoning be given quarter.

Hail Victory! Per Ardua Ad Astra!

For The Eternal Bee In The Eternal Car!