Showing posts with label Don Quixote. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Don Quixote. Show all posts

Wednesday, 24 July 2019

Handsome Man, Saves Me From The Monsters

Charlie Skinner was Crazy.

He identified with Don Quixote, an old man with dementia who thought he could save The World from an epidemic of incivility simply by acting like a Knight.

His Religion was Decency.

And he spent a lifetime fighting its enemies.

I wish he could be here to learn the name of his successor like I just did.
Our new boss, the new president of ACN, is MacKenzie McHale.

So this fight is just getting started.

'Cause he taught the rest of us to be crazy, too.

You were a Man, Charlie.
You were a Great, Big Man.

You're a piece of dirty filthy cheating scum, aren't you?

Absolutement!  And that is why I'll win.
Because I have the ability to think my way round problems rather than sticking to the straight, pre- programmed lines.  
That's why men, Lister, are so better than machines.

Oh, I don't know, you know.  

I had this Geography teacher, Miss Foster.  
She took us on a school summer camp trip to Deganwy.  
I had the tent next to hers, right.  
And in the middle of the night I was woken up by this really weird noise.  

•She• didn't think Men were better than Machines....

Angel and Fred are riding double through what looks like low mountain country.  Angel looks around then pulls the horse to a stop, slides off, and helps Fred down. 

"I don't think they followed us.  We should probably stay on foot.  In case they try to track us down. 
(Gives the now riderless horse a push to get it going)  
Come on." 

Turns to Fred and finds her staring at him. 

"You okay?" 

Fred claps a hand to the side of her head.

"Handsome man - saved me from the monsters." 

Angel looks at her with a slight frown. 


With that she runs off. 

"Hey.  Wait a minute." 

Hurries after her.

Fred runs through a wooded area, past a boulder.  Runs up then slowly makes his way along the boulder and into a cave. 
(Nice guitar/woodwind score music playing here.) 

Finds Fred (now wearing a pair of crooked glasses) busily adding to the carved symbols covering the walls of the cave. 


Fred hesitates for a moment then continues to write. 
Angel looks around the cave. Angel:  "Hey, great place." 
Slowly crosses the cave. 
Angel:  "You don't have to be afraid of me. Really. I-I'd never..." 
He comes up on a small pool of water and his attention is captured by his reflection in it. 
Angel:  "...hurt you?" 
Fred glances back at him, the quickly turns back to her carving. 
Angel:  "So, ah... So, you don't wanna talk to me?" 
Fred:  "I can't, huh?" 
Angel:  "Why won't you?" 
Fred:  "Because - you're not real. - Or I'm not real.  *Somebody* here isn't real and I suspect it's you.  So if you're not real, that means that my head came off back there and that I'm dead now.  Dead.  And with me being dead and you not being real I can hardly be expected to have some big conversation with you at the moment, because it's just a little too much pressure, alright?!" 
Angel holds up his hands:  "Okay.  Okay." 
Fred nods and turns back to her writing. 
Angel:  "What's that you're doing?" 
Fred looks up at the stuff covering the walls.  Some of it looks like the words form the book that opened the portal, other stuff resembles mathematical formulas. 
Fred:  "Uhm, I think I saw it in a dream." 
Angel:  "You've been here a long time." 
Fred:  "Always. - Not always." 
Angel spots something.  Picks it up.  It's a California drivers license for one Winifred Burke, living in Los Angeles, brown hair, 5'6", 114 pounds, expiration date 03-01-98. 
Fred turns around with a smile:  "I had a dream.  I had a name." 
Angel reads the license:  "Winifred." 
Fred hurries over and pulls the license out of his hand. 
Angel:  "You're the girl from Cordy's vision!" 
Fred:  "What?" 
Angel:  "They called you Fred.  You were studying to be a physicist." 
Fred:  "That's my dream." 
Angel:  "You disappeared from a library in Los Angeles five years ago." 
Fred shakes her head:  "Stop it." 
Angel:  "It's not a dream, Fred." 
Fred:  "It's not?" 
Angel:  "No." 
Fred:  "And my head's still on?" 
Angel gently pushes her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. 
Angel:  "Yeah." 
Fred smiles:  "You're real?" 
Angel smiles and nods. 
Fred's smile melts into a frown and she starts to shake her head as she moves a few steps away from Angel. 
Fred:  "No.  No, I don't want you to be real." 
Angel:  "Why?" 
Fred turning back to face him:  "Because!  You're nice, and you saved me.  And bad things will happen to you here.  (Shakes her head and looks down, twisting her fingers together)  Bad things always happen here." 
Angel:  "No, no, no. Nothing bad's gonna happen.  I-It's gonna be okay.  We-we can take you out of here." 
Fred:  "We?" 
Angel:  "Yeah.  Me and my friends.  We-we're working on a way to get out of here.  We can take you back." 
Fred:  "Can't get back.  There is no back." 
Angel:  "No, there is.  If we can open the portal...." 
Fred hurries closer:  "The portal!  She fell through the portal!" 
Angel:  "Who did?" 
Fred:  "That other girl.  I couldn't save her.  I was arrested.  They got her.  She's a slave.  She'll die!" 
Angel:  "Oh.  Cordy.  No, she's fine.  They made her a princess." 
Fred:  "They...  Really? - Oh.  (Looks down)  When I got here they... They didn't do that.  -  Well.  That's nice for her." 

Cordy is sitting on her throne.  A girl is polishing the nails on her right hand. 
Cordy:  "You're sure this is a good first date look?  I don't want to seem too easy.  I was thinking something more in a nice tailored suit - of armor. - So, so I figured we'd start slow.  A few dinners, some light conversation, nothing too heavy and *then* in three or four years, if we still feel like we're hitting it off okay, we'll ah..." 
Silas:  "Your majesty." 
Cordy:  "Yeah." 
Silas points towards the door:  "The groosalug." 
Cordy:  "Say, don't you think it would add an air of feminine mystery if I were to, you know, not be here?" 
She tries to get up but is pushed back down into her throne by a bluish hand on her shoulder. 
The double doors open and wheezing, bulky demon with horns shuffles in, a sack slung over it's shoulder. 
Cordy to one of her attendants:  "Kill me now." 
She looks back to find a handsome warrior following the beast into the throne room.  He claps the beast on the shoulder. 
Groo to beast:  "Just put those anywhere." 
Groo walks up to the throne and kisses the back of Cordy's hand. 
Groo:  "Majesty." 
Cordy:  "Oh."

Angel and Fred are walking outside between some low boulders. 
Fred:  "I've never been to the palace before.  I've seen it up there, on that hill, watching me." 
Angel:  "We just gotta find my friends." 
He slows, scans their surroundings. Two bucket-head soldiers on horseback, swords drawn come around a boulder. 
Angel: "Get down." 
Angel pushes Fred to the ground and tries to shield her with his own body, as the first guard charges and tires to swipe them with his sword. 
Angel:  "Look, you may see something that might frighten you, but I'm your friend, okay?" 
Angel jumps up to engage the guards as they come at them again while Fred runs to cower against the side of a boulder. 
The first guard charges Angel and he ducks under the sword, turns to find the second guard almost on top of him.  He morphs but instead of his usual vamp face appearing the morph continues until his whole face turns green and bumpy, framed by some almost horn-like protrusions, while his hands turn into claws. 
Fred flinches a little as Angel leaps to pull the second guard of his horse.  Angel lays into the downed guard with wild ferocity.  The guard screams as Angel literally rips one of his arms off and tosses it aside.  Seeing this the other guard turns his rearing horse, and flees. 
Angel buries his head against the guard's throat and the guard goes motionless.  Lifting his head Angel looks back at Fred, cowering against her boulder. 
Fred, shaking her head:  

"Bad things always happen here."


Growling, Angel leaves the soldier and makes his way over to Fred, who tries to make herself as small as possible.  Angel leans in close to her and sniffs.  Blood is smeared around his mouth and coloring his teeth.  There is a piece of meat hanging form one fang. 
After a moment Angel abruptly turns to look over his shoulder and leaps away from Fred in a sudden flash of motion. 
Fred draws a few gasping breaths, then looks over at the mutilated corpse of the guard lying a few feet away.

Angel is sitting at the head of the conference table, tapping his fingers impatiently as he stares at the room full of empty chairs. He rolls his head, shuffles and stacks papers, then leans forward and stares at the speakerphone.

(impatiently presses a button on the speakerphone)

(over speakerphone)
I know! I called everyone. They're just...

Not here. I can see that. 
If they were here, I wouldn't be alone. 
Why am I alone?

(walks into the conference room)
Well, you can be super grouchy.

(presses a button on the speakerphone, turning it off, then looks up at Harmony)
The meeting?

Everyone's otherwise occupado, boss. 
Wesley's stuck baby-sitting Miss "I used to rule the world, bow down before me, minion scum." 
(puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head)
Why aren't we killing her, again?


(sighs thoughtfully)
(leans on the back of a conference table chair)
...if we had a really big one.

Where is Gunn?

Oh. The hospital still. You know, from when Wesley... 
(mimes stabbing)
and Lorne's kinda M.I.A. since...


(nods sadly)
Okey-dokey then. 
(shrugs with false cheer and exits)

(enters carrying a briefcase)
Where's the rest of the crew?

Apparently not coming.

But this is an important meeting.

At least somebody....

My first official parley as a very loosely affiliated member of the... what are we? 
(puts his briefcase on the conference table)
Tell me we're not Scoobies. 
(unlatches the briefcase)

We don't have a...

A name? Well, that's probably for the best. 
You'd want to be "Angel's Avengers" or something.

(frowns, mocking)
"Angel's Avengers," that's... 
(stops himself as he ponders the sound of it)

So what's on the agenda? 
(reaches into his briefcase)

(leans over his papers)
Uh, I have assignments for people...
(looks up as the sound of a pop-top opening comes from Spike)

(Angel glares)
I'm listening. 
(holds up a beer can)
With beer. 

(glares at Spike)
Forget it. You know what? 
This isn't a meeting. This is you being annoying. 
(stands, sighs heavily, looks out the window)

(grabs a paper from the stack where Angel was sitting)
Hey, bullet points. Classy. 
(pauses to read, then holds up the paper to Angel with contempt)
Why am I always reconnaissance? I should get a decently flash gig like "save the girl" or "steal the emerald with the girl."

(stares at his feet)
"Handsome Man, Save Me From The Monsters."

Exactly! Or... What's that now?

That's the first thing Fred said to me. In Pylea. 
(paces behind his chair)
She was trapped, hiding, afraid. 
Nearly crazy. Crazy. But brave. 
I should never have let her come here. 

Bad things always happen here.

Hate to break it to you, mate, but bad things always happen everywhere. 
Besides, she wanted to be here. It was her choice.

Was it?

You're fixing to do something stupid, aren't you?

Done it. Came here. 
Spend every day lying to myself about making The World a better place.

Welcome to The Planet. 
We all paint on our happy faces every day, when all we really wanted is to pound the neighbor's missus, steal his Ben Franklins, and while we're at it, not think about the third of The World that's starving to death. 
(walks toward the window, looks out)

I'm not saying that I can fix everything. I just... I... I have to do better. 
The senior partners have a plan.

Yeah, the prophecy. 
That ever-lovin' Apocalypse you keep going on about.

Yeah, which Apocalypse? The one last year or the year before that? No, the senior partners are up to something now, and I'm not waiting for them to spring it on us. 
We're through operating in the dark.

Wes and Gunn are walking through the forest. 

Gunn:  "We're lost." 

Wesley:  "Nonsense.  I've been following the sun.  We're headed due west, back toward the village." 

Gunn:  "Which one?" 

Wesley:  "Which village?" 


"Which sun?  There're two of them.  
Alternate dimension?  We're lost." 

Wesley stops and holds up a hand for silence. 

Gunn:  "You're having a Blair witch moment?" 

Wesley:  "Something's hunting us." 

Gunn smoothly slides in to stand back to back with Wes.

Gunn:  "Palace guards?" 

Wesley:  "I don't know." 

They pivot together to survey their surroundings.  Suddenly the Angel-beast appears on top of a rock, then jumps off, knocking both of them to the ground. 

Wes and Gunn pick themselves up and turn to look at the Angel-beast, fanning out so that the beast can't come at both of them at once. 


"What the hell is it?" 

Wesley stumbles on a rock and falls.  The beast runs towards him hesitating a moment at the sight of the branch that Wes is holding in front of him.  At the same time Gunn begins to pelt the Angel-beast with rocks. 


"Come on!  Come on!" 

The Angel-beast turns and Wes spots Angel's tattoo showing briefly through a rip in his clothing. 


"It's Angel!" 

Gunn glances at Wes and the beast leaps, knocking him to the ground. 

Gunn is straining to hold the Angel-beast off far enough to keep out of the reach of its fangs. 


"Angel!  Can you hear me? Angel!  Angel?" 

Fred slowly dips her hand into a leather pouch hanging by her side.  When she takes her balled hand back out it is dripping with blood.  She slowly raises it up into the air. 

We can still dimly hear Wesley calling Angel's name, but the sound of his voice is being drowned out by a heartbeat like thudding underlying a haunting woodwind tune as the Angel-beast slowly straightens up and looks over towards the blood covered fist. 

The Angel-beast slowly moves closer to Fred and, with her fist still raised, Fred slowly backs up, leading it away. 

Wesley hurries over to Gunn and notices deep scratches marring his left shoulder. 


"Oh, you're hurt." 


"What the hell just happened?" 


"That strange wild girl saved us - from Angel." 


"Something very freaky is going on here." 


 "I have a suspicion I may know what.  
Angel's vampire-self - has been sublimated somehow - by this dimension." 

He picks up a handful of wet mud and gets ready to smear it over Gunn's scratches.  Gunn holds up a hand. 


"It's okay." 

Gunn lets him pack the scratches with mud. 


"Only his human side as surfaced since we've been here..." 


"You mean being able to walk around in the sun - seeing his reflection, like that?" 


"Yes.  And now, for whatever reason he's accessed his demon, but he can't find the balance he normally would in Our World.  
His demon-self has totally overcome his human side." 


"So that's what the thing inside of him really looks like?" 


"In its purest form." 


"That's nasty." 


Can you walk?" 




We've got to help him.

Friday, 5 July 2019

The Man Who Killed Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master

In every Generation there is a Chosen One – He alone will stand against The Men Behind The Curtain, The Lord of La Mancha and The Legend of Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master

He is, The Man Who Killed 
Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master

This Cannot be Stressed Often Enough — 

The Actual, Historical and Literal Meaning of ‘Hero’ specifically refers to a DEAD Man Who is Worshipped, Venerated and Appealed-to in The Afterlife.

So, as George Lucas has always been absolutely explicit in stating, The Star Wars Saga  is NOT about Luke Skywalker or Han Solo, 

Star Wars is about Darth Vader.

So The Hero of The Star Wars Saga, Episodes IV-VI and for the first 6 Episodes as a whole is Anakin Skywalker, because he is a Dead Man who is idolised by his son to the extent that he journeys into The Underworld of The Death Star (Hades) to release him from eternal torment inside his own broken, mutilated reanimated corpse of a body, after being cast down into a lake of fire and clawing his way back up from Hell by his fingernails and cast iron will.

As of 2017, for the first time, Luke Skywalker became The Hero — 

Because he is now DEAD.

“I dreamed that I was running through a mall parking lot, trying to escape from something. I was running through the parked cars, opening one door, crawling across the front seat, opening the other, moving to the next. The doors on one car suddenly slammed shut. I was in the passenger seat. The car started to move by itself. A voice said harshly, “there is no way out of here.” 

I was on a journey, going somewhere I did not want to go. 

I was not The Driver.”

— Jordan Peterson

In every Generation there is a Chosen One – He alone will stand against The Men Behind The Curtain, The Lord of La Mancha and The Legend of Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master

He is,
The Man Who Killed 
Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master

Wednesday, 26 June 2019

Heroic Vomiting

“One man kebabed, hundreds scarred forever by a shared blood ritual — and yet, an astonishing sense of Community here now, a positive atmosphere, a sense of a job well done, a shared sigh of relief, very much like the bizarre euphoria at the end of an hour's vomiting.”

Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his master as miraculous, begged him to give him what was left in the pigskin, which was no small quantity. 

Don Quixote consented, and he, taking it with both hands, in good faith and with a better will, gulped down and drained off very little less than his master. 

But the fact is, that the stomach of poor Sancho was of necessity not so delicate as that of his master, and so, before vomiting, he was seized with such gripings and retchings, and such sweats and faintness, that verily and truly be believed his last hour had come, and finding himself so racked and tormented he cursed the balsam and the thief that had given it to him. 

Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, "It is my belief, Sancho, that this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a knight, for I am persuaded this liquor cannot be good for those who are not so." 

"If your worship knew that," returned Sancho—" woe betide me and all my kindred!—why did you let me taste it?" 

At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor squire began to discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat on which he had thrown himself and the canvas blanket he had covering him were fit for nothing afterwards. He sweated and perspired with such paroxysms and convulsions that not only he himself but all present thought his end had come. This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at the end of which he was left, not like his master, but so weak and exhausted that he could not stand. 

Don Quixote, however, who, as has been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager to take his departure at once in quest of adventures, as it seemed to him that all the time he loitered there was a Fraud upon The World and those in it who stood in need of his help and protection, all the more when he had the security and confidence his balsam afforded him; and so, urged by this impulse, he saddled Rocinante himself and put the pack-saddle on his squire's beast, whom likewise he helped to dress and mount the ass; after which he mounted his horse and turning to a corner of the inn he laid hold of a pike that stood there, to serve him by way of a lance. 

All that were in the inn, who were more than twenty persons, stood watching him; the innkeeper's daughter was likewise observing him, and he too never took his eyes off her, and from time to time fetched a sigh that he seemed to pluck up from the depths of his bowels; but they all thought it must be from the pain he felt in his ribs; at any rate they who had seen him plastered the night before thought so.

Sunday, 23 June 2019


Jonathan Pryce's costume as Don Quixote is the one Jean Rochefort wore in the 2000 attempt, as seen in Lost in La Mancha. 

Carlo Poggioli, the assistant of Gabriella Pescucci, costume designer for the 2000 version, rediscovered it while browsing for costumes for an opera. 

Pescucci gave her blessing for the costume to finally be used in a film. 

In the end, Lena Mossum, costume designer for the new version, did some adjustments, and the costume fit Pryce perfectly. Gilliam said that otherwise, "with the money in the budget, there's no way [they] could make something as good as what was on screen".

The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most perfect construction.

Saturday, 15 June 2019

The Knight of The Mirrors

The Chorister : 
What is the one thing evil cannot face? 
Not ever


The Chorister : 

But you said the Kinda would react to the mirror. 
They aren't evil. 

The Chorister : 
Ah, Hindle captured their INNOCENCE. 
The Mara will rebel. 
They cannot face themselves, don't you see? 


It's been two weeks.
Get up off the damn mat.

You wanted Don Quixote? 


This is it.
By the way, this is what brought him down.

Nobody's brought you down.

The Knight of the Mirrors.
He holds up a mirror and shows him.

- Stop it.

Shows him! I mean, he doesn't fight him with a sword.
He shows him with a mirror what a total fool he looks like.

Tuesday, 11 June 2019

The Windmills of Reality Fight Back

“In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it. 

You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillageland to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get. But of all there were none he liked so well as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva's composition, for their lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and cartels, where he often found passages like "the reason of the unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your beauty;" or again, "the high heavens, that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert your greatness deserves." Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake striving to understand them and worm the meaning out of them; what Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted had he come to life again for that special purpose. He was not at all easy about the wounds which Don Belianis gave and took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the surgeons who had cured him, he must have had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars. He commended, however, the author's way of ending his book with the promise of that interminable adventure, and many a time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it properly as is there proposed, which no doubt he would have done, and made a successful piece of work of it too, had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him. 

Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if there was any that could compare with him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter of valour he was not a whit behind him. 

In short, he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true, that to him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knight, but that he was not to be compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antaeus the son of Terra in his arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because, although of the giant breed which is always arrogant and ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and well-bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as his history says, was entirely of gold. To have a bout of kicking at that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his housekeeper, and his niece into the bargain. In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honour as for the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on horseback in quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into execution. The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most perfect construction. 

He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than a real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that "tantum pellis et ossa fuit," surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to give him, because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own, should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he should take a new name, and that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow. 

And so, after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the world. 

Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself "Don Quixote," whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting, however, that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he described accurately his origin and country, and did honour to it in taking his surname from it. 

So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said to himself, "If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or, in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have some one I may send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive voice say, 'I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently extolled knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me at your pleasure'?" Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of some one to call his Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very good-looking farm-girl with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search for a name which should not be out of harmony with her own, and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso—she being of El Toboso—a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.

Thursday, 2 May 2019


(Growing in power
Not well?  

What is sickness to the body of a knight-errant?  

What matter wounds?  

For each time he falls he shall rise again – 
and woe to the wicked!  

(A lusty bellow

Here, your Grace!
My armor!  My sword!
(Delightedly, clapping his hands
More misadventures!
Adventures, old friend!  
(Rising from the bed, and as ALDONZA and SANCHO support him on either side, he sings)
Oh the trumpets of glory 
Now call me to ride, 
Yes, the trumpets are calling to me
And wherever I ride, 
every staunch at my side, 
My squire and My Lady shall be –

I am I, 
Don Quixote—
The Lord of LaMancha 
Our destiny calls and we go!
And the wild winds of fortune shall carry us onward

Oh, withersoever... 

(DON QUIXOTE falters)
(A cry of apprehension
My Lord--!
(Reassuring them, sings on)
Withersoever they blow, 
Onward to glory – 
(A sudden cry. A whisper)

I... go... 

(He crumples to the floor)

Saturday, 23 March 2019

Narcissistic Fathers

Narcissistic Fathers – 
Healing Yourself and Protecting Your Children From A Toxic Upbringing

"I'm not sure if it's a coincidence that Me and Stephen [Spielberg] grew up in the same environment - same with Marty [Scorsese].

Well, a Director is just someone who has a fetish about making The World the way he wants it - Sort of Narcissistic."

That's you....?

"All Directors....

They're vaugely like Emperors."

"We are all Redeemed Through Our Children....
I Genuinely Believe That."

- Lucas.

George Lucas is Crazy.

He identifies with Don Quixote
An Old Man with Dementia who thought he could Save The World from an epidemic of incivility simply by acting like a Knight.

His Religion was Decency.

And he spent a lifetime fighting its Enemies.

I wish he could be here to learn the name of his successor like I just did.

Our new boss, the new president of ACN, is MacKenzie McHale.

So This fight is just getting started.
'Cause he taught the rest of us to be crazy, too.

You are a Man, George.
You are a Great, Big Man.