Monday, November 25, 2024

LDS Geeks Podcast #30: Animorphs Overview


We've both been reading through the Animorphs series in recent years, so Russell and I had the idea to read through the books together and book club about it (because that's what we do here). Before we start the re-read, I thought it would be nice to simply talk about the books. 

--Spencer

PS: If the audio seems choppy, I apologize--It's because a large chunk of my recorded audio was lost, so I had to re-record a bunch of my parts while my daughter was occupied with Snow White. If you listen closely, you'll hear a scream from a dwarf around the 10 minute mark


Listen to Episode 30 on Spotify and Apple Podcasts.

Subscribe on SpotifyApple Podcasts, and YouTube

Check out Spencer's recent blog posts: click here

Check out Russell's recent blog posts: click here



Show Notes:

    Spencer's Recommendation:  "Beyond" from Moana 2

            Listen on YouTube

    Russell's Recommendation: A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving

            Available for streaming on Apple TV

    "The Problem with Animorphs" by Spencer

Friday, November 22, 2024

Friday Creature Feature - Trogdor

Rounding out the Year of the Dragon, I felt like I had to do one more dragon-related blog post. I'd planned to write about Spyro the Dragon, but life got busy with buying a house and such. Instead, I'm going to bring us back twenty years to the inception of Trogdor the Burninator.


Sbemail #58: Dragon

Trogdor began as a throwaway character/doodle in a random Strong Bad Email video. The premise was simple: Strong Bad gets an email requesting a drawing tutorial. But since nothing can be too simple, the request for Strong Bad to draw a dragon resulted in a dragon-man burninating the countryside. The video quickly turned into nothing short of a phenomena (at least as far as Homestar Runner is concerned). 


How to Draw Trogdor

The steps to draw Trogdor are pretty simple (I mean they come out of Strong Bad's masked mouth, so they have to be simple):

  1. Draw an S.
  2. Draw another more different S.
  3. Close it up real good at the top for his head.
  4. Using consumate V's, give him teeth, spineitties, and angry eyebrows.
  5. Add smoke or fire and wings for a wingaling dragon.
  6. Last but not least, every Trogdor must have a beefy arm growing from the back of his neck.


Trogdor's Legacy

Despite being a drawing meant for only one email video, Trogdor became insanely popular. The Homestar Runner ended up featuring Trogdor on various games and cameos. Even amongst regular humans, Trogdor (or at least his theme song) has been one of the more famous Homestar Runner references across pop culture--I mean, he was referenced on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so that's pretty famous. So please finish off the Year of the Dragon the right way, by following Strong Bad's steps to draw your own Trogdor and make sure you send us a copy. 

Wednesday, November 20, 2024

"That's Not Why I Rode"

     Sometimes the pull of the limelight can be strong. Sometimes I think about how I might look in the eyes of others if I do this or that. If it is a good idea, I think about how cool I will seem in the eyes of others. And if it’s a bad idea, I think about how bad I will look. Regardless of how I think I look in the eyes of others, this should not be the focus nor the reason for doing something, however motivating that may be. These thoughts have led me to remember a movie I enjoyed as a child and while it has been a while, I think I would still enjoy it as an adult. That movie is “The Man from Snowy River.” Let me try to tie in a part of this movie to my ramblings about the limelight. 



To begin with, I must share that the movie is based on an 1890 poem of the same name and is about an Australian cowboy. In the movie, the cowboy’s name is Jim Craig. Jim’s father dies (spoiler) when some wild horses charge through an area where he and his father are felling logs. The logs fall on his father who dies in Jim’s arms. Jim eventually goes to work for a big rancher played by Kirk Douglas. Jim falls in love with the rancher’s daughter, Jessica and befriends the rancher’s brother, also played by Kirk Douglas.  

When one of the prized colts of the rancher runs off with a herd of wild horses the rancher puts out a reward to get the colt back. Many cowboys show up to lend a hand at gathering up the herd in an effort to earn a share of the reward money. A great chase ensues to try to bring the wild horses and beloved colt back to the ranch. Jim fends off foul play by other cowboys and eventually the horses ride down a steep cliff. All the cowboys pull up short knowing this to be a dangerous place to follow after the horses. The only one who confidently is able to follow the horses down the steep hill is Jim and his horse.



Jim eventually gathers up the horses single handedly and returns them back to the corral. The rancher approaches Jim and holds out the reward money to which Jim replies, “That’s not why I rode.” 

This phrase, “That’s not why I rode” is what has stuck out to me with regards to motives for doing things. There may be many reasons why I do things, some good and others less so, but I certainly hope my motives will always be pure and not out of a desire to be seen as good in the eyes of others. That is not to say that I will always be altruistic in my desires, but hopefully I can find a “why” that has more to do with money, fame, or the proverbial spotlight.


Monday, November 18, 2024

The Kingkiller and His Lute


Have you ever read a book where a scene stood out so vividly that it stayed with you? Even months or years after reading, that scene pops into your mind because of how beautifully written it was. I’ve had many experiences like that, but this one is the most memorable.

The scene happens in The Wise Man’s Fear, part of The Kingkiller Chronicle by Patrick Rothfuss. No matter your opinion of him, I believe anyone who has read the series can agree that he is a master of prose. While the third book remains unwritten, it doesn’t diminish the artistry of the first two books.

As I mentioned at the start of this post, this is the most memorable scene for me, and I want to share it for two reasons:

    1. It deserves to be talked about more.

    2. I hope it inspires you to read the books—either for the first time or all over again.

art: GisAlmeida

Kvothe, the protagonist, is a young student attending The University. Struggling to pay tuition and make a living, he turns to his Edema Ruh roots (the traveling performers akin to bards) and plays music to earn his way. In The Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 5, Kvothe performs at a prestigious venue, the Eolian, where only the best musicians play. He performs two songs: first, a simple folk tune that he intentionally struggles with, and second, a challenging piece he plays flawlessly, almost as if he were bored.

Rather than analyze the text, I’ve included excerpts from the chapter for you to read and appreciate for yourself. I really like this scene because I felt like I could hear the music as Kvothe played these two songs. I hope that you will enjoy it too.

  I brought the lute out of its shabby case and began to tune it. It was not the finest lute in the Eolian. Not by half. Its neck was slightly bent, but not bowed. One of the pegs was loose and was prone to changing its tune. 

    I brushed a soft chord and tipped my ear to the strings. As I looked up, I could see Denna’s face, clear as the moon. She smiled excitedly at me and wiggled her fingers below the level of the table where her gentleman couldn’t see. 

    I touched the loose peg gently, running my hands over the warm wood of the lute. The varnish was scraped and scuffed in places. It had been treated unkindly in the past, but that didn’t make it less lovely underneath. 

    So yes. It had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because.That’s as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect. 

    Stanchion made a sweeping gesture in my direction. There was brief applause followed by an attentive hush. 

    I plucked two notes and felt the audience lean toward me. I touched a string, tuned it slightly, and began to play. Before a handful of notes rang out, everyone had caught the tune. 

    It was “Bell-Wether.” A tune shepherds have been whistling for ten thousand years. The simplest of simple melodies. A tune anyone with a bucket could carry. A bucket was overkill, actually. A pair of cupped hands would manage nicely. A single hand. Two fingers, even. 

    It was, plainly said, folk music. 

    There have been a hundred songs written to the tune of “Bell-Wether.” Songs of love and war. Songs of humor, tragedy, and lust. I did not bother with any of these. No words. Just the music. Just the tune.

    I looked up and saw Lord Brickjaw leaning close to Denna, making a dismissive gesture. I smiled as I teased the song carefully from the strings of my lute. 

    But before much longer, my smile grew strained. Sweat began to bead on my forehead. I hunched over the lute, concentrating on what my hands were doing. My fingers darted, then danced, then flew. 

    I played hard as a hailstorm, like a hammer beating brass. I played soft as sun on autumn wheat, gentle as a single stirring leaf. Before long, my breath began to catch from the strain of it. My lips made a thin, bloodless line across my face. 

    As I pushed through the middle refrain I shook my head to clear my hair away from my eyes. Sweat flew in an arc to patter out along the wood of the stage. I breathed hard, my chest working like a bellows, straining like a horse run to lather. 

    The song rang out, each note bright and clear. I almost stumbled once. The rhythm faltered for the space of a split hair. . . .Then somehow I recovered, pushed through, and managed to finish the final line, plucking the notes sweet and light despite the fact that my fingers were a weary blur. 

    Then, just when it was obvious I couldn’t carry on a moment longer, the last chord rang through the room and I slumped in my chair, exhausted. 

    The audience burst into thunderous applause. 

    But not the whole audience. Scattered through the room dozens of people burst into laughter instead, a few of them pounding the tables and stomping the floor, shouting their amusement. 

    The applause sputtered and died almost immediately. Men and women stopped with their hands frozen midclap as they stared at the laughing members of the audience. Some looked angry, others confused. Many were plainly offended on my behalf, and angry mutterings began to ripple through the room. 

    Before any serious discussion could take root, I struck a single high note and held up a hand, pulling their attention back to me. I wasn’t done yet. Not by half. 

    I shifted in my seat and rolled my shoulders. I strummed once, touched the loose peg, and rolled effortlessly into my second song. 

    It was one of Illien’s: “Tintatatornin.” I doubt you’ve ever heard of it. It’s something of an oddity compared to Illien’s other works. First, it has no lyrics. Second, while it’s a lovely song, it isn’t nearly as catchy or moving as many of his better-known melodies. 

    Most importantly, it is perversely difficult to play. My father referred to it as “the finest song ever written for fifteen fingers.” He made me play it when I was getting too full of myself and felt I needed humbling. Suffice to say I practiced it with fair regularity, sometimes more than once a day. 

    So I played “Tintatatornin.” I leaned back into my chair and crossed my ankles, relaxing a bit. My hands strolled idly over the strings. After the first chorus, I drew a breath and gave a short sigh, like a young boy trapped inside on a sunny day. My eyes began to wander aimlessly around the room, bored. 

    Still playing, I fidgeted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position and failing. I frowned, stood up, and looked at the chair as if it was somehow to blame. Then I reclaimed my seat and wriggled, an uncomfortable expression on my face. 

    All the while the ten thousand notes of “Tintatatornin” danced and capered. I took a moment between one chord and the next to scratch myself idly behind the ear. 

    I was so deeply into my little act that I actually felt a yawn swelling up. I let it out in full earnest, so wide and long that the people the front row could count my teeth. I shook my head as if to clear it, and daubed at my watery eyes with my sleeve. 

    Through all of this, “Tintatatornin” tripped into the air. Maddening harmony and counterpoint weaving together, skipping apart. All of it flawless and sweet and easy as breathing. When the end came, drawing together a dozen tangled threads of song, I made no flourish. I simply stopped and rubbed my eyes a bit. No crescendo. No bow. Nothing. I cracked my knuckles distractedly and leaned forward to set my lute back in the case. 

    This time the laughter came first. The same people as before, hooting and hammering at their tables twice as loudly as before. My people. The musicians. I let my bored expression fall away and grinned knowingly out at them. 

    The applause followed a few heartbeats later, but it was scattered and confused. Even before the house lights rose, it had dissolved into a hundred murmuring discussions throughout the room. 

    Marie rushed up to greet me as I came down the stairs, her face full of laughter. She shook my hand and clapped me on the back. She was the first of many, all musicians. Before I could get bogged down, Marie linked her arm in mine and led me back to my table. 

    “Good lord, boy,” Manet said. “You’re like a tiny king here.” 

    “This isn’t half the attention he usually gets,” Wilem said. “Normally they’re still cheering when he makes it back to the table. Young women bat their eyes and strew his path with flowers.” 

    Sim looked around the room curiously. “The reaction did seem . . .” he groped for a word. 

    “Mixed. Why is that?” 

    “Because young six-string here is so sharp he can hardly help but cut himself,” Stanchion said as he made his way over to our table. 

    “You’ve noticed that too?” Manet asked dryly. 

    “Hush,” Marie said. “It was brilliant.” 

    Stanchion sighed and shook his head. 

    “I for one,” Wilem said pointedly, “would like to know what is being discussed.” 

    “Kvothe here played the simplest song in the world and made it look like he was spinning gold out of flax,” Marie said. “Then he took a real piece of music, something only a handful of folk in the whole place could play, and made it look so easy you’d think a child could blow it on a tin whistle.” 

    “I’m not denying that it was cleverly done,” Stanchion said. “The problem is the way he did it. Everyone who jumped in clapping on the first song feels like an idiot. They feel they’ve been toyed with.” 

    “Which they were,” Marie pointed out. “A performer manipulates the audience. That’s the point of the joke.”