← The Palace

Isabella’s black eyes bloomed in a field of wrinkles, and saw that it was morning. The blue of the mosaic sea was bright and twinkling, and the pointed window now opened her gaze onto the real sea, basking in the sun.

Isabella replaited her hair. She put on her faded blue breeches, her white linen blouse, and her leather vest. She laced up her boots and secured her wool cape at a jaunty angle across her chest. She peered into a small, pointed mirror and laughed. “Now,” she informed her reflection, “there really ought to be breakfast.” And there was, in the hands of a small chessman who wasn’t a chessman at all, dressed as it was in blue. It was a good breakfast, and soon there were only crumbs, which Isabella, perhaps remembering Guano, sprinkled on the broad window sill. Then she poked her head out of the room. Immediately, a blue-robed figure appeared on the spiral staircase above her door.

“Trying to keep me out of trouble?” Isabella asked, and followed the servant down the spiral staircase, out of the vast carved doors, and into the sunlit day. Immediately, Isabella looked around, and discovered that to her right, the long, tree-lined avenue not only continued, but continued to sweep up to the stairs of palaces. The first one she saw was a rather pretentious marble affair with five stumpy towers, rather like an elephant lying on his back. The second was a vast red globe with two spindly minarets on either side. Beyond that, a glass confection warred with a overblown chalet, and pyramids, cubes, domes, loggias, battlements and buttresses blurred into the distance. She blinked. Almost frightened, she looked to her left, and saw an indistinct building swathed in fabric. From it, the sound of hammers and the shouts of workers emerged muffled.

Isabella looked at the servant, but the servant seemed very absorbed in his or her hands, which were clasped in front of the blue habit. Isabella had not seen the hands of any of the chessmen or their blue friends before, and so she joined him in the study until he looked up with a start, and she caught a look down his hood at his face. He was about sixteen, with a freckled snub nose and very untidy brown hair. “I suppose wearing a hood saves brushing your hair in the morning?”

The boy nodded and blushed. “You’re not supposed to see,” he whispered, “so would you keep it quiet?”

Isabella considered. “I suppose you aren’t supposed to talk to me, either,” she hazarded.

The boy shook his head miserably.

“Well, dare the rules by telling me one thing, and I shan’t breathe a word of your mistake.” The boy nodded gratefully. “What are all those follies?” she pointed down the row of buildings, majestic in proportions and ludicrous in form.

“Oh, those are the Elder Palaces,” he said with a look of relief.

“Why are they so dreadful?” she asked, with furrowed brow.

“You said I was to tell you one thing,” the boy asseverated, lifting his chin back to his solemn posture.

Isabella laughed. “So I did! More fool me! Lead on, now, boy, and your freckles are safe with me.”

They mounted the crude board steps up to the mysterious New Palace, and Isabella was struck at once by the dim but omnipresent light, as if no wall had yet been installed, and the tinny echo of the men’s voices within. Her small guide brought her as far as a vast green curtain, before which the Seneschal stood.

Isabella strode up to him, fuming. “I don’t know where your servants were trained, Mr. Seneschal, but they’ve a curious idea of courtesy! They won’t talk, they won’t even meet your eye! It made me almost miss your sonorous orations.”

The Seneschal waved languorously to the serving boy, who nearly forgot himself and scampered in his relief. “Perhaps things are different where you come from, but in the Radiant and Scintillating Metropolis, a servant is but a cypher with hands, and to be more would be unseemly. We all,” he added, in a martyred tone that would have done credit to a death aria, “are but the tools of his Glorious and Eternal Majesty, and move but as he wills.”

Isabella smirked, “That’s lovely, I’m sure he’s very grateful. Is he through here?” she thrust her little brown hands into a cleft in the curtain, and emerged into a round chamber whose walls were little more than shelves, filled with bowl after bowl of clear glass. After a moment, she saw that each bowl contained a fish, cavorting in the lost rays of sunlight, and that at the end of the room, on a throne made of gold-lacquered wood and carved to resemble a great many goldfish inexplicably interested in holding someone up, there was a little boy of about 10 years of age. His eyes were grey and bored, his hand was beneath his chin, and his white blond hair was pushed into his eyes by the weight of a shining diadem.

“Your Majesty,” Isabella smiled, and dropped a very small curtsy, mostly to show off her cape’s flutter.

The boy frowned, and the heavy crown nearly toppled forward. Catching it, he saw the Seneschal leap into the room. “I’m so sorry, Your Exquisite Person! She…”

“It’s all right, Wallace.” the boy sighed. “What’s your business with the August Seat?” he asked Isabella, and she answered, as you might suppose,

“I go where I like, and I do as I please, and you can’t say better than that.”

The Boy →

I like to play the roleplaying game Exalted. When I can’t play it, I like to wish I was playing it, and discuss it over on the RPG.net forums. One supplemental volume for the game, which allows you to play an Undead Thing with kewl gear and 133+ powerz (as opposed to a Shining Hero with k.g. and 1.p.) is Exalted: the Abyssals.

A lot of discussion about this book centers around the cover:

Many people coughfanboyscough claim to have bought this book ($30 hardback!) SOLELY because the cover-girl, Maiden of the Mirthless Smile, is hot.

My problem? I don’t think she’s hot! She’s kind of blurry, her face is undead vanilla, the shoes AND the gloves say “clown” to me… is it just the big sword coupled with the “mammaries of death”? I’d just like some honest opinions from my readers here. I won’t judge you, squirt you with holy water, or drive a wooden stake through your heart. Scout’s Honor.

Scary Go Round is one of my top three favorite webcomics. Before it existed, its predecessor, Bobbins, was one of my top three favorite webcomics. Therefore, I think you’ll understand that when the creator of Scary Go Round posts that his readers should link to him on their blogs, to help save him from needing to get a day job, I say “bloooooog…help master…blooooog” in good little zombie fashion.

Bobbins was a British situational comic, with slightly zany… okay, very zany, young professionals having slightly surreal but always amusing lives.

Scary Go Round, by contrast, features many of the same characters, but mostly some secondary characters from the first strip, getting into trouble with supernatural forces in a zany, British manner. The dialogue is witty, the characters are endearing (even the zombies!) and the plot amusing. The art, which is always full color, is my favorite webcomic art hands-down. And I have read an awful lot of webcomics.

Scary Go Round:
Art: 5 stars
Writing/Plot/Characters: 5 stars
Reliability: [Destined to eventually be graphical, Felicity’s webcomic rating system rates reliability from red (frustratingly sporadic) to green (reliable but human) and blue (webcomic artist suspected to be indestructible supercomputer)|text|Green].

“Christ, man! Sure she’s pale and no stranger to the casket, but the family of man needs harmony, be we white, black… or mottled grey!”

Today, I really think it’s Friday. This would be quite unremarkable, except that yesterday, I thought it was Thursday (‘Oh, how will I run Buffy with a migraine?’), and Tuesday, I thought it was Wednesday (‘Hmm, maybe I’ll get my comics today instead of tomorrow!’) Even as I type this, I can’t remember that today is Thursday. Today I will buy comics and run a Buffy session. Today is not the day of watching movies with Wonko and entourage. Today is not the day of blessed release.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been quite so persistently wrong about the day of the week. Just imagine how confused I’ll be if I get Labor Day off…

← The City

Isabella followed the Seneschal through the darkened streets of town. Many of the houses were brick, and some were a cheerful yellow stone, but none of them showed much promise in the scintillating radiance department.

“No doubt,” said the rich-voiced Seneschal, “you are struck dumb with wonder.”

Isabella thought it more politic not to say. “I am wondering one thing, actually,” she offered, “why are you a Seneschal, and not a singer?”

The man faltered in his smooth pace, and then kept on, “The office of Seneschal is an ancient and revered one,” he said at last, and Isabella made no further attempts at conversation.

At last the Seneschal paused – he was a tall man, and Isabella had to take three steps to his two – and gestured across a substantial footbridge. “The Old Palace!” he proclaimed. Isabella crept closer, and the building crept out of the night to meet her eyes.

The Old Palace was a great phantasmagoric beast, a bundle of towers roped together like asparagus or stalks of wheat; all were topped with ridiculous turban-like protuberances, which grew in such variety and profusion that Isabella was put in mind of a bad arrangement of tulips. In the center, a great teardrop-shaped door beckoned, lit by unobtrusive torches on either side.

Isabella’s head swivelled, and she peered back down the unremarkable streets. She turned to look at the palace again. It was still there, and if anything, more grotesque. She frowned at the Seneschal, who made no sign of understanding her behavior. “What, may I ask, does the New Palace look like?” said she.

“It’s under construction,” he boomed, and led the way rather quickly across the stone bridge, over a wide cobbled avenue, and up the wartily mosaiced steps of the Old Palace. Several stairways later, Isabella felt closer to seasick than she had ever been on a ship, and the Seneschal produced an immense key-ring, ringing with well-polished keys, and introduced her into a dark guest room.

“I trust it will be sufficient to your needs,” he said, without making the sentence a question, and was gone.

Isabella paused for a moment before lighting the lamp near the bed. Perhaps she did not want to know what it looked like. But curiosity prevailed, and Isabella lit the lamp and saw.

It was an aging room, but sumptuous. The hangings of the bed were indigo velvet and brocade. The walls were mosaic, not in gaudy gold, but in shades of blue and grey that she saw gradually were the sea and a fleet of grand triremes sailing majestically in all directions. She took off her boots and her cloak and laid them on a venerable and dusty rocker. She brought forth a set of rather over-large pyjamas from somewhere, and donned them. She sat on the foot of the grand bed as she unbraided her hair. From this vantage, the ships on the walls seemed to be sailing directly away from the bed, as if scattered by Isabella’s commands. She grinned. “To the ends of the earth!” she cried, “and back before teatime!”

Isabella tucked herself into the great four-poster bed, told herself a bedtime story, and blew out the light. She stared up at the canopy, adorned with compass roses. She smiled like a cat full of cream.

“I go where I like, and I do as I please, and you can’t say better than that.”

The Emperor →

On my way to work and on my way home, I drive past a spot on Cornell where they are building a Krispy Kreme. “Horrors!” you may exclaim, “Those tempting donuts will be the death of you!” However, I have never tasted KK donuts, and have no intention of doing so. Not when there’s a fine family-owned Haggen grocery store a block or two later, hand-making maple bars especially for me every day of the year. I have heard KK donuts are not all that good, and I don’t intend to put myself in the way of their addictive chemicals to find out.

So, why do I care? Well, I’ve watched with slight interest the odd bustle surrounding the construction of the building. The whole thing began with a sign saying:

Krispy Kreme
HOT Donuts in - Days
where days was some large number, to begin with. The numbers go down and the building goes up, and it’s everything you’d expect a Krispy Klone to be. Some weeks ago, a “now hiring” sign went up, and soon after, signs directing to parking for employee training. All very well and good.

Yesterday, when I drove by, I found that the Krispy Kreme (HOT Donuts in—1 Days) had a full parking lot. Full of tents. That is correct. There are people with so little to do that they will camp out not for a movie, not for concert tickets, but for food. You know, there is a KK somewhere else in Portland. It’s even already open. Almost more disturbing was the cache of signs in said parking lot, bearing such legends as Krispy Kreme Shuttle.

So today, all unthinking, I start my normal drive to work, only to discover that Cornell, a major artery, is closed. At the Krispy Kreme. They are detouring us around the donuts. Pastry has changed my commute. I just kind of drove with my jaw hanging. A donut shop opening justifies a major inconvenience and taxpayer expense. There were at least 2 squad cars and two police bikes enforcing the detour. I guess they must have been right, all these years, about cops and donuts.

← The Trireme

The chessmen tilted their hoods in what might have been a quizzical gesture, but was certainly not an ominous one. Isabella shrugged, and said, “How about, take me to your leader?”

“A most daring request,” the middle chessman intoned.

“We must confer,” the right-hand chessman added.

“In private,” the left-hand warned.

Isabella did not budge, and so with a faint ‘tsk’ the chessmen floundered over the boulders until she and Brogg could not hear their conference. In a moment, they returned.

“You may travel with us and be awed by the Majesty that is the Empire and its Golden Visage.”

“Excellent,” said Isabella. The chessmen turned and streamed awkwardly towards the water. The little woman cocked her head at Brogg, who was looking dumbfounded. “If the tower’s comfy,” said she, “Go ahead and stay. But I’m not sure this lot is worth eternal devotion. They’re a bit pompous, it seems to me.” With an impertinence that almost broke her fingers, Isabella leapt up and pinched Brogg’s cheek before turning to go.

She traipsed over the boulders behind the chessmen and smiled to see that they did indeed have a boat, concealed at the foot of the promontory. It was grey, and flat, but it held the chessmen and Isabella perfectly well, and floated silently towards the trireme moored in the bay. Isabella jumped up and down, just to see, and the raft bobbed but continued unperturbed on its way. The chessmen turned to face Isabella, who said, “You know, scowls are more effective when one can see them.” The figures turned slowly away with an aura of affronted dignity. Isabella waved to Brogg, who was standing, confused and ponderous, on the rocky shore.

The raft met the trireme, and was raised to the deck with four lines. Isabella stepped off, sniffed the salt air, and smiled around. No one took any notice of her, moving as they did like self-important ghosts to their silent tasks. The ship slowly lurched into movement, the sails now tightly furled as if to impress upon the visitor still further that their ways were dark and mysterious. Isabella walked around the deck of the ship, peered at the unmanned wheel, and followed the hooded sailors on their pacing crossings of the forecastle. At last, she turned her face to the great gray mast in the calm blue sky, and climbed into the crows nest. There she produced a pear from her cloak, and wiled away an hour in snacking and attempting interrogation of the local gulls.

Finally, a stark white gull from the stern caught sight of the game of cat-and-mouse, or rather, gull-and-pear, that was transpiring, and rose to investigate.

“Refreshments can only be provided to intelligible sources,” Isabella was warning the squawking birds with a stern expression.

“Howzat now?” said the white gull, “I’m a seagull, not an intelligible source.”

Isabella smiled, “We shall see, and perhaps you shall eat.” The gulls who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, talk, settled onto the rigging with bad grace and much ruffling.

“You’re not a cat, are you?” the gull asked.

“No, why do you ask?”

“You climb up high and you’ve got a tail,” the gull eyed her braid.

“No, I’m a human being.”

“And that,” the gull pecked in the direction of her pear, “is something to eat.”

Isabella raised an eyebrow and held the pear even more protectively. “Do you travel with this ship much?”

“Off and on, last few months.” his beady eyes watched the remaining pear eagerly.

“Why?”

“Makes a change.”

Isabella nodded. “An excellent answer.” The seagull looked hopeful. “How does it move?”

The seagull looked exasperated. “I think something under the water pushes it.”

“What might that be, do you suppose?”

“I’m a seagull, not a scientist!”

“Indeed. What is your name, seagull?”

“Guano.”

Isabella blinked. “May I ask why?”

“Simple. Guano’s white, so am I,” he cocked his head, “What? It’s not like they named me after something to eat or something insulting like that.”

“All right, Guano,” Isabella smirked, “Have a pear.” She produced a fresh pear from her cloak, and Guano retreated to the stern, dropping under his heavy burden and attempting to guard it from the swarm of argumentative seagulls. A chessman looked at the raucous birds, and up at Isabella. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” she called.

The hours passed in the rocking, breezy way hours do on a calm sea in a smooth and silent boat. Guano returned to the crows nest to offer information of dubious import in hopes of further payment, but the other gulls saw he would get naught and returned to their usual business. The sun put her toes into the ocean and dyed it with her radiance, spreading the red and violet behind her into the leaping waves. She sank into her damp slumber in a slow exhalation of color, and Isabella heard a chessman below ring a chime. On her left, as she watched the sunset a dark mass of land had crept up, and now stood quiet and dignified in the fading light. It was, of course, too dark to see it properly, but the frail pinpricks of human light and the regular, dark shapes scaling the skies told Isabella that she had come to a city. The ship entered the harbor under the watchful eye of a flame-tower, and the chessmen tied up to a rather obnoxiously clean pier. A particularly short chessman with a particularly self-important gait approached the mast and looked expectant, so Isabella shimmied down and smiled at him.

“The most Radiant and Scintillating Metropolis of his August Serenity Adelmar the Fourteenth, Emperor of the Perfect Lands of Hereabouts.”

“For a scintillating and radiant metropolis,” remarked Isabella as she gazed on the sleeping city, “it’s rather dark.”

A sniff caught her attention, and she turned to see a new, lean chessman walking up the gangplank, his black costume brightened with a steel pin in the shape of a coronet.

“His most Cogitative Excellency, the Seneschal,” offered the short one in a rather smug manner.

“How dare you mock the multifarious beauties of the resplendent Imperial Seat?” he said, in a rich, deep voice at odds with the slight width of his habit and full to the brim with indignation and repugnance.

“I go where I like, and I do as I please, and you can’t say better than that.”

The Palace →

← The Tower

Brogg stood at the door, and Isabella walked into his tower. “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea,” she said, and Brogg was sure her twinkling eyes had spied his biscuit crumbs.

“I have only one mug,” said Brogg cautiously. She did not look like a Tower Builder. But if she was a Tower Builder, then she must have tea.

“Don’t worry, I’ll wash it out.” She hung her woolen cape on a hook Brogg had not known was there, and its drips pooled in a mossy crack in the flagstones. She picked up the dented tin mug and the little three-legged kettle. She drew water from the brass faucet as if it were not an unprecedented wonder of the Builders, and set it to boil on the eternal flame enshrined in the center of the tower.

“You can’t do that!” burst out Brogg, near tears at the sheer impertinence. “Brogg tends the small flame, that the large flame may not be quenched!”

Isabella peered at the lively little fire atop its stone column, “It doesn’t appear to be in any danger of going out.”

Brogg groaned, and the stones shook, “That is not the point! It is my sacred trust!”

“Why?” Isabella said, cocking her withered-apple face inquisitively.

Brogg was on safer ground. “I guard the flame so that it may give warning.”

“Of what?” Isabella wanted to know.

Brogg glowered, a glower that would freeze the storming sea and set the anemones to fleeing. “Of something happening!”

“I see…” Isabella said, and lifted the piping pot off the eternal flame of the dark tower. Brogg averted his eyes. She produced some tea leaves from somewhere about her person, and set them to brewing. “Would the flame go out if something were to happen?”

Brogg was sullen.

Isabella poured her tea, straining it through an old, but clean, hanky. She drank it slowly, and when the last drop had steamed into the air to rise up the tower’s forbidding walls, she glanced out the one narrow window and saw the moon glinting off an ocean murmuring in quiet exhaustion. “Perhaps,” she grinned, “it was a tempest in a teapot.”

She rinsed out the pot and the mug in the stream of water from the Builders’ wonderful faucet, and dusted her hands. “Now that I am dry,” she said, “And so is the weather, I shall go see this great flame of yours.”

Brogg considered. Now she would know the greatness of the Builders. “You may,” he said at last, and found that she had already found and opened the door to the stairway, and was several steps up. He followed, casting a scornful glance at the profaned tea-kettle as he mounted the stairs.

The stairway wound its way to the top, where a fire large enough to burn any number of Isabellas, or even several Broggs, was enjoying the newly calm weather. “If the smaller one controls this one,” said Isabella, “is it really a fire?”

Brogg looked virtuously incurious.

“Come now,” said Isabella.

“I have to clean it,” admitted Brogg reluctantly, “or it goes green. It is warm, but does not burn.”

Isabella immediately thrust her hand into the diaphanous flames, to the pious Brogg’s disgust. She smiled widely. “Now,” she said, “What’s this?” She eyed a large iron lever, unrusted but decorated by passing gulls.

Brogg looked truly frightened. “It is…never mind!”

“Well, then you certainly won’t mind if I…”

“No!” yelped Brogg, and the rocks below shivered in their sleep and disturbed the lapping water. “Brogg’s sacred trust! Nothing has happened!”

Isabella looked between the lever and the large metal circles set into the tower’s top. “Yes, it has,” she remarked, “I have arrived.”

And Isabella pulled the lever, which was as tall as she, and Brogg covered his eyes with his vast bronze hands. The circles popped out of the ground like trap doors. Brogg jumped as one rose up beneath his bare feet. The circles were, of course, mirrors, and the curious fire was thrown about between them until it beamed away into the distance in a soft golden line. Isabella smiled up at Brogg. “Quite pretty.” Brogg shook his head in disbelief.

Brogg tried to move the lever back, but only managed to break it, the miraculous and beautiful lever the Builders had made him. He stomped back down the stairs, crumbling a bit more masonry in the process, and leaned heavily against a more solid wall.

Isabella unplaited her grey-black hair, which was still a bit damp, and remarked, “It is time, I think, to turn in.”

“I do not sleep,” Brogg lied.

“Well, then, you won’t mind if I take this lovely armchair.”

The morning greased along the top of the waves, crept into the narrow window, and found Brogg sitting morosely on the floor of the tower. Isabella was curled up comfortably in his large armchair. Brogg glared at the morning, and when he returned to glaring at Isabella, he found she had awakened and was replaiting her long hair. “I hope you slept well,” she said cheerily to Brogg, who was looking a trifle green under the eyes.

Brogg mumbled something about not sleeping. Isabella surveyed the little slit of ocean. “Ah, look, we have visitors!”

Brogg leapt to his feet heavily, and looked over the exasperating little woman’s head. Surely, there was a dark grey ship coming, wind pushing half-heartedly at its white sails. It was a trireme with no oars.

“Let us go out to meet them,” said Isabella, and Brogg started to weep. But she took his large bronze hand in her small brown one, and coaxed him to step, for the first time in several centuries, out of the tower.

The grey trireme had anchored in the little bay, and while no boat was to be seen, three hooded figures waited atop the hill of rocks. They wore stiff black cloaks with wide, bell sleeves that swallowed their hands, and deep, pointed hoods that hid all but the stern set of their chins. Isabella thought they looked like chessmen.

Isabella drew near, and drew Brogg with her. Brogg tried not to look at the Builders.

“Why have you called us here?” said the middle chessman in a hollow, sepulchral voice.

Isabella smiled. “I go where I like, and I do as I please, and you can’t say better than that.”

The City →

Part I thrilled you. Part II showed you the meaning of fear. This summer, it’s a new kind of backstory.

Lihan barely breathed as the feet stalked nearer. The bed creaked, and the feet tucked back, heels only inches from his nose. Tiny soundless bells swung from the golden slippers.

“Hello,” said a voice, and Lihan was sure he had been detected. “You are so small,” it said, “So small to fill a room with fear, and fast asleep.” It was talking to Ida. Its voice sounded like a carillon, ringing but staccato and hollow. “Perhaps it’s having a nightmare. I do love a good nightmare.”

Lihan did not, could not, think of his sister. She was lost. All he could think of was his mother. She was probably already gone, too, stunned and stacked with the others like fine pelts, in the back of some vehicle drawn by a phantasm and bound for oblivion. That’s what she had told him they did, the fell beauties that fed on emotion, were drawn by fear… Lihan very nearly swore again, breaking his silent clench. It had sensed him. Mama said they could smell, or feel, fear… I mustn’t be afraid… he imagined every dream, feeling, and hope, draining from him. Be brave! He saw blue glittering eyes drawing near him, he felt his soul ebbing… Don’t be afraid, idiot! He saw the fae’s vast, warped palaces in his mind, towers made of sky growing out of the earth — his heart slowed. Impossible towers where you could climb forever and never travel anywhere. He could breathe again. Don’t think about the Fae.

He closed his eyes to the clear towers of flesh rising from the slippers, and sculpted an impenetrable fortress out of a rock in the Southern Desert. A cunningly concealed tunnel led to a windship and freedom. He laced together a city among the lofty tree-tops, and moored a secret airship in the branches for his own emergency use. He designed a pleasure palace with a thousand hidden passages promising escape. He opened his eyes at a sound, and saw the fine slippers moving off, Ida’s sudden bawling receding with them. He did not pay attention. He would build a temple from the coiled heap of a marble dragon, and leave its innards hollow and smooth, a chute to spit him down to the temple garden.

It was two days until he heard a sound he allowed himself to hear.

“By the Wind Snake’s fewmets,” a deep voice said. It was a rough voice. It swore.

Lihan couldn’t remember words at first. “Buttress!” he shouted weakly, “Cart!” finally, he dredged forth, “Please!”

“Trefoil, Hamit, I heard something!” The deep voice yelled, “Cover me!”

“River!” Lihan squeaked, as he threw his stiff arms out towards the mud-caked hob-boots. “Water…help…” he grated. He tried to cry as they pulled him from under the bed, but there were no tears left in his dusty eyes.

To be continued…

Sleeping is more exciting with thunder crashes. They remind me of Cleveland.

Having to turn on my windshield wipers for the first time in an eon makes me smile unconsciously. Very Oregonian.

Changing two lanes at once isn’t just something your mommy said not to do. It’s a Bad Idea, and nearly shocks and appalls the near-accident witness.

I was on a three-lane one-way street that turns left (it’s odd) and suddenly every view roadward was of a bus. I felt intimidated but awed by their majestic ponderosity. It was like swimming with whales.

There is no way to ensure that you are awake like accidentally blasting the car horn in an enclosed basement garage whilst exiting the vehicle. I previously thought the Toyota’s horn was wimpy. I may have been wrong.