Dr.Bedlam

I know that a number of the older metal minis are in fact licensed from their sculptors, and when that license is no longer valid, Reaper quits selling the minis. This is why their ancient and beloved line of DOOM video game minis is no longer available; they aren't licensed to sell them. Buglips also makes a strong point: metal ain't competitive in the main market for Reaper figures these days. Nowadays, metal is considerably more expensive than the plastic derivatives used for most gaming minis, and when I see Reaper in the wild these days, it is almost inevitably in Bones; that's what's competitive with the licensed D&D stuff these days. Try to produce that stuff in metal, it's going to cost far more per blister than what you'll pay for the Nolzur's and Deep Cuts stuff. And don't even get me started on what metal dragons cost these days. And if Reaper is going to be competitive, they're going to have to pare down their line. I hate to see that... but if it's what they have to do, it's what they have to do.

I remember Ed. Met him at my first Reapercon, back around 2008(?). He showed me great kindness -- he knew me from the forums -- and went out of his way to make my first Reapercon a tremendous experience. I didn't know him as well as I would have liked; he was a hell of a guy. My deepest condolences to all those who knew and loved him. The circle is smaller by one.

And liquor. Don't forget that.

Never actually played HOTT, but I've seen it done. Looks like a hoot. Splendid work!

The whole metro area. Trying hard not to think about how several hundred people got served up a whole lot of suck right after Christmas... followed by a snowfall a day late to do them any good.

Boulder is on fire. Other than that, I'm pretty good... EDIT: Actually, Boulder's not too bad. Several communities between Boulder and Denver proper are utterly devastated. Between hundred mile an hour winds and wildfires, a great many people had to scramble for their lives.

...and not for the first time, I find myself pondering "Who makes pants for hill giants?"

I'm already kind of ahead of the game. Each year at Reapercon, I make a point of obtaining several out of the Boneyard while I'm there. I'm out now, though. Beware. I must return to Texas...

The story of the Santa Mouse began some thirty years back. Wife and I were, of course, poor as church mice while we Worked To Better Ourselves and finish up our Bachelors, get our certifications, and, y'know, have money and food and things. That was, of course, the Christmas that our little girl wanted the Advent Calendar, this thingy where each day before Christmas, you'd open a little door and there'd be a little treat behind it, as a buildup for Christmas. And, of course, as many of you who have been parents will know, Christmas is a heckuva time for parenting, because the kids have to have the Christmas magic, and yet the rest of the world wants PAYING for it, a thing which, at the time, I was not well equipped to do. There was a tree, there were presents, there was a dinner -- we had the basics covered -- but durned if this advent calendar thing didn't throw me for a loop, because it wasn't inexpensive, and I had no budget for it, and why they stick that stuff out there to tantalize the kids AFTER all the budgeting is done? And lacking funds, I fell back on ingenuity, and had her write a letter to the Santa Mouse. My darling little girl cocked a cynical eye at me and said, "Santa Mouse?" "Yeah, write a letter to the Santa Mouse." "And this Santa Mouse is distinct from Santa Claus? In what way? Elucidate," she said. I might mention that while my little girl was a sweet little toddle-darlin' with stars in her beautiful big brown eyes, she might have been a bit precocious. "Well, sweetie," I began in the proper dadly way, "You know Santa Claus. He's the Big Guy, with the big job of manufacturing toys, as well as brokering deals with major toy companies for specific high demand items, and operating mass delivery systems via reindeer, UPS, Amazon, and the post office, and the like. But like any big corporate deal, he has subcontractors." "Right..." said my little moppet. "And that's where the Santa Mouse comes in," I said. "Bein' a mouse, he is ill equipped to bring bicycles or Barbie's Malibu Dream House to your stoop; that's not his job. What Santa Mouse does, now, is he handles the small stuff, spaced out daily from Christmas, and then on Christmas Eve, he rides with Santa to deliver the last small item, and assist with cookie eatin' duties and suchlike." "Small stuff, spaced out daily," said my little girl, having immediately locked onto the salient facts in the narrative. "So, basically, chocolates, small toys, and suchlike?" "Yups," I said. "So Santa Mouse serves the same function as an Advent Calendar?" "Pretty much," I said. "But he's not the mass operation that Santa is. You have to contact him directly, and contract for the services." "And what criteria are in the contract?" "You have to write him a letter, care of Santa Claus, and ask. You have to give mommy and daddy a kiss before bed, and you have to be good, as per Section C of your Santa contract. And you have to leave the Santa Mouse his own cookie (or a piece of cheese) on Christmas Eve before you go to bed, to conclude the contract." "That doesn't sound particularly tough." "I leave it to you, my little darling." And so she wrote Santa Mouse and asked if he wouldn't please include our home in his daily routine, and gave me the letter to mail, because even though she was far from stupid, she WAS still a child, and certain observances had to be met. And so, the next day, I informed her that Santa Mouse had faxed me his response (it was the eighties, gimme a break,) and that daily services would depend on her ability to locate the Santa Mouse icon that he had provided me; he would be hiding it every night, somewhere in the living room, and it was HER job to FIND the thing and lay claim to the provided goodies what would accompany it. "Was this included in the contract?" she said doubtfully, examining the fax. "I assumed you were agreeing to the terms when I signed off on it as your proxy," I said. "Don't you remember our conversation about contract negotiations? If you didn't want to authorize me as your proxy, you shooda said so." And she sorrowfully agreed that one should always read the fine print before signing anything, sure. It's never too early to start on certain life lessons, you know? "So what do I need to do?" she asked. "Just leave the little Santa Mouse figurine in front of the TV," I said. "Each night. If it's there, he'll pick it up and hide it somewhere, and in the morning, you can hunt for it and see if he left you anything." And my little girl dutifully did just that, and upon searching the living room the next morning, found that the Santa Mouse figure was over on the bookshelf with a Fun Size Snickers bar, a thing she found quite acceptable... …and our rather odd December commenced. Now, at this point, the reader is no doubt wondering what the heck is going on. This is because I haven't explained it yet. Y'see, a while back, Reaper Miniatures began the manufacturer of these lovely little Santa Mouse pewter figurines, right? And as a collector, I bought and painted one, and this is what Little Darlin' was putting in front of the TV every night, and her mother and I would hide it in the living room along with whatever candy or goody I could scavenge from someone's candy dish at work, or whatever was in the bottom of her mother's purse, or whatever I could get out of a gumball machine with the coins I could find in the couch cushions. I make no apologies. Any poor person will tell you it's easier to come up with thirty bucks gradually on a daily basis than it is to do so all at once for a dumb overpriced advent calendar. Each day, she’d clamber out of bed and begin an examination of the living room until she found the little red Santa Mouse sitting atop a Fun Size M&Ms bag, or a pack of gum, or whatever. I did have a bit of a skid one day, when Santa Mouse was sitting atop a Happy Meal toy from McDonalds; I’d grabbed a quick bite there the previous day and had saved the toy for just this purpose. “It seems curious that Santa Mouse would reutilize secondhand merchandise,” my daughter mused. “The little plastic bag was still sealed,” I replied. “It was new merch, purchased from McDonalds, no doubt; even mice have to eat. McDonalds is, after all, the number one toy distributor on the planet. And when one is benefiting from a localized magical phenomenon, it is unwise to question the mojo, yes?” She had to agree with that, and the matter was dropped. As December went on, she did ask about Santa Mouse’s methods of operation. Did he use a sleigh? Perhaps he used Santa’s transport and tackle, to warm it up for Christmas? How does a mouse manage a full sized sleigh? I replied that he did not, that he instead used a gold plated roller skate, repurposed as a mouse sized sleigh, and pulled by a friendly enchanted pair of skunks, who could not only fly, but keep predators at bay while Santa Mouse did his job, as no sane predator would mess with skunks. “And how does he manage all the candy and toys on one roller skate?” “Same as Santa Claus does: magic bag.” “What are the skunks’ names?” “Barney... and, um, Clyde,” I said, thinking fast. Fortunately, she did not question this, and the conversation turned to other topics. By the time Christmas rolled around, Wife and I were pleased to note that we had spent under ten bucks on Santa Mouse, less than a third of what they wanted for the advent calendar, while providing hours of amusement and fascination for the child. And we were greatly touched when on Christmas Eve, she insisted on making a special little sandwich for Santa Mouse (Squeezy Cheez and Swiss on Ritz Cracker, with parsley sprig) to fulfill her contract with this strange and magical entity. I WAS just gonna eat the thing, but Wife insisted that I uphold the magic, and therefore I ate about half of it, and then made a great many little mouse sized bites out of the remainder with a hole punch, which I later had to clean the Squeezy Cheez out of, to my slight irritation. But it galvanized the Sproglet the next morning to see that Santa Mouse did indeed take tiny bites, as opposed to what Santa’s daddy-sized dentition took out of the Oreos. And thus a tradition was born. Years later, in college, she got around to asking me, “That first year with Santa Mouse?” “Eeeeyes?” I replied over my book. “Santa Mouse was all over the living room, hiding candy and toys?” “It would seem so.” “How many cats did we have at that time? Five?” she said, eyeing me for a reaction. “As I recall, Santa Mouse has a posse,” I replied smoothly. “Barney and Clyde, the magical skunks, specifically to keep cats at bay.” “What about Mr. Magoo?” she asked, referring to a cat we had had at the time. “Magoo was dumb enough to think he could make friends with a pit bull, and was in love with one of your socks. You think a couple of skunks would have slowed him down?” “Well,” I said, “what was the second lesson we took away from our experience with Santa Mouse?” The Kid frowned at me, and recited: “Always read the fine print?” “The SECOND lesson,” I said. She frowned again. “When one is benefiting from a localized magical phenomenon, it is unwise to question the mojo.” “She remembers,” I said with a smile. “Plainly, I have fulfilled my purpose as a parent.” And I guess I did. ****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************** Funny thing about this story? It's largely hooey. Anyone who knows me can check the dates, and say, "Dude, when your little girl was a little girl, Reaper Miniatures didn't exist yet. And by the time Santa Mouseling was in production, she was in college already." And this is true. But one year at work, I gave out hand painted Santa Mouselings, and they went over quite well, until someone wanted to know the STORY behind them. And, durnit, I can't turn down a request for a story, just because there actually isn't one, particularly when I'm already three cups into the spiked eggnog. So the first version of this tale was born. And now, every year at work, the Old Hands watch me like a hawk to make sure the new hires, at Christmas time, get their little Santa Mouseling and a printout of the story; it's a tradition now. And durn, I sure wish they'd start making Santa Mouseling in Bones...

ONE I'VE NEVER TRIED: Generally, the weirder ones that involve extensive preparation. The Seven-Layer Pousse-Cafe, for example; I've tried that, and it looks more impressive than it tastes. I've never tried an Alien Brain Hemmorhage. USUALLY ORDER: Rum. Picked up a taste for it from my parents, eventually got to like Captain Morgan's, and nowadays, I'm a Kraken fan. WILL NEVER ORDER: Tequila. I realize it makes no sense, physiologically or chemically, but I cannot hold my tequila. I can drink half a bottle of rum and be drunk, and I don't black out, and don't even have much of a hangover... but a single shot of tequila affects me the way a full moon affects a werewolf. Sort of. In the sense that I wake up in an unfamiliar place, don't know where my car or shoes are, and I wind up in a number of awkward and/or embarrassing conversations about what I did that night... And no, not a SINGLE shot. But for some reason, that first shot always seems to want four or five more to come keep it company...

We're not QUITE as bad as we were this time last year... schools were still at full inclusion last week, but the dratted board voted to make masks optional TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS at the request of certain parent groups, so, yeah, it's been dicey. Businesses are requiring masks again. Vaccinations and boosters are encouraged, and the loud people continue to be loud in opposition to it all. Bleh.

Nice work. And a prime example of how the paint job makes the mini... sometimes to the point of making it a whole different mini...

Helluvit is? Ain't even the first time. Damn cat.

Waaal, yer right, of course, but when the bugger jammed his snoot under there real GOOD, and I saw the DECK suddenly jack up a good six inches, I will admit I might notta been THINKIN' too clear, y'know?

Waaaal, there was that one time 'at dragon got into the back yard because the neighbor won't stop leaving meat scraps in the damn garbage, and then he climbed the fence and saw the cat, miracle he didn't crush the fence, and he decides he's goin' after the cat, and I hear the caterwauling and I run outside and the cat's run under the deck, and the damn dragon's got his head and neck under the damn deck and I run up and I kick him in the butt to make him leave the damn cat alone, and then he wallops me with his tail, he was just a little one, thank ghod, can't breathe fire or nothin', but he still took me off my feet with that tail, and then he commences to goin' after the cat again, and I knew damn good and well that he's going to tear the damn deck apart before Animal Control can get here, so I had to take a shovel to the damn dragon, beat the hell out of him, and he COULD have got away, but no, he's all invested in the damn cat, and by now he's knocked the corner of the deck off the pier and it's all cattywompus, and 'a stupid dragon got his HEAD stuck now, 'cause the deck's pinning him down and I can hear the cat, up between them joists, howlin' away, and I had to beat the poor dumb thing to death with a shovel. The dragon, not the cat. Cat was fine, but his tail was all poofed up like a bottlebrush, rest of the day. Took the rest of the afternoon to get the deck back on the pier, though. Damn dragon. Still got his skull in the rumpus room. By the way? Don't try to make jerky out of a dragon. It don't work.