You'll have to bear with me, but I'm a little freaked out right now. I had a touch of cabin fever, so I took a little walk at lunchtime, stopping by the Art Institute in search of a nice print for our west wall, popping in to Graham Crackers Comics to discover comics are still 75% higher than they were when I was a boy, and strolling through the Chicago Cultural Center to see the latest art exhibits. The CCC always runs interesting contemporary art shows with a minimum of hoity-toity, so I was looking forward to it.

When I got there I was pleased to discover an exhibit by an artist named David Philpot, presenting Mr. Philpot's Staffs of Tradition project. Acceptable outsider artist Mr. Philpot carves staffs from ailanthus altissima tree branches, then decorates them with trinkets, mirrors, buttons, and—my favorite—glass eyeballs. They're pretty cool looking, and I recommend stopping by to check them out.

Now, as for my fear... Being a do-it-yourself artist like Mr. Philpot, I wanted to take a non-flash photo of one of the staffs for inspiration. I did this in full view of the security guard, by the way. Snapping the shot, I was startled by a voice behind me, filled with anger:

"Sir! You can't take photos of those!"

Imagine my horror at discovering the supernatural properties of the staffs. Apparently, like the Eternal Silence statue in Graceland*, photographs of the staffs cannot be taken. Whether by divine will or satanic power, I do not know, she didn't explain it. But from the fury in her voice I knew that she spoke the truth.

Since I'd already gone through the motion of taking a picture, the hex apparently doesn't prevent the actual motions of photography. Hence, I assumed the film would be fogged... or rather the pixels would be jumbled, since I was using a digital camera. But would that be the end of it? How tremendous would my subsequent punishment be, having thrown off the balance of magick in this material plane?

The woman started to read the riot act to the guard, who was also unaware of the staffs' bad hoo-doo. Covering up my quaking terror, I mentioned calmly that there were no signs posted that forbade the taking of photos. I was ignored. No doubt she knew that I would soon pay for mine transgression.

Doublethick my blastonishment that the photo seems to be intact!



Yes! Free of gibbering devilbeast faces! Bereft of polterghosts and stoatblimps! Sans sinister personages long deceased and seeking succor through the salubrious soul-sucking of your humble narrator.

What then lays in wait for me? Shall the staffs leave their wall lair tonight and catch the blue line up to my part of Chicago, bloodthirsty and berserker frenzied in their desire to pummel my sizable cranium into jelly?

I cringe and wet myself in anticipation.

In other news, WTF? Calm down, lady. I'm not going to make my fortune on pictures of a bunch of damn costume-jewelry-covered sticks. Sheesh.

And might I suggest you remove the one in your ass.

* Also, you're not supposed to look Eternal Silence in the eyes, else you will die within the year. Which year I'm not sure, since I gazed beneath its cowl 16 years ago and have yet to kick off. But I trust that some day the statue's assassination power will work its black magic upon me.