This is the voice that gods summon to soothe their weary hearts.

Remember when I wrote this, denizens? No? I wrote it not very long ago in reference to the wonderful, talented Mr. Craig Bevan.

I still feel this way about his voice, perhaps even more so now that I am the proud owner of Craig’s debut album, I Think We’ve Made It.

Yes, the time has come, denizens. You know that Loba would never give her support to anyone or anything here at the lair unless I strongly believed in what I was writing. False promises are not how I roll.

I very much believe in Craig…and I don’t say that simply because he is my friend. I believe in him because he exudes talent in so many ways, but especially when he sings. Take a listen and you’ll know this truth: He loves his music, and that love shines through in every chord and every lyric.

So, here’s the deal: Head over to Craig’s site and get the free download that he’s offering there. And when you fall as in love with his voice and music as I have, you can go ahead and buy your own copy straight from his site. You can also follow the Amazon link I have up at the top of this post or you can buy it via iTunes. Whatever way you prefer, I simply hope you buy it. You won’t regret it, and you’ll be supporting a wonderful musician and a really groovy guy.

Second step of Loba’s Grand Bevan Plan? Tell your friends, just like I’m telling you. Send this post to them to read. Tweet them. Retweet them. Write about Craig on your Facebook page (or your MySpace page, if that’s how you still roll). Whatever way you choose, I hope you’ll join me in getting word out about Craig and his amazing debut.

You have no idea, denizens, how nerd-melty this makes me. I kid you not when I say that I have wanted a pair of Dr. Selar’s ears since I first saw the good doctor on the TNG second season episode, “The Schizoid Man.” Seriously. Not just Vulcan ears. Not even Mr. Spock’s ears (and I love Mr. Spock!). They had to be Dr. Selar’s ears. Like I’ve said before, I’m persnickety.

I always thought this was just going to be another one of my sad little geek dreams, kind of like owning one of Dr. Crusher’s lab coats or somehow obtaining one of the scarves that hang from Steven Tyler’s microphone stand (okay, that’s a completely different type of geekery…but it’s still one of my obsessions).

Then Mirror Universe things occurred in my life and I found myself standing on the precipice of Ultimate Geek Attainment. And I took it. Grabbed it with both hands and ran. Didn’t look back once.

So, yes, these are actually a pair of the ears that the beautiful and talented Suzie Plakson wore as Dr. Selar. I think they might even be the only pair left. They’re at least the only pair from Ms. Plakson’s personal collection. As is the photo of her as Dr. Selar, reading an issue of Omni magazine. Cute, no? The letter on the left is a lovely vignette that Ms. Plakson wrote about the ears. No, you can’t read it. Loba must keep some things to herself, you know. Oh, and this awesome custom framing? I can has amazingly talented aunt who does things like this for her geeky niece? Yes, please.

And there you go. Ultimate Geek Attainment. F.T.W.

So it is with Snickers. First came the Super Bowl commercial, with Betty White and Abe Vigoda:

I don’t think the line “That’s not what your girlfriend says” has ever been funnier. Or oogier.

Then there’s this one, the Diva Commercial:

I’m sure that I should feel some sort of consternation that these are both slightly misogynistic in nature (dudes unable to do their dudely deeds because their hunger has turned them into old women or divas…or Abe Vigoda), but there’s something so effing funny about both these commercials that my feminist sensibilities are appeased by the laughter they invoke. Especially that Betty White commercial. She’s so freaking funny. I’ve adored her ever since I first saw her as Rose Nylund, and I love how she continues to rule the funny block like the Comedy Diva she is.

I had a moment of epic geek proportions on my commute home this evening that I simply had to share with my denizens.

My drive home takes me through a busy section of city that calls for a lot of stop-n-go for about 3 miles. It’s not as bad as it sounds as I typically spend the time waiting for the traffic report and deciding what I’m going to listen to for the rest of the time I’m on the road. I know, tsk to me for splitting my attention.

So today, we’re all in a relatively speedy groove and I’m lucking out with all green lights. I’m also well ahead of the bus that runs its route along this same stretch of road. I can see it about five cars behind me and I’m well chuffed because I’ve beat it (and obviously listening to a British podcast, which encourages me to use slang like “well chuffed” even though I know it would make me sound like a proper git if I ever actually tried to use it in casual conversation).

Anyway, there are a couple of people standing at the bus stop, including a somewhat largely built guy (I think the proper term for him recently appeared in my Rob Zombie rant: “built like a brick shit house”). He’s wearing camouflage shorts, work boots, an unbuttoned jean shirt, and a T-shirt. More precisely, he’s wearing the T-shirt you see above. Yes, he is sporting a vintage fourth season Star Trek: The Next Generation cast T-shirt.

I have this same shirt. It’s in sad, over-laundered shape thanks to becoming the shirt that I slept in all the time, but I still have it, folded up in one of my “boxes of shame” (Pandoro ain’t got nothin’ on Loba). I loved this shirt. Loved the poses. Loved the weird layout that made it look like the crew was: a) letting off a weird nuclear glow; b) floating in space; and c) GINORMOUS in comparison with the Enterprise. Loved Beverly’s yellow hair.

What do I love even more? That I literally squeed when I saw this shirt on a dude I never in a million years would have pegged as a Trekkie. Just hanging out and heading home at the end of the work day. Wearing a shirt that’s more than 20 years old.

Tell me that doesn’t just blast awesome.

So, here. A combination of two of my favorite obsessions: the British and Star Trek. I think I may have pulled something with how fiercely I smiled throughout this entire video.

It remains a simple truth that, though I may not have my own Twitter account, I continue to haunt the tweets of my ImagiFriends^TM.

One, two, Loba’s coming for you…

So I’ve been having a bit of a resurgence of horror love as of late, thanks in part to my DVDregs project as well as the discovery of a new podcast (let’s see how well my denizens pay attention to their surroundings; this new podcast recently made the list under “Sounds Sweet” to the right).

I love horror movies. I love the coronary jolt, the acrid tang of fear and adrenaline. I’ve been a horror fan since I was a wee pup. Back in the day, it was all about gore for me. I was mad into slasher flicks. Freddy Krueger was my all-time favorite at the time, simply because he was all about the gore and camp, two things that when combined provide an unstoppable tsunami of entertainment for those so inclined to enjoy such a combination.

Actually, Freddy is still pretty high on my list of favorites, but I think I’m far more apt to choose the original movie over any of the sequels. That first appearance of Freddy was so very dark and grotesque and disturbing. The guy was a child killer when he was alive, which is one of the darkest of all the criminal acts one can choose for their villain…something that I think is completely glossed over in sequels, which trade in the disturbing truth of this burned boogie man for the camp of one-liners like “Welcome to prime time, bitch!” or “Better not dream and drive!”

As much as I enjoyed watching Robert Englund chew the scenery like a pit bull on steroids in all the sequels (and, really, there is no other reason to watch most of the sequels than Englund’s performances as Krueger), it’s that first appearance of Krueger that keeps pulling me back. That’s the defining Freddy movie, the one that most deserves its place in the horror pantheon.

[I'm still flipping a razor-sharp middle finger to the remake, though. I'd rather be forced to watch one of those craptacular sparkly vampire movies than have to endure watching Hollywood botch up another of my favorite horror movies a la Zombie's Hallowhathafu.]

So what scares me now? Atmosphere. I think I pretty much pushed this idea home significantly in my Halloween posting from last year. Almost every single movie on that list was frightening because of story rather than how much red dye and corn syrup they used in the making of the film. Even the gorier picks from this list depend more heavily on clever writing than on the gore factor (okay, so Billy from Black Christmas isn’t the most eloquent obscene phone caller…I’ll give you that).

It’s atmosphere. I remember my first realization of this truth came when I was about 12 or 13 years old. I was well entrenched in my horror phase by this point thanks in part to cable television and the local Nightmare Theater movie presentation every Saturday (followed, of course, by Freddy’s Nightmares and Friday the 13th: The Series). That Halloween, the community newspaper ran a contest in which they asked their younger readers to submit a scary story that would be judged for inclusion in their special Halloween section. Prizes were involved as well, but I don’t really remember what they were.

I also don’t remember what exactly I wrote for my submission. However, it was something horribly slasherific, something trite and predictable. Something that to me, at that point in my life, possessed all the trademarks of great horror. Needless to say, I didn’t win. But to this day, I still remember the story that did win that year. It was about a harlequin mask. No blood. No gore. No death. And it was scary as hell. Why?

All together now: Atmosphere. Something like that crawls under your skin and sleeps there, not jolting you immediately, but slowly releasing its venom through your blood, where it seeps and trickles until it’s permeated through to your very core. That’s the kind of horror I find myself loving most now. That doesn’t mean that I don’t like cheap scares as well…but the cheap scares are transitory. It’s the deeper scares that stay with you, make you squirm over and over.

Know what one of my favorite examples of this type of horror in recent years is? 2008′s The Brøken. It’s all the things that instantaneous shock seekers abhor: slow, brooding, surreal, and stylish. Would I recommend this movie to most horror fans? No, not really. It’s a bit too avant-garde for a lot of people’s tastes, and there are admittedly several WTF moments in which it seems as though something integral was cut too close for editorial comfort. However, I still very much enjoyed this film.

Same with 2005′s The Skeleton Key. Again, not a movie designed to slam you with constant jumps and starts. But I found that it crawled into my brain and hung around for quite a while, bothering me with its simple premise and simply creepy ending.

I guess what I’m saying is that I very much enjoy scary films that tamper with my senses and my sensibilities. Cheap thrills are just fine, but give me a movie that’s going to leave me afraid to open a closet (stupid Ring) or make the natural settling noises of a building set my teeth on edge, and I’m one happy wolf.

That’s all I really wanted to write about. Sorry if you were expecting something a bit deeper. How about this? I promise a book review soon and possibly even another DVDregs review. Ooh, ‘citin’!

Actually, no it wouldn’t be. Okay, sadly, I own this book. It’s sitting on my bookshelf right now. Mocking me with its blatant mediocrity. I have nerd shame about very little, but this book sends nerd shivers through my spine. And not the good kind.

Anyway, I whipped this up after random afternoon geek-dreaming in which I tried to figure out a way of fixing the X-Men movie franchise while crossing it over and tying it in with the aftermath of the TNG episode “The Host.” You know, the episode that introduced us to the Trill…and also introduced us to the uncomfortable realization that Beverly and Riker did the nasty, Trek-style (but only after Bev made sure Deanna was down with that).

No one checked with Professor Xavier…er, Captain Picard, though. I suspect he might have been a bit miffed, don’t you?

Like I said…silly geek-dreaming. Of course, this actually sounds better than that shit bog of a third X-Men movie that they actually made.

White Wolf in Snow by Acaciacat (click for link)

One of my ImagiFriends^TM, the multi-talented Tony, wrote the following sonnet for La LobaBlanca.

The white wolf waits in her cold winter cave
protecting her hoard of wet paints and pens,
knowing the stench of her insipid prey,
biting the vein of what they believe in.
Back in the woods where pollution can not
blacken and spoil the crystal-white snow,
she smiles at the stars children have sought,
litters the ground with perfect pinecone prose.
Other creatures scurry close just to hear
phantoms and fantasies worth embracing.
The delicious tone of her call so clear
giving voice to the continued beating,
the worldly pull of our Mother’s heart,
so full of life, reminiscent of art.

Needless to say, the White Wolf is both pleased and honored. I’ve had a lot on my plate and a lot on my mind as of late, some of which I have kept buried deep inside (the White Wolf is inclined to keep things mostly to herself, which even she knows is a questionable approach at handling life’s rockier terrains). To have received this at all was a delight, but it came at a particularly needed time. So, thank you, Tony. Thank you for thinking that the insanity that I help propagate through various online settings is worthy of such equally “perfect pinecone prose.”