The Quest for the MaGen

Dear readers, I post this to you at the end of a dire quest. The story begins here:

(The Mary Bergen thread) http://chiffboard.mati.ca/viewtopic.php?p=553396#553396

Chapter 1

It was a dark and stormy night.

(I learned to start stories like this from the Peanuts comics - no one has taught me better ... except for Homer Simpson's dad)

I've had a generation whistle somewhere in my house for years - they come in handy for when you want to toot-out some melody you want to remember. But alas, they are usually concealed below the exhausted aaa cell battery packs used for toys and torches long since land-fill, and you find yourself singing scales in a whisper lest someone gets concerned and calls the white-coat guys (just try explaining to the 16-year-old PHD psyche expert you were just remembering a tune - it's hard to climb those 20 foot barb-topped fences!).

I never had to ask any of my Gen's for their sanity credentials. That is, until I joined C&F and found an active cell of antiGens well at work!

Well, dear reader, I'm all in favor of eliminating pathoGens, however, I have never met one and can't understand the hysteria. So, I thought it best to go in search for these PathoGens and expose myself to them in the name of science. And here-in lies a tale of woe.

And, in the goodness of time, lo - I beheld the antiGens at work in the Mary Bergen thread and examined them closely (yea verily) indeed.

It was reputed by the antiGens that Generations were, by and large, all dark MagGens - that is: instruments of great buzz and woe unto the learner - to the extent of the very extinction of the music nerve!!!!

THEY MUST BE NUKED! (I thought quietly).

It is these quiet thoughts that, in my dotage, have become suspiciously regarded whispers - at one time would propel me to plan mayhem or speeches - which is why they are now suspect.

How Dare I be provoked (no matter how quietly) to be nuking musical objects which had, hitherto, caused me no grief!!

Nuke? say I “nay!: let them undergo the inquisition <aaaaaarrrrrrr> nothing escapes the …“ but I digress (as much as possible) ...

Here we have a hundred souls, all whistles. “Trial by the ordeal of my nOOby breath”, say I – “let any pathoGen be revealed to my garlic query, let all who wheeze, squeak or falter be exposed as destroyers of our youth's expression, spoilers! And, yes, PATHOGens! - to be burned at the steak (after the steak has been removed from the barBQ! and served with blacken-ed onion rings - aaaarrrrr!)”

And that's what I did.

A hundred whistles, brass and nickel with heads red, blue and green - all were numbered on their gummy, sticky, barcoded bits of paper (these things really annoy me - they are considerately applied loosely so they can be removed, but leave a gummy clag that needs to be cleaned off with the strongest solvent - otherwise customers would return encrusted with gummy generations accompanied by a pack of lawyers and a writ!)

Fortunately, the gummy barcodes were all stuck to the reverse-side bottom where no fingers need to go. I could proceed. And so they all were number'd and enter'd in my spreadsheet for their accounting.

Aaaaarrrrr

Chapter 2

Not only was I on the rampage against pathoGens lurking in my hoard, I was also in hope of discovering the grail of leGENd - a MaGen!!!! If I could uncover one of these, then I would be set - I would send my dog to busk Saturday nights in the mall and collect his royalties from my 100-room cottage in the south of France (yeeeeeHA!). Does not Brid and Mary each have one of these??

So how to encode? I, just a lowly nOOb armed only with hearsay and advice from other nOObs and the cautionary diplomatic hints from a sage Irishman. OK so I tried a bunch to determine what might be wrong with these beloved minstrels.

What I found made me squeeemish - for only Stanley Beamish … (oops - another quest from long ago ...) ... picking hay from my hair I ruminated on my findings. "Moo" I said.

That was nice being bovine for an instant, but I had work to do!

What I saw was a bunch of different dimensional challenges that might face any pilgrim on the rocky road - and these are them:

Tuning - all the Gens were sharp on my paid-for share-ware software tuner - by +20 cents or more!!! (Editor’s note: 20 cents sharp is not noticeable to the average human ear)

Buzz - many Gens had a propensity to cuddle-up to a higher harmonic on one or more notes - this does not necessarily make them bad - just complex. By altering my force-of-garlicy-nOOb-breath I could tease-out the fundamental, with difficulty but none the less.

Rasp - the odd gen had a rasp that seemingly had nothing to do with the note's harmonics. This I dubbed "PermaBuzz".

Wheeze - some Gens had this strange feature whereby each in-breath produced a wheeze through the airway making me feel much more asthmatic than I am. It doesn't sound obviously to the listener - just to the player. Damn annoying!

So armed with these aspects I proceeded to score all 100 souls - scoring half a demerit for every cent above +20, 15 demerits for every buzz, 25 demerits for every PermaBuzz, and 60 whopping demerits for every wheeze! And faithfully recorded each in turn, note by note.

What I expected to see was a perfect bell-curve ascribed from 0 to 100.

And what, dear reader, did I finally see?

Chapter 3

What I found was confounding - a bell curve yes! But a bell with shoulders ~~~ what the - had I been too severe with the wheeze? And yet such unkindness would produce only one hump not two!!

The Generation is a Dromedary!!!

Trudging through miles and miles of desert clefs denuded of music, the notes like sand in my throat I became a ship of the desert and forged on ...

It seems that, from the hundred, emerged 2 camps of extremists: ultra conservatives and Jonquil kissers bedamned! 6 in the Dems and 6 in the Republicans - and these were drawn for the shoot-out.

Now this is the kind of shoot-out you'd like to see on capital hill - where they shoot each other and not people on the other side (of the world). Oops - nuther quest again - back to the haystack "moo".

Well after many days doing this stuff, not eating properly (let me tell you - hay is not nice), being hyper ventilated all the time and not getting enough sleep and all these green 10-legged elephants crawling in and out my ear holes, not to mention that twisty thing happening in the cieling. Trying to discern the difference between buzz, character and rasp objectively enough to discern a number. After the smoke cleared, two whistles were left standing. A nice little brass redtop and an evil little nickel sucker. The MaGen and the Psychohazard!!!!

Here's what they sound like - the best and worst as played by my nOObishness:

MaGen:

Psychohazard:

Chapter 4

The quest was done, and yet, not yet - The MaGen is undergoing a little cosmetic surgery as starlets often do, consorting with sticks, wearing designer shades made for blowflies, dodging the paparazzi and ducking into the engravers for a nice little tat before being donated to charity. The Psychohazard has been wrapped in tinfoil awaiting his interment in concrete for all eternity.

And yet when this is all done, still linger the cautionary echoes of the sage Irishman’s advice ...

Today, I had a well experienced whistler around to record some snips for a bunch of whistles and, on a hunch, I unwrapped Psycho, and had a goon escort her lovelyness half-tatted to our little post-tootem.

Here is what an experienced player makes of the best and worst in a Generation - first the MaGen, then the Psychohazard - their fates are already sealed:

MaGen followed by Psychohazard:

Played by Johnny Duffy - many thanks Johnny.

(I left his comments in place - I leave the conclusions up to you)

The End

Epilogue

So poor old Psycho is doomed regardless of whether he could be tweaked to the light-side - the rules must stand. His cohorts in the republican hump will be more fortunate - while they were unconscious after the fray I had some goons bind them in cello-tape lest they attempt to re-mingle with the populace. They are destined for an offshore "re-education" camp somewhere outside our territorial waters and hence beyond the convention. I'm sure they will return well adjusted <mwa ha ha>.

Never fear that Psycho might, one day, escape to blight future eons. The secret place of interment is festooned with the nests of dormant funnelwebs - they will guard it for all eternity. And they hate being dug-up in the middle of a nap. By the time anyone gets fool enough to approach, the Three Sisters will be 3 small lumps! As well, the concrete plug will be inscribed with the powerful ward of Psychohazardancy - a thing no mortal can bare to behold without becoming really weird - I should know, I have one here with me. And - If the worse should happen and a freak earthquake should dislodge the plug, destroy the ward, kill the spiders and crack the concrete thus reveling Psycho - I have taken the precaution of including Jerry Freeman's address on a piece of velum within the folds of tinfoil. That should do the trick! “moo”

Pictures of the Quest

MaGen Prepared for stardom!

MaGen ducks in for a fashionable tat “This may sting a bit” “What are ya – a dentist? … OUCH!"

A quick photo-op to keep the paparazzi happy, then off to a celebrity limo party in Stick’s MOT. The MaGen will now spend a few days preparing for the dfernandez’ gala charity gig.

The Fate of Psychohazard

As a last request, Psycho gets his nick-name applied.

The dark MaGen is wrapped in tinfoil to contain the evil, music-destroying emanations.

Just as a precaution – Jerry Freeman’s address is added in case some hapless archeologist uncovers the tomb. An emergency tweaking is all that will save the future from his awful might!

Fully wrapped, the psychohazard is now safe to handle. With the terrible radiation contained, the atmosphere seems somewhat lighter.

The secret Atrax-infested location.

The tomb is carefully excavated.

The Psycophagus is prepared.

The cement slurry is mixed – our thanks to Stick who volunteered a relative to help with the mixing.

The Psycophagus back-filled and prepared for the pouring. The prisoner is drummed-out before being subdued with a spade.

The pouring of the slurry.

The interment of Psychohazard begins!

The prisoner struggles and tries to escape! – Quick! Hand me a stick! “OI! Lemme go!!” Oops – sorry Stick.

This calls for the Holy Size 8 Doc Martin of Antioch!

The prisoner is interred! Pour the cap-stone!

Bring forth the Ward of Psychohazardancy!

Strike-up Banish Misfortune, as the Holy Doc applies the ward!

The tomb is sealed!

With all the excitement over, Stick and a friend have a post-interment picnic by the ward-block.

Distracted for a moment, Stick forgets that paparazzi are everywhere!