Harry Baggins and the Mines of Orzammar

Later that week...

Harry Baggins and the Fellowship of the Ring Shaped Scar

Once upon a time (somewhere between Middle Earth, the year 2517, and a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away), Malcolm Reynolds and Chewbacca embarked on a dangerous expedition to Rivendell, unknowingly beginning the first leg of a life changing adventure.

With them they had Harry Baggins, a hobbit with a ring shaped scar upon his forehead. Mal knew the moment he saw the scar that he must consult Dumbledalf, his wise wizard friend. Something about the boy from Privet Shire spoke of destiny. 

Mal, Chewbacca, and Harry Baggins found Dumbledalf waiting in Rivendell, where many of the great princes and diplomats from across Middle Earth already sought his counsel. 

Harry Baggins glanced around, daunted by such a prestigious gathering. Jaime Lannister stood straight in gold armor, golden hair shimmering with the breeze. Batman and Garrus brooded silently, though their dark eyes suggested constant vigilance. Reepacheep, a chestnut mouse of surprising girth, composed himself with great dignity, and his sword seemed almost a part of his furry form. Rand Al'thor, from the neighboring Two Rivers Shire, loomed over the rest of the gathering at 6"4, with a confusing combination of red hair and improbable tan skin. 

Needless to say, Harry Baggins was intimidated. Even Chewbacca's comfortingly soft arm around him did little to ease his mind. If so many great men had left their home to seek Dumbledalf's advice, Middle Earth must be in a bad state, indeed.

The gathering of greats found Harry Baggins intimidating, as well. His ring shaped scar of destiny beckoned to all of them. They recognized its power, and danger, immediately. 

After many hours of discussion, most of which had little to do with Harry Baggin's scar and included a lot of political information that they never worried about again, they came around to the topic that would determine the fate of Middle Earth.

They needed to destroy the ring shaped scar. They would forge a fellowship, with the sole purpose of chucking the ring shaped scar into Mount Doom.

They rushed to ready themselves for their journey, which would take them into the heart of the evil realm of Ganondorf, Dumbledalf's evil green counterpart. All the hope of Middle Earth and the future rested on this fellowship of nine. 

To Be Continued. 

Too Cool for Shakespeare

For my graduation present, my grandma, my aunt, and I went to England. We ranged in age from 75 to 21, and our social, political, and moral stances varied similarly. As did our bedtimes.

I spent much of the time trying not to look like a tourist. This was made particularly difficult because Grandma is a big fan of maps. Maps of London, tube maps, bus maps, maps of special sections of town. She carried them with her and pulled them out every few blocks.

I did what I could to make her look like a local. At a crucial moment, I talked her out of a fanny pack.

She got a single strap backpack instead, which was much less conspicuous.

Eventually I gave up on disguising us. Instead, I tried to migrate the trip to quaint places outside of London where being a tourist would have some novelty value. Grandma was intent on taking me to Stratford-upon-Avon to see Shakespeare.

Aunt and I both dreaded this part of the trip, because Stratford-upon-Avon collects tourists like Disney World.

“Look,” we said, “we made friends in Gloucester! Let’s stay.”

But it was no use. She was determined that I needed to see Shakespeare. I felt stereotyped as an English major and suckered into a tourist trap.

Sure enough, the whole town seemed to have invested in Shakespeare’s name. Every shop had bobble heads, quotes, stuffed Shakespeare dolls. The streets milled with Germans, Americans, visiting Englishmen, and Scots. All the buildings, even the ones erected in the last twenty years, had been designed to resemble the seventeenth century. It felt like Busch Gardens.

Grandma took me to Shakespeare’s birthplace and nudged me in. Aunt advised that I should accept this gift, despite the £16 charge, for the sake of Grandma’s feelings.

They made you go through a few rooms with odd relics of Shakespeare’s past and a few dramatic videos full of quotes—just a trick to control the volume of people visiting the birthplace. I had this particular session to myself, so I sullenly sat in the handicapped section and watched impassively. I moved through the timed doors one by one as I edged closer to Shakespeare's first home.

Then, all of a sudden, the video faded and a light shone on a pedestal in front of me. “It is thanks to this collection of folios compiled by actors that Shakespeare’s work has been preserved.” 

I stumbled forward so fast the handicap chair was still folding back up by the time I reached the pedestal. I got close enough to fog the glass, trying to absorb as much of that page of Richard III as I could in the twenty seconds left on the video.


I tremblingly toured the birthplace, trying to play it cool in front of all the nice interpreters. 

After my tour, an actress named Charlotte gave me a personal performance of Hamlet's to be or not to be soliloquy. She perched on the edge of a fountain and I think she channeled Shakespeare for a moment there, since I thought not about Hamlet's dilemma, but Shakespeare's own fear of mortality and the beyond.

Shaken and a little stirred (emotionally), I retired for the day, happy with my findings but ready to get back to some less touristy areas.

The next morning, Grandma announced we were going to church. I’d forgotten it was Sunday. Time is relative over there, anyway, since the sun sets at 9:30. Grumblingly, I attended the Holy Trinity Church with Aunt and Grandma.

Afterwards, I retreated to the cemetery with Aunt while Grandma socialized. After ages of waiting for Grandma to finish making friends, she came out with a middle aged woman.

“We have something to show you,” Grandma said. I followed the two back into the church, and the woman walked us past a rope barrier some members of the church were putting up.

And then I saw it. Shakespeare’s grave. 

The woman watched me, waiting for my pleased response and probably a thank you. Instead, for the first time in years, I cried in public.

For all my talk, Grandma was right. I wasn’t too cool for Shakespeare.