The world doesn’t need me to blog about World Cup soccer or the 50th anniversary of To Kill a Mockingbird, though both are passingly mentioned in my first novel. But I have to profess my admiration and profound, indescribable fear of the prognosticating octopod, Paul, who correctly predicted the winner, the third place winner, and several other matches without a single mistake.
Is, like author/jogger Michael Northrop professes, the sign of the end of days, as foretold in the works of H.P. Lovecraft? Is Paul merely the first of several signs that the squid-like elder gods have had enough of our oil-gushing, ocean-ruining ways and are about to rise up from their slumbers and bring an eternity of suffering upon the miserable land-dwellers?
I don’t know. However, that I’d like to remind our new cephalopod overlords that as a trusted blog and book personality, I can be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground mollusk caves.