In which our intrepid hero admits to not getting nearly as much reading done on the weekend as he’d like.

I’ve had a relatively quiet couple of days; the closest thing I had to an outing was to pick up George Alec Effinger’s Marîd Audran trilogy (When Gravity Fails, Fire in the Sun and The Exile’s Kiss) from the post office, after my sister was done reading them.

I spent a fair amount of time dozing on the couch, starting—but not finishing—DVDs, catching up on reading Ptolus (I’m now about halfway through, I think) and reading various Call of Cthulhu-related stuff.

And I finally found the CoC stats for Crowley—they were in Tatters of the King. He slags off one the antagonists, then invites a female PC over for an orgy. Feh. I bow before its almighty, tepid fehness.

That sort of deal is the whackjob occultist equivalent of bumping into John Wayne Gacy at a trade show for clowns. I wouldn’t want to throw in too many spoilers, but there are much better uses for Crowley, particularly with regard to the plot of Tatters of the King.

(Only marginally related, I’m constantly amazed by the number of out-of-the-way in-references in CoC scenarios. I was particularly struck on the weekend by one—relatively minor—character in Horror on the Orient Express.

I won’t give his identity away, as I intend to use him—and some of my players read this blog—but he was previously a member of both the Golden Dawn and the Silver Twilight. Sadly, he dropped off the scene just before Crowley joined the Golden Dawn, but may well have heard of Crowley by reputation—particularly given the shenanigans that Crowley and Mathers got up to, trying to wrest control of the Isis-Urania Temple in London from the Second Order.

Note to self: should probably write a blog entry on the Isis-Urania conflict.)

Usually, I’m in the middle of reading two books at any one moment, and scanning bits here-and-there from several others. I’ll read one on the train, to and from work (currently Do What Thou Wilt), and one at home (currently Ptolus, fortunate because its sheer heft makes it somewhat less than portable).

However, with a load of printouts from work to read on Friday, and having bumped into both my ex-flatmate and a co-worker on the train this morning, I didn’t get much time to devote to Do What Thou Wilt. Not that it’s a particular worry, as it’s hit a relatively boring bit: Crowley plans an assault on Kangchenjunga, his wife has an abortion, and Crowley gets to diarise his misogyny.

One thing did strike me as a bit odd, though:

“Rosa Mystica,” also included in Snowdrops, is an obscene play upon the doctrine of immaculate conception […] The opening two lines give us a sense of the whole: “Rose, that you are a little sod/Your shapely pouting asshole shows.”

[T]he tone of the poems are playful, and Rose may well be believed to have enjoyed them (the participation of her own brother in the editing process lends credence to Crowley’s testimony here)—

Whoah, there. Now, I’m hardly a prude, but I find it a little outré—even for someone of Crowley’s reputation—to say, “Hey, got some new poems for you, including several on how much your sister likes being pounded in the butt. Happy proofreading!” Especially since the brother in question, Gerald Kelly, was a close friend who was nonetheless outraged by the marriage.

Then again, not much about Crowley’s interpersonal conduct could really be misinterpreted as normal…