Freddie would like me to stop using the GIMP airbrush tool to fill in his mustache. His exact words were:
“I reckon it…it…makes me look like I have a caterpillar on my face, dear.”
He’s right. I admit to noticing this, but I posted the photos anyway. (See November 2nds blog, “A Trinket For Freddie”.)
Have you ever seen a woolly bear caterpillar–the orange and black striped kind? I don’t know if that’s what they’re actually called, but we have them here in the northwest United States (Spokane, Washington) and I used to collect them when I was a child. Fascinated by their beauty–the way they moved, their multiple little feet, shiny black face that reminded me of a cab-over semi truck–I would watch them climb from one of my tiny hands to the other.
(See, this is part of why blogging is so great!) —> One sits down and begins writing, not knowing what facts will be learned or what direction one will take. Despite having fooled around with woolly bear caterpillars for years, I never saw which butterfly they turned into. Now, I know that they are Pyrrhantica isabella also known as Isabella Tiger Moths. According to “Weekends in Paradelle”, a WordPress neighbor of mine, the measurement of the orangish-brown bands on the woolly bear caterpillar indicate whether a winter will be harsh or mild:
“The lore is that the wider that middle brown section is (i.e., the more brown segments there are), the milder the coming winter will be. Conversely, a narrow brown band is said to predict a harsh winter.”
This reminds me of something my parents would have found in the old Farmer’s Almanacs we had lying around during the seventies. In fact, I vaguely recall something being said about the caterpillars and the weather, but time is always passing and so my memory grows foggier.
Another reason to blog and journal and keep lists and just write stuff down. I always thought my mind particularly sharp. I’ll never forget any of this, I thought as my grandparents retold stories to me.
For many tales I wonder these days if I wouldn’t find my imagination has filled in details where there were none.
So, back to Freddie’s mustache.
I asked him in the beginning if he would like to have a mustache, since Freddie Mercury’s mustache is like a trademark, and Freddie agreed that a mustache lends character.
“Otherwise I will look like any old gander,” he said. “I mean, if you want to see a gander, just look on the Internet these days or visit a farm. There I am. That’s not me.”
There isn’t a way for Freddie to have a real mustache as geese don’t grow facial hair. Since his bird features are far different from when he was human, there’s no way for him to wear a fake mustache. Options are limited to modern graphic design.
“I studied graphic arts at Ealing College, you know.”
(Sometimes I have to reassure Freddie that I know and that I respect that he was once not only human, but a rock GOD.)
I tell him, “Freddie, I am like P. or M. were in your former life. I care what you eat and whether your gifts are personal. I pay attention.”
Still, he’s not so sure. And if I showed Freddie a woolly bear caterpillar he would probably react the way he did to Michael Jackson’s llama in the recording studio, so I don’t even go there.
I can hear him now, saying: They’re not woolly at all. Just prickly bastards.
So I won’t bother asking. And let’s not tell Freddie what Uncyclopedia says:
“In addition, it has recently been discovered that his moustache was home to several species of endangered animals.”
Or that, according to Cracked.com, “it was generally agreed a woman could get pregnant just being in the same room as his mustache.”
Freddie’s last word on the matter:
“Darling, I am a gander. Why ever would I need a lip warmer in this lifetime? That just doesn’t make a bit of sense now, does it? You think?”