Seanachai

I would very much appreciate it if you would some day come to visit us in Minnesota, so that we can kill you. In the old way. First, we would feast you, then we would ply you with mind-altering chemicals, then, after a long evening of song, story-telling and reminiscing, we would cut your heart out. And eat it. All the fun runs right out if you don't eat the heart. It's a sign of respect, and the affirmation of life. Of life in general, of course, not yours. Because we'll be using napkins and sipping port in regards to your life.

Who the hell knows? But I know you from the old days, and I know you've a small child, and I just posted a bit about a small child on the Peng Challenge Thread, and so I thought I ought to drop in here and tug at your sleeve and distract you from all this adult ****e. Looks pretty dim. Just not the same as when we were discussing things that had happened, historically, as opposed to things that haven't happened, wouldn't happen, and would have been pointless if they had happened. waves small american and british flags in either hand, while grinning ferociously and trying to pull a forelock with hands already too full of flags...

The reason I like children is because children are far more amazing than adults. Most adults have spent years learning how to be dull, annoying and stupid. They've become professional at the things that children do randomly and inexpertly. Children will turn to you, after a whole morning of being patience-bending little demons, and say something so magical that it will almost stop your breath. As most now know, I have two Small Friends. One is Small Emma, and the other is Smaller Nora. They are now a sisterhood at war with itself, and the fallout is shattering the peace of the household, trying the patience of saints, and even causing Grandma Steve to say 'Oh for the love of Christ, stop that you two!' But that is a story for another day. Or several stories. And several days. But this morning I went over to Jen and Chris's to help out. After a bout of the flu, which involved Smaller Nora, who is only 3, holding the bathroom door shut on her parents while crying out in distress 'Don't come in here!', and a bathroom rug that desperately needed to be washed and that disintegrated in the washing machine and broke it, someone was needed to be available in case the Sears repairman came while Mom was running one child to Kindergarten, or after Mom had dropped the other child off at Daycare and gone to work. I was happy to be that someone. And while Mom was dealing with the repairman in the basement, where the washer was (to be told that the 10 year old top-of-the-line washer that had just gone off warranty could be repaired for $900, or replaced for about $1,000), I was sitting on the front porch with Smaller Nora, who was pointing out things to me. She showed me the odd, artificial daisies that her Mom had in a jar with artificial acrylic water pooled up around the artificial stems. She smelled them, and held them out to me to smell, and after I made a great pretense of doing so, she told me 'They're just pretend. They're not real, Grandma Steve'. She's three. I am always one step behind the curve with children. It delights me. I am not yet so old that I can't be out-smarted by children. When we play, I drag one leg, and hunch my back, and shout out 'Sanctuary! Sanctuary!' I am the Quasimodo of adults. Kids love it. So, as we're sitting there, in the lovely sunshine at the end of the front porch, after the artificial jar of artificial flowers has been returned to the wrought iron table, I notice that the next door neighbours have moved the plastic owl that they used to have on their upper loft stories to scare off the pigeons to the nearby roof of the lower story. They probably moved it because the pigeons actually used to perch on it, instead of being scared off. And I pointed it out to her, and said 'Nora, do you know what that is?' And she looked and said 'That is a owl, Grandma Steve'. I told her 'Yes, a pretend owl, Nora.' (trying to get my own dig in for the 'pretend flowers' remark). And she looked at it again and said 'Yes. They wake up the sky.' And my thoughts... soared. Owls wake up the sky. I could labor at this keyboard for a decade and never achieve so pure a thought. But it was given to me like one of the raisins she placed in my hand earlier that morning, saying 'This is for you, Grandma Steve'. They wake up the sky. And children wake up the soul. They also give you raisins, if they like you. And they come up behind you and grab the back-pockets of your jeans and take their feet off the floor until either your pockets rip free, or your pants are down around your knees while you're shouting and begging their parents for help, and both the kid and the parents laugh at you. And with their laughter, the sky wakes up.

Couldn't find the Thread for a moment, and was all disoriented. Thought I might have died and no one had the heart to tell me... I'm back, yada yada, I'm not dead yet, yada yada, I hope that the gods find all here well as I am well, I missed you all because Berli sent Three Ghosts to me on one night to remind me of how important and fulfilling quasi-human contact is with barely sentient simians, and it made me realize that I hadn't addressed any of you for ages, etc. etc. There. We're all caught up. Know thou, you knuckle-walking brethren of Early Man, that when I am not here with you, you are forever in my thoughts. Like that bit of pork that's caught between the final and next to last molar on the left side upper that has always had a bit of a gap, and generally requires the application of a matchbook corner as soon as it's polite to do so. You're like that. Annoying, and reassuring at the same time. And always with me. You are never alone.

I shall be going up to the Great North, this weekend. Up to 'the cabin'. That's what we say here in Minnesota. What're you doing this weekend? We're goin' up north. Up to the cabin Up to the lake. That's how we talk, here in Minnesota. Where we go 'Up North'. Where we go up to 'The Lake'. Where we go up to 'The Cabin'. I'm going Up North, to The Lake, to my families Cabin. Sixty miles into Canada, on Lake of the Woods. And this time, by the gods, I'm going to paddle. Eight miles out. Weather be damned, I'm going to put my folding frame kayak together at the resort, and I'm going to paddle the 8 miles out to the cabin. Straight up. If I die, Boo Radley shall speak for me, hereafter. I'll send the necessary emails, songs and weirdness to him to prove that he shall hereafter be regarded as...me. If I die. If I don't, then he'll simply have to sing a really good song.

Persephone, fair lady. Thank you for the Birthday greetings, and the phone call. Are you still paddling? You need to email me more about paddling. What the hell, am I too foolish for you to email me about life? I swear to all the gods, girl, I was just sitting there when the cop came by and wanted to know about the broken wine bottle and the frightened pit bull. Ah, wine. You do know that my email address is in my profile, eh? I can post here, when I'm coherent, and I can post on facebook (horrible place), even when I'm not, and I can always answer emails.

GODDAMN! I'VE GOT iTUNES BACK, AFTER 4 WEEKS! Ever since I upgraded to 8.1, it was crashing every time I opened the app. Can't write without music. Dumped every piece of album artwork I ever acquired, and dumped every song Berli sent me. Something worked.

Good enough for me, and as close as you've ever come to an apology. I have, over the course of the last year or so, been retiring ever more into myself. Imagine the horror: Left alone with me. It is not something I recommend. I will try to distribute myself more widely upon the planet. It cuts the toxicity, unless you're within cocktail range. And who wouldn't want to have a drink with me?

The Cisco Kid, he was a friend of mine...

Joe Shaw owes me an apology for something. I have checked, and the account is not in balance. It could be for almost anything.

May I just say that I am disappointed that Boo has already forsaken our game. He hasn't emailed me in a fortnight saying 'SEND THE TURN, YOU - (Vulgar word, another vulgar word, obscenity, unbelievably foul obscenity, obscene gerund, a vulgar noun seldom encountered since the Eastern Roman Empire fell, followed by a small smattering of curses, and capped off with a pictogram indicating that he wants me to be raised up into the air, possibly on the nose of a dolphin, but in an unnatural way).

As I was out paddling this evening, I was overtaken in the channel between Cedar Lake and Lake of the Isles by what I can only describe as a - Stealth Canoe. I was a bit tired after having already done 3 hours and over 6 miles, and was lazing along in the channel, coming up on the bridge which arcs over just before you hit Lake of the Isles, again, and I realized that behind me I was hearing a soft voice saying something like 'hep', very quietly, at regular intervals. As I turned my head to look, I was presented with one of the weirder spectacles I've encountered while paddling. It was a black canoe, moving fast through the water, being paddled by two people with black paddles. The damn thing didn't have more than maybe 4-6 inches of freeboard, showed almost no riser at front or rear, and was decked over in the middle with some sort of snap-on black tarp decking. The people paddling it were in their late 30s, early 40s, a man in the front seat and a woman at the back. The guy was dressed in a black, long-sleeve T-shirt; the woman in a more usual 'some sort of beige t-shirt with some graphic on it'. They both had some sort of 'spray apron' that covered their legs, but nothing like a traditional 'spray skirt'. They also sat...odd, especially the woman at the rear. It was like she wasn't sitting on a canoe seat, but almost more like rear shelf that also comprised the top of the canoe between the sides. The 'hep, hep' that I was hearing was her indicating to the guy in front of her that it was time to shift sides. These freaking people were paddling with strong, fast, regular strokes and perfectly in time. Their freaking paddles were hitting the water at the exact same moment (on opposite sides, of course), with a regularity that I have almost never witnessed. When she softly said 'hep', they would switch sides to paddle, then, after 10-12 strokes, she would say it again, and again they would switch sides, with the same unnerving unity and synchronization. I swear by the Goddess, if it had been two guys in their late 20s, I'd have been asking if Special Forces was doing some kind of training on the lakes. As it was, I was left wondering what the hell I'd just seen. If they were in training with some local group, than our invasion and subjugation of Wisconsin is well on the way. Who in the name of all the gods paddles a black canoe, with a black decking tarp, and with black paddles, none of it sitting above the water much taller than a pop can? It's not like the mallards need to be snuck up on. They usually swim right up to the boat looking for a bread hand-out. I make it a point to try and smack the buggers with a paddle. Wild animals shouldn't become habituated to human beings. And if they have been, then catching them just right with a high-impact plastic blade makes for tasty eating. In my own way, I am making ducks stronger, better, and faster than they were before. Or roasted. The choice is theirs.

So...do you want white meat, or dark?

Let me just say this about the tossing about of stupidity that has been recently indulged in, regarding Minnesota. Minnesota is where God will go to contemplate where is the best place to live. He will spend at least a year, here, internally debating what he should tell mankind about where they should live, with footnotes to himself about Eden, Paradise, and Utopia. He will spend month after month here, contemplating where he should tell mankind the Earthly Paradise lies. Eventually, he will make a proclamation regarding some stupid-arsed place like Sri Lanka, or Australia, or Tahiti, or some other pointless place on the planet. What he will not tell mankind is that Minnesota is where the Original Garden of Eden was. God's got more fecking sense. He knows that if he lets the Hoipolloi know, the place will go to hell in a handbasket. Haven't we already had to deal with the influx of idjits from Gary, IN? And that was just because we had better welfare benefits than Chicago! But, if the truth be told, everything is better here. Well, we don't have any mountains, or an ocean. But God's admitted that he made those things too big. We've got everything else. And I know that, because today was the second day of paddling this season. Spent 2 hours on the water yesterday, and 3 hours today. Yesterday, for the first time EVER, my friend Jen brought Small Emma, and Smaller Nora down to the lake while I was out paddling. I paddled up to them on the shore, and Small Emma waved at me and said 'Hello, Grandma Steve!'. Rather blase about it. What the hell do I have to do, drive up to this kid in a tank to get her attention?! But Smaller Nora saw me, and started jumping up and down, shouting 'Grandma Steve, Grandma Steve!' When I grounded my kayak on the shore, if her Mom hadn't been there, she would have waded right in. She said 'I want to go on the boat!' When I pulled the boat out, hefted it onto a shoulder, and carried it up onto the the grass to take down, she brushed right by her Mom and I, and climbed right into the boat, and plopped herself onto the seat. As I stood there laughing, she pointed to the paddle in my hand and said 'Give me that!' I gave her the paddle. She grabbed one end, and shoved the other way out on to the grass, clearly indicating that she understood the concept of 'rowing', but not 'paddling'. I will teach her, and her sister Small Emma, to love boating. We live in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 Lakes. The place where God goes, to contemplate what he should tell mankind about where's the Best Place to Live, the Earthly Paradise. He's never going to tell you Minnesota. God's not a fecking idjit. He's going to want to continue to get a nice room, easy parking, a great meal at a fabulous restaurant without making a reservation, and all the outdoors He created. God's not going to tell you that Minnesota is the Earthly Paradise. My bet is, he's going to tell you cretins it's somewhere in California. Seems plausible, to stupid people. Which explains why there's so many Californians...

So, it's not just us here in Minnesota that think that Lars looks like Gary Shandling?

Some day, Lars, you will be killed with a hand axe. And I will be there.

If it was, you stupid bastard, I'd know how to use it properly. So, no. It is NOT a plot by evil gnomes. Michael, you need to think this stuff through. Baseless accusations will not help make Facebook go away.

Bugger. Had a hell of a weekend. Yesterday morning, I woke up in a freaking cave. Not for the first time, I might add. Wandered out and went looking for breakfast. Some chick named Magdy, or something like it, brought me orange juice. I'm sure Dan Brown could explain it all. Me, I'm looking forward to a good paddle this week; first one of the season. Of course, I'm also looking to starving to death in a cardboard box two weeks from now, because there's not a lot of work out there for broken down old gits whose only skill is being cleverer than everyone else. Still, can't complain. Small Friends are healthy, Boo is still employed. God is in His heaven, and only man is vile. Eh?

Umm...yeah. Who the hell are you? Now, mind you, I've got my own perspective on it all, but I do know one thing. The fecking basset hound is the, what, 98th most stupid dog out of range of 100? Or is it 99th? Basset hounds are almost unbelievably bloody stupid. They even **** where they sleep. Now, I rate Stuka as better than that. I could tell you how much better, but there would be one of two results. Either I'd rate him enough above a basset hound to make him even more goddamned insufferable than he already is, or I'd rate him as more stupid than he deserves. I choose to err on the side of caution. Stuka is incredibly stupid. Almost unbelievably stupid. Magically stupid. Hear me say it. Stuka is an idiot. It's done. There will be a 12 minute period, just before sunset, when Stuka's almost boundless arrogance will negate anything I've said about him. He will continue to believe utterly pointless things about his place on this planet. But after that, he will consider the fact that I've made a point of mocking him. And he will begin to shuffle his feet, and look around to see if he's the only one who's noticed that he's regarded as a sort of 'intellectual clothesline', fit only for the smart people to hang out their thoughts on. I would never mock him, of course. On the other hand, I think someone told me he has a sister.

Stuka, no one thinks that sort of thing is clever. Seriously, lad. 'buns' for 'guns'? Why don't you just strip down and vomit on your own underwear, then wear it like a hat? Everyone here gets mocked for what they say, straight up. If you want to misquote, become a member of the Republican Party, or the Broadcast Media.

I heard it was you Talking about a world where all is free And only a fool would say that...

Yeah, fool, that was me. I'm a short, fat bastard. I posture a lot. But I've got polished canines, and a wit bigger than yours. I checked. Both. God bless Charles Darwin, you Aussie feck. When you gonna come to Minneapolis?

Did you? I'm going to die without hearing him that final time. Can't afford it. It makes me sad. I take comfort in coming here and listening to the howls and bellowings of you lot. And the brayings. Let us never forget the brayings. Sometimes, the braying sings me to sleep... Of course, I wake up eventually, and think to myself, 'What the feck was that awful goddamn noise I heard before I went to sleep'?? And then I think, 'It was life, lad. It was all part of being alive'. And then I go back to sleep. Feck it. I can't paddle yet, and the chances of getting another job before America opens it's eyes open wide, and realizes that The End Is Not Yet, are pretty much ****e. But I abide. Poorly.

So, I win then, eh? About bloody fecking time. I thought I was going to have to simply outlive you pack of simians to achieve happiness. But now, knowing that the deck has been rigged to favour those with my peculiar and precise peculiarity of being able to go on at some length, I can rest assured that I will eventually enjoy the administrations of a passel of maidens of every persuasion, while Bob Dylan or Richard Shindell, or some such other folk singer sings his songs in the background, and I will have arrived in some recognized value of 'Paradise'. What more could I ask? Women currently abhor me, and men hate me even more. While that is a consummation devoutly to be wished for, it didn't address the immediate concern of dancing on the edge of forever. So, what you seem to be saying to me is, that I will be given the right to judge, break and damn everyone I need to, on the basis my ability to chew gum and post here at almost endless length? Good. That's good. And I will make and defend a place where my Small Friends can dance, and laugh, in this world. Never could dance. But I can laugh. Hear me laugh. Do any of you fools think you can laugh like I can laugh?

Just to make a point: 'most strongest' sounds like you learned English in a refugee camp. Are you drunk, or what? And, to make another, I would honour his death wish if he has one. If I can. A simple thing, and nothing to break the jollity levity of this place. Nidan, you buffoon! Are you now going to tell us how you are the 'biggest best great guy ever', or are you going to review the English language and contemplate using it properly?