Seanachai

Sunday morning in America, eggs and bacon, and maybe toast Peng is waking to the sounds of children Berli is coughing, spitting, despising all life eggs and bacon, and maybe toast Seanachai is finishing a beer Wondering where Boo is eggs and bacon, and maybe toast The sun is rising, rising over America Even in Ohio where there is eggs and bacon, maybe toast All over America there is eggs and bacon, and maybe toast In Australia, half a world away Tomorrow there will be eggs and bacon, and maybe toast Eggs and bacon, not so bad And maybe, there will be toast

It's weird, you know, to have drunk too much wine and beer, and be listening to Steely Dan, and exchanging comments with the Australians. I heard it was you Talkin' 'bout a world Where all is free It just couldn't be And only a fool would say that

In another hour, it will be my turn to... be very, very tired. And a bit drunk. As to your enquiries, let me just say this: The arse end of the sun never sets on Australia.

So, when I can't sleep, the Aussies are deciding which bar to go to that night. I find this good.

Good, but not quite right. It's 5:39 am here, Noba. I'm in the goddamn heartland of America. Where God wakes up. You're looking at the stupid East Coast. Where God had a piss before deciding to get out of bed. That's where Peng lives, mate.

What the hell time is it, on the arse end of the other end of the world, eh?

Bloody Aussies...

Where's my Boo, then, eh? Where's my buddy Boo? Damnation and viciousness, where's my Boo? Son of a bitch isn't even awake yet, and I can't sleep. I don't sleep, anymore. I doze a bit, no more. Another beer, then, eh? Another beer, and it will all be alright. Boo! Fetch a blanket to cover me! So cold... so cold... slurp beer, nice beer, drink the beer, makes the mind snap, reality clap, nice beer, sweet beer... Boo! Bring Master a blanket, Boo! Cold, so cold...

Feck. The Aussies are here. Time for another beer, eh?

Lars, you bastard. Have you heard from Kerch lately?

No gold fillings, you Aussie feck. But that was a damn good question. If none of my nieces or nephews want the back scratcher or reindeer, you're on the receivership list. I can't help but wonder what hideous sexual contretemps will result when you receive them...

I'm not going to put the barrel of a shotgun in my mouth, simply because I hope to put it in your mouth, before I die, you feck. You can take that as a compliment, if you like.

'Struth, mate! Actually, all the roof work locally is currently being done by Mexicans. I don't think I qualify

Damn. Here I am, again. No prospects, no resume that doesn't read like a rap sheet, no skills except the ability to do whatever needs doing. And old. Never worried me that much when I was... less old. And every day, you read about thousands of people being let go. I remember when I was a young man. Full of promise, and potential. Now, I'm the fecking poster child for 'Unrealized Potential'. I get all these missives from my Old School, inviting me to get-togethers with classmates who are now doctors, lawyers, professors, businessmen and women. How did the bastards find me? I'd move, but when I look around at the piles of ****e, the endless bookcases filled with books, and the endless jumble of cast-off electronics, I know that I can't run. I'm simply not up to packing, wondering what box to put this 'I don't know what this fecking cable is for' in. Where will all my uniquely silly sh*te go, when I'm living under a railroad bridge? Where will my jackalope head go? Where will my three foot high chainsaw sculpture of 'Eagle with Salmon' go? There won't be a special end table for it, when I'm homeless. Where will all the weird ****e that has made it's way into my life go, when my life has nowhere to go? My 'Death with Scythe' puppet? My lizard paw back-scratcher (made from a real lizard paw)? My bizarre wooden banana plant sculpture? All the weird sh*te that, after a long, weird life, has puddled down here, at the end of a weird life? The strange sh*t that had no where to go, but to be with me? The 'Golfing Pig Bank'? The dozen penguin soft toys, from every era? The plastic reindeer that poops candy? The dragon that holds a temple bell in its mouth, and that can be struck with the hammer that runs down its spine, making a pleasing sound? When I am gone, who will take care of all the weird sh*te?

And here we are, still. Games have come and gone, business models have played out like Waterloo, promises and denials have been shouted out like curses and prayers, and we remain. Some play, and others don't. Some play the Old Game, and some play the New. Some play like it was religion, and others talk about religion as though it was a game. And yet, when it comes right down to it, we are here. And, Steve Grammont, you like us, don't you? We're not the fanboys of every developer's dream. We're not the erudite contributors of facts and information, with tables of input and output. We're neither adoring, nor contributory, nor stupid. We come here, and we've made our own place. And, let's be frank: You like us. Why else would we still exist? Anyone with half a brain would have crushed us long ago. Oh, you can argue that we're simply a tolerated ghetto for people who have no other place to be, not enough trouble to bother to crush, but I think there's more to it than that. Grammont, my dear Power That Is, I think that...you like us. I could be wrong. Gods know I've gotten it wrong before. Bugger. The wrapper of my cigar has come off. This lot should have probably spent more time in the humidor. No problems, mate!

There's somewhere worse than Korea that we can send Stuka? Oh, he's in South Korea. Actually, I'll let the question stand.

He was a cruel man, but fair...

Who's a big damn hero, then, eh? WHO'S A BIG DAMN HERO?: Who'll go nose to nose with me, and pretend to be a hero, eh? Sing out, you fecks. Who'll be the first? Who's wearing clean enough underwear to stand eyeball to eyeball with me? I'm living in God's Country. When the ice goes out, I will paddle my way to heaven. Wbat do you bastards have to say for yourself?!

Feck that, you'll be called what you are, which is an Aussie. I hate Aussies.

There's two things I know well, he said The ways that I hurt, and all of the ways to hell The ways that I hurt, and all of the ways to hell

Umm...so, not to put too fine a point on it, but which of you lot of sewer-otters is going to marry the Justicar and get him to take your name? Stuka, you bloody great Aussie git, you're living in one of those Arab nations where you can have more than one wife, aren't you? I vote Stuka takes one for the team and marries Joe. The crime shall fit the punishment, as they say.

Where the hell IS everyone...oh, bugger. It's 5 AM, isn't it? I'll be in my bunk...

That's just a little ditty we have here. Helps regulate the process of breathing while jogging to the bus, without burning a lung in the process.

Oh, it's colder than the nipple on a witch's tit Colder than a bucket of penguin sh*t Colder than the hairs on a polar bear's ass Colder than the frost on a champagne glass! It's colder than 'go back to start' Colder than a lawyer's heart Colder than a death row walk Colder than a banker's talk It's colder than some levels of hell Cold as a frozen wishing well Cold as the calculus of Communism Cold as 'Compassionate Conservatism' It's colder than anywhere but here Colder, maybe, than this time last year Cold as Minnesota, that's what we're about Sing you bastards, let me hear you shout!

Throw your wit at us, instead, because we need a good tickle. Several years ago, on a trip to the East Coast (where they apparently have weather, but they don't respect it, nor it them), I remember talking with this bloke who told me "You know, the thing I notice most when I deal with you Midwesterners, and especially you Minnesotans (he was in a line of work that put him regularly in touch with God's Country), is that you all spend a great deal of time talking about the weather. But not like people making forced small talk, 'do you think it will rain?' sort of thing. You talk about the weather the way other people talk about current events, or politics. Why is that?" I thought about it, and told him "Well, you know, if you live in some place where people are insane, you talk about what they're going to do next, and how it will affect you. In Sarajevo, for example, during that period, you'd say 'do you think they'll mortar downtown today?'. Or, if you lived in Southern Lebanon, you might remark 'What a lovely day! I don't think anyone's going to do a rocket attack this afternoon, do you?' And you'd base your day on what what seemed likely to be the case. In Minnesota, we live with extremely rational people, many of them Lutherans, with a strong work ethic and a pronounced tendency not to ethnically cleanse their neighbourhoods, or, at least, only to do so with Pine-sol and a scrub brush. But our weather does try and kill us. Quite often. So, it's important to know what to expect. Because a mortar, rocket or artillery round only affects the people in the immediate vicinity, but weather is Climate's way of saying 'up yours' to everyone." I got the usual vaguely confused look that you expect from someone on the East Coast, where they don't seem to understand anything at all. I think it's because there's so many of them, living in overly close proximity to each other. When you've got lots and lots of people living in each other's pockets, the IQ of the individual is the total of the whole divided by the number of people. Drop Einstein into New York City, and there might be a slight fall in the overall intelligence simply for having added another body.