Seanachai

So, I think we can acknowledge that I am a strange old bugger. But I have very good Small Friends. Oh my gods, they are becoming a difficult handful! How does one deal with TWO small friends who are becoming more clever and demanding by the day? I have not written about my two small friends, Small Emma, and Smaller Nora, for some time. Small Emma is now five, and Smaller Nora is now two and a half. Small Emma is now a little dictator. She is as imperious as any Princess. "Grandma Steve, I need to go to the bathroom. Come stand here by the door until I am done!". Or "Grandma Steve, I am going upstairs to put my pajamas on, come with me!". She needs to be attended by her short, stout quasi-adult henchman everywhere she goes. Her Mom tells me: 'You shouldn't do everything she tells you, fer chrissake!' And I tell her: 'How can I not? She is my Small Princess.' I am the only adult who does what she says. She already has adults who tell her what she should do, and how to behave, and who want her to be what she should be. And she is becoming a good little person because of all that. But I am the big person who says 'okay, we will do that, it will be fun'. So she gets to be that much bigger, in a world of rules and good behaviour, because she has someone who thinks she's a big person too. Sometimes, we conspire against the Rules. Sometimes, someone gets a cookie, even though they didn't eat all their dinner. As long as they did their best job. Sometimes, we play one of her strange, endless games, even though Mommy said we should be reading a book before bedtime. One night, Small Emma, the Great Negotiator, told her Mom: "But we want to play a game, and can we play the game instead of having a bedtime story? I will go to bed right afterwards, instead of having a book read." And her Mom, who was tired and trying to get two kids into bed after a long day, told her 'No! You pick out a book and decide who you want to read it to you, Mommy, Daddy, or Grandma Steve!' And after her Mom left the room to deal with little crazy girl (that's Smaller Nora, who's weird and willful), she stood there straight as a little stick, looking sad, and said 'We should get to decide things for ourselves!' I asked her 'Emma, what do you mean?'. I was the good henchman, quiet in the corner, letting Mom set the rules of engagement before leaping to it. She told me 'We should make the rules for ourselves.' Five years old, and she wants a say in what The Rules should be. Does my heart good to see it. There are the Rules, and there is You. And there is a short, stout, white-haired guy perched on the bed who says 'Well, lets read some stories, okay, and another night we will play a game' So we read the horrible, dreadful 'Barbie Mariposa' and 'Diamond Castle' spin-rack books that she loves, lately, even though they are complete sh*te, and make your brain hurt because they are so awful. The next night her Mom was at a class, and Dad was reading to Smaller Nora, and even though we were supposed to be reading books, we played the 'Princess captured by the Evil Witch who puts her into the dungeon, but her magic dragon Puff rescues her and her dogs and they escape by boats through the wishing well, but the evil bear guard tries to take them captive, but he can't because Puff puts a spell on him' game. We played it until her Dad was done singing good night songs to Smaller Nora. It was pretty good. There was a lot of laughing and bear guards flying into the air. Sometimes, there's the Rules, and then, there's You. And, at least until the gods take me off to answer for all the bad and stupid things, there's a short, stout, white-haired guy who will play really weird games, and laugh, and do the voices for an Evil Witch, and a none-too-bright Evil Bear Guard, who is glad to help a Small Princess slide a bit around the Rules, a bit, because, when you get right down to it, it's all about You.

And if there is anyone here who does not believe me, let them ask Dalem, who witnessed it all. I am the mad old man of the Peng Challenge Thread. I only apologize to Reality for being very bad at being Weird Enough.

I put upon my head the underpants that the gods had seen to grace me with that day. In deference to the fact that I was dealing with The Weak, I made sure I wore them outside out. And I put my damn pants back on before I danced out there to punish them. I could have done otherwise. I could have left my pants on the floor of the bathroom, and capered and pranced through the living room with nothing on but my shirt and the underpants on my head, singing weird songs. I could have broken their minds like so many dry sticks snapping. I am, after all, an Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread. I am a Horrible Little Man. Try me, at your peril.

The gods are punishing you for not playing 'Sword of Rome' lately, you daft, drunken bastard. Do you know that I have a whole set of friends who have met Dalem, and Papa Khann, but who regard you as a mythical creature? They figure I made you up to try and distract from my drinking. Oh, and just so you know, I did the 'Underpants Dance of Victory' at Dalem's the other night. One guy ran out into the snow, and one guy pulled his sweatshirt and coat over his head while chanting 'No, No, No!'. And, while I danced, I sang the 'Zamboanga' song. You need to come to Town again, man.

I see that Stupidity Never Dies, and will take this moment to remind anyone who might forget that when the Justicar and the Olde Ones (and anyone else with the sense to pour piss out of their boot) sends someone to Coventry, they are GONE. For Death, there is always Reincarnation, if you believe hard enough and have your ducks in a row. For Coventry, the only option is to get really chummy with all those unbaptized children and ancient philosophers in Limbo. Maybe there are Monster Truck Rallies. Best place for them, when you come to think on it.

Alright, campers! I sold a kidney over the Holidays, and now I have a brand new HDTV! It's small, of course. But it's wide screen! And it's an off-brand... unless British Guiana has suddenly become a major player in the electronics market. And all the inputs seem to be coded to a different colour scheme... and alphabet... and devices, than anything I've seen elsewhere. But it's mine! After an investment in an antenna that cost almost as much as the television itself, I discovered that to get some of the low-power digital stations that the networks are going with in the face of the Government forcing them to keep broadcasting 'on air' so that poor people can't complain about the 'digital initiative', you actually have to hold it above your head and spin like a dervish, and then stop at just the right point. But I am now current with the Government Mandated switch to digital TV! And I have got the High Definition TV, as well, me! And, as I watched a station from some weird-arsed backwater out-state Minnesota station that I could actually receive without getting up and doing a cossack dance with the expensive, 'amplified' antenna, I was, for the first time, able to watch 'Hogan's Heroes' in High Definition Digital Television! What can I say? It was like seeing every shade of Wehrmacht gray for the very first time! After about ten minutes, though, I started to pay attention to the program, and eventually turned off the TV and went off to get fecking hammered as a memorial to all the years I spent watching complete ****e. So, as near as I can tell, the Digital TV Initiative is a complete success, and will once again make America great! The TV's been great for watching DVDs though. I was watching 'A Bridge Too Far' in widescreen, and I now realize that all this time those Brits were shooting at the Germans. I thought they were just using the 'Piat' to try and intimidate the Low Countries into adopting 'Guy Fawkes Day' as a Holiday...

Young people today, they have no standards. I'd pay double to avoid drinking that ****e. I wouldn't even mix it with lemonade and serve it to Papa Khann. It was in a plastic bottle, wasn't it? They always put vile slop like that in plastic bottles. Lars, were you watching so closely because that was the last bottle on the shelf?

Oh, sorry, it's a game thing. I thought this might be a topic where we were swapping stories about various prophets and disciples making a case for 'plausible deniability'. I could have made a serious contribution to that sort of discussion, but haven't a clue about what it means in the new game. No problem. Let me know if someone starts up one involving 'three times before the rooster crows' sort of thing, and I'll be there.

Let me dive into a river of songs Let them rest easy While we right the wrongs of the world Let me hear all the notes played on the scale That were sung long ago In the rain while we waited to dance Let them sing when you play those strings Like the little one dancing And all that romancing Won't you let them sing Hear the words scanning the length of the line Why don't we sing them With hope in our hearts one more time Carry me down to that river of tunes Carry on dancing With all the grace that you can Let them sing when you play those strings Like the little one dancing And all that romancing Won't you let them sing No one quite knows where the music comes from No one can answer the questions From those far away Everyone knows what their soul holds within Everyone dances a little To tunes that are played Let them sing when you play those strings Like the little one dancing And all that romancing Won't you let them sing -Wolfstone SING! SING AND DANCE, YOU SODDEN BASTARDS! SING AND DANCE...LIKE SCOTSMEN!

Ah, there you have me. If I'D been at Jonestown, the Authorities would have found me wandering around amongst the corpses singing songs and demanding 'C'mon, another mug or two, and we can dance!' And, may I just say: A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO US ALL! Including the Aussie contingent. I can't remember if they're a day ahead of us, or a day behind us. All I know is, they're beneath us. May this year bring us all we desire, but not what we deserve. May it find us better off than we were last year, and may we live long enough to mock everyone who expected this to be our last year. May each and every one of you have the Best Year of your life. Now, someone bring me another drink, and someone else begin a song, and someone else dance on a table for my amusement! And if you lot of silly bastards won't do it, I'll do it myself!

Sorry, normally I lavish my attention on stupid people, although less often here, it's true, simply because there's far fewer of them. In a relative way, of course. And when was the last time you shared a photo with me? My issue with all these 'social networking sites' is that they require that you drink the kool-aid before you can be taken aboard the Mothership. I like to cruise here, below the radar of the Black Helicopters and Death Squad members. You meet a better class of criminal, for one thing.

I forget; when we get to be old, drunken and sodden, are we supposed to go get a page on Facebook, or My Space? I'm perfectly willing to inflict myself on most anyone, but I'd hate to be caught stumbling around anyplace that welcomes Paris Hilton. I mean, unless she was buying.

When, many, many years ago, I was going to school at Carleton College, we were caught between two winds. One blew in from the turkey farm to the East, and the other was from the Malt-o-Meal factory on the West side of town. Both had their detractors and partisans. Lively discussions were held over many a twelve pack of Special Export. Many, many twelve packs.

It's the last line of the National Anthem of Borogravia, Joe. I'm disappointed that you did not recognize the reference.

Too true. Wolfpak...something or other, Boo abides. He's been given some weird-arsed designation by the Justicar, which is probably something significant between the two of them, but I don't inquire. Christ knows I'm a wordy bastard, but trying to sort out Shaw's conception of 'titles' is something that would bore the ****e out of some aficionado of heraldry. But he is my Sancho Panza, my Igor, my large, thuggish henchman. When they carry my rotting remains out of here, Boo will be holding the runny bits, and cursing. Until then, you need not worry about gaining some advantage. I am an Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread, and I repeat: Boo abides.

While you should regard me as your 'Everything', you can't possibly imagine that I can make everything alright for you. You need to broaden your horizons. It's off 'Below the Salt', although I have it on a 'Best of Steeleye Span' gift. Yours choices are: buy more Steeleye Span, or learn to steal, whether by means of technology or the more traditional means. Now, put on the fez and call me 'Mustapha', and ask me what we're going to do with this dead camel. You know you want to...

I think my first encounter with that song was Steeleye Span. But, oh Boo, remember that tomorrow is a great big fish!

Some of you may not know your ancient languages, so I shall provide a translation: Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Rejoice, rejoice, for Christ is born Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. From Mary, who is rejoicing over the fact that everyone thinks she's a virgin Tempus ad est gratiae hoc quod optabamus, There was a time when we were grateful for hippos Carmina laetitiae devote redamus. But my cousin Carmine tells me we should now devote ourselves to this girl he knows who likes radishes (this one's a bit dicey; Latin, after all, is a dead language for a reason) Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Rejoice, rejoice, because God has a navel (inflection changes the original meaning, just like in Gaelic, and Klingon...) Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. The ex-virgin is ever so happy (see above) Deus homo factus est naturam erante, God and man now have enough fruit in their diet Mundus renovatus est a Christo regnante. And tomorrow, the carpenter will reign, as we begin renovating the house Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Rejoice, rejoice, because Christ is born Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. Rejoice that even virgins can make good Ezecheelis porta clausa per transitor Unde lux est orta sallus invenitor. Let us now proclaim that one day someone will invent the transistor, and the lights will become smaller and more twinkly Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Have we mentioned how happy we are about the whole birth of Jesus, thing? Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. And no one ever needs to be a virgin again, eh? Ergo nostra contio psallat jam in lustro, Because my jam is lustrous and spreads smoothly, I will continue to sing praises Benedicat domino sallas regi nostro. God wants us to let the cat out to go to the bathroom, let us praise him Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. This whole thing about the birth of the lord is just great, and let's not forget the wonderful contributions of his mom! There you have it. An olde fashioned song of rejoicing. Makes you lot of ignorant savages wish you'd paid attention in class, doesn't it?

Double post? Double post?! ME?!!! Must have been something I hit on the way home...

Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. Tempus ad est gratiae hoc quod optabamus, Carmina laetitiae devote redamus. Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. Deus homo factus est naturam erante, Mundus renovatus est a Christo regnante. Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. Ezecheelis porta clausa per transitor Unde lux est orta sallus invenitor. Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. Ergo nostra contio psallat jam in lustro, Benedicat domino sallas regi nostro. Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus Ex Maria virginae, gaudete. Just so the ignorant (who are legion), don't think Boo is pulling words out of his arse. A Merry Christmas to you all! Spent the day at a farm in Canon Falls in southern Minnesota, drinking wine and smoking cigars around a bonfire, while trying not to die in the 50 mph winds filled with snow particles that were etching 'Joyeuse Noel' in the arse of everyone at the fire. Minnesota is not like Bethlehem. Anyone following a star to the manger in Minnesota would have found out it was a flare sent up to aid the rescue mission. A good time was had by all. I taught my nephews and nieces my new 'Our Awful Uncle Steve' song, and later attempted to do the 'scalded wolverine' move with my car out of the snow drifts that had formed around it so as to drive home. I was 3/4s successful. After 3 strong men with aluminum scoop shovels had spent 15 minutes removing the final 1/4 impediment, I spun out over the snow flats of the farmyard with all the windows open, shouting "Merry Christmas to all, and to all - holy sh*t, 'ware the tree! - and to all - Goddamn It! - and to all - No, No, No, call the dog out of the way! - and to all - Mary Mother of God, the bonfire! - and to all, a - AIIIIEEEEE, SOMEONE TELL ME THAT WAS A POSSUM I RAN OVER, AND NOT ONE OF THE KIDS! - and to all - SON OF A BI- !!! - and to all a bloody goodnighhhhhhhhhhhht!" There were knee-high drifts on the mile long gravel road back to the highway, but once you've got the bit in your teeth you just ram your way through them like you were on your way to Moscow with Guderian, and any forest creature stupid enough to be out there in the wind and blowing snow is just a footnote to the concept of Evolution. Think glaring headlights, mad laughter, and a small, blue car mimicking a ball in a pachinko game. I imagine there's a reason that the rest of the family let me leave first... The final 40 minutes of the drive home were quite peaceful, actually. At least, for me. In any case, my Blessing upon you all.

I find that a .20 gauge loaded with bird-shot makes them reconsider assuming that 'prophetic' attitude. Do it early, though. Best if the neighbours aren't too clear on what went down. And don't bother with the carcasses. They taste like sh*te. That whole 'four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie' thing is only a children's rhyme...

Michael, how to put this? They can be amazingly patient when they think that something is about to die...

And the Goddess bless you too, Steve, and I hope the Hogfather brings you something armoured. Not street-legal, as such, but maybe with a bit of a 20mm or such. Something that will make the neighbours sit up, take notice, and walk right. You live in the northern arse of New England, don't you? The East Coast, but still wild enough that you can be human beings, and get away with a bit of weirdness? I read somewhere that it's called 'Maine'. And we're not 'special', young man. We're what 'normality' becomes when it grows up and no longer feels the need to impress people with how 'special' we are. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt and used it to wipe up the vomit/blood/urine/etc sort of thing. I like to think that we're... where Normality goes to die. Safe, and understood, and comforted. A warm clasp of a hand, a nod and a good word, a pat on the shoulder and a 'you've done well, mate'. People who proclaim weirdness, and caparison themselves in it as though they were going to a Renaissance Festival or a Fan-Boy Convention, usually end up spending their declining years playing golf and doing sudoku puzzles, and wondering if buying a better quality vodka will make them less angry at the next neighbourhood association meeting.

Boo! I'm about to settle in, and watch my favourite Christmas movie. 'We're No Angels', with Humphrey Bogart, and Peter Ustinov, and Aldo Rey, from 1955. It's the wonderful story of three convicts escaped from Devil's Island on Christmas Eve, who fall in with a family of totally hapless people, and who make everything come out right for them, primarily because they're murderers and thieves. If you've never seen it, I highly recommend it. It involves that most complete and penultimate story involving Three Olde Ones. Berli is played by Humphrey Bogart, and Peng is played by Aldo Rey, and I...I am played by Peter Ustinov. "Oh, to be a painter!"

It's a snow storm here in God's Country, eh? I was after going to Dalem's tonight, there to drink the drinks, and smoke the smokes, and make merry of much of little, but then the storm blew in, and Dalem, as wise as is he stupid, told me 'I'm scrubbing the evening, UberGnome. You stay there, and I'll stay here, and no one will die on the roads.' So, then: Oh, he doesn't smell like Irish spring And he never taught us anything But still we swell our chests and sing To our drunken Irish Gnome Oh, his face is like a railway map And he never shuts his friggin' trap But still we raise our glass and sing to our drunken Irish gnome!