Seanachai

Who Goes With Seanachai, Then, Eh?

Except the Olde Ones, Fair Lady of the Peng Challenge Thread. We are...Owls. Nightbirds. Also, drunkards. Well, except Peng, who's gotten better. And Berli, who's never been much for that sort of thing. Not since he became wise, and Evil. Actually, it's just me. I'm a drunkard. And weird. And the crazy old man of the Peng Challenge Thread. Shall we sing?

There is something in what you say. But not enough. I say it, the One Who Can Say It All. If MrPeng had not previously existed, I would have had to create him. I could put angel's wings on every single one of you monkeys, and made you sing High Opera, and made you dance and sing Gilbert and Sullivan, and made you recite everything from 'Egil's Saga', to the Bhagavad Gita, but it would not have been the same as The Mocking of MrPeng. What a long, strange trip it's been.

'pray tell' is two words, lad. And they call him Mister Peng. I don't, of course. I call him Peng. But then, I've known him since He Created Himself. And then, I created him...again. You can call him MrPeng. Time will tell if you should talk to anyone, here.

Silly bastard. Miss him, though. Still remember him roundly cursing me when I posted my fake 'Seanachai is dead, killed by a Pronghorn Antelope at the Zoo' post, all those years ago. He actually thought I might be dead, gored by a goofy North American ruminant because I was drunk and stupid. I laughed all the time I was writing my apology for my sense of humour. Perhaps we could do a whip 'round petition to the Powers that Are, and get him brought back? His banning wasn't because of viciousness. It was just the 'Been Here, Done That, Decided to Curse People Roundly' sort of banning. He wasn't a bastard. He was one of us. That is, he was one of us being a bastard. It's not like you don't get over it. Time heals all wounds, as they say, and after you get over the mad, you're still a good fellow. He's been off now for what, two years? Time enough to have recomposed himself. There's still those here in contact with him. Would Mensch like to come back? We could try to make it happen...

Que? Is the Marine Corps (such as they are), recruiting from East Coast Matrons of 'a certain age'?

I may, in a long life filled with a great deal of weirdness, and, on top of everything else, being a natural vulgarian who was born weird, have read something as weird as this... But I can't recall when. Well done, Yeknodathon. I choose now to institute a new Tradition of the Peng Challenge Thread. The 'buying' of the Virtual Quaff. It does not entail anything like money being passed to barkeeps, nor does it involve the actual ingesting of spirits by the recipient, but it does involve the recipient being found worthy of...a singular wish for serious and positive alcohol to come their way. If I could figure out a good way to actually put the glass in your hand, I would. But I can't, so I shan't. But, Yeknodathon, know you, that for that post - I have, Virtually, placed a two fingers glass of Lagavulin 16 year old before you. That'll do, donkey. That'll do.

So, I went over to see my Small Friends tonight. Two reasons for that then, eh? First, two days ago, Smaller Nora walked down the stairs to find her Mom, and said 'Where's Grandma Steve?', and her Mom told her, 'Honey, he's at home.' And Smaller Nora looked at her Mom and said 'Why?'. And the second reason is, Small Emma told her Mom to call me, and tell me to come over, so that I could see the presents. When you're a kid, a Christmas Tree with a lot of presents under it is like a TV tray with a bottle of 16 year old Lagavulin, a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, a Gloria Cubana, two joints of the good stuff, and a half ounce of psilocybin mushrooms on it. It's that good. Because, under that tree, is... Everything. A whole universe of promise, wonder, and the potential for happiness. Generally speaking, in later life, you're only going to get the same feeling from the half ounce of psilocybin. So, I went out and shoveled out the car, fought my way through the damn snow (seriously need to replace the windshield wipers, which pretty much just moved frozen water over the windshield in a very linear, protestant way), and went and saw Small Friends. I had left-over pot roast with them, and rice, and salad. The best part was when Smaller Nora looked at me and said: "Peas! I like peas. We have no peas..." I sh*t you not. Two and a half years old, and she's already weirder than most of you lot. Well, maybe not weirder than Lars. But nothing much is. Afterwards, I was granted the privilege (and it is a privilege, these days, when everything is about 'Mommy'), of reading Emma her bedtime stories. Frankly, the selected texts were complete sh*te. One flimsy book was about 'Barbie Mariposa', and it was so awful I contemplated losing control of my bodily functions, what with the 'Flitterwoods', and 'skeezites', and 'Evil Fairy Henna' crap. It was as bad as the stuff the Department of Homeland Security comes out with. Truly awful. A drunk Australian could write better prose. Afterwards, I had a couple of glasses of port with Small Emma's Mom. And then I headed out into Minnesota winter. I started the car, and then got out the brush to clear off the snow. And do you know? I swept the first strip off the roof of the car, and it was like... clearing feathers laced with diamonds. Every flake was there, sparkling. I drove home across a carpet of glittering stars. It was cold as sh*te, of course. And I half slid up to every stop sign, and spun the wheels through every intersection to get going. But it was beautiful beyond belief. Glorious. Like someone had used a razor to shave jewels out of ice, and scattered them across the streets. I pity people that live in the warm States. They're denied the beauty of an entire season. They live in places that simply go brown and wet, or never actually change at all. Here, in the Northlands, we see every Season, pure and sharp. And that beauty can't help but change you. Here in the North, we see everything the way it truly is... Infinite.

And they wandered in From the city of St. John Without a dime Wearing coats that shined Both red and green Colors from their sunny island From their boats of iron They looked upon the promised land Where surely life was sweet On the rising tide To New York City Did they ride into the street See the glory Of the royal scam They are hounded down To the bottom of a bad town Amid the ruins Where they learn to fear An angry race of fallen kings Their dark companions While the memory of Their southern sky was clouded by A savage winter Every patron saint Hung on the wall, shared the room With twenty sinners See the glory Of the royal scam By the blackened wall He does it all He thinks he's died and gone to heaven Now the tale is told By the old man back home He reads the letter How they are paid in gold Just to babble in the back room All night and waste their time And they wandered in From the city of St. John without a dime See the glory Of the royal scam -Steely Dan

No, not you either, you aging bugger. Sit down over there, and be quiet.

I'm going to give you a right kicking. The only way you'd be the next Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread is if rats had eaten 90% of all life on this planet.

There were fourteen episodes of Firefly made. Each one is like a diamond. Late at night, or whenever you're alone with the need for 50 or so minutes of pure genius, you can take one out, polish it on your soul, and watch it. And it redefines everything you ever thought you knew about entertainment. It's that good.

So...Joe, you're saying that there's a better candidate? My head's awhirl... So, you say...that there is another candidate? Someone more worthy? And, just by the by, Boo Radley is a Seniour Knight, laddy. I made him such. He is the thing, and the whole of the thing.

Joe, that was nobly spoken. Except that bit about my not dying, which was actually on the table, but I don't blame you for doubting, because, let's face it, my life is a horror and yet I've never died before. I knew you had a noble soul, Joe. I knew that when 'push came to shove', or rather, when 'lift with the legs, boys, and then lower with the ropes' was easing my box into the ground, that you would be there. That you would step up, and be there for the Mother Beautiful Thread, the Cesspool. I knew you would bring the full weight of your Office in to support the elevation of Boo Radley to the position of 'Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread'. Let's face it, Joe. I'm not going to live forever. Although, of course, as an Eternal Mythic Figure whose existence predates human knowledge and whose demise can only be brought about by the People ceasing to explore the boundaries of the human experience, I'll continue to exist in some form. It just probably won't be the one that's currently sitting in this chair drinking Irish whisky, smoking a cigar and listening to Bob Dylan. And when the time comes for Old Man Seanachai to shuffle off into the Wasteland, and remain there forever (physically, I'll be rotting, and eventually devoured by a Polar Bear, but essentially I'll be watching over all of you, and metaphorically pissing on you all from a considerable height), I know that you'll understand that my absence will leave a void in the Peng Challenge Thread. And that the only logical thing is that Boo Radley will take on my cast-off mantle of 'Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread'. Joe, I know that you will be a pillar of strength to him, when that time comes. That you will help his feet onto the path of 'Olde One'. After all, other than the Olde Ones themselves, you're the man who knows, understands, and loves the Peng Challenge Thread the most. Who better, then, to help guide the first steps of the New Master?

Shaw! You have failed me! When I was lying flat on my back, wondering if my intestine was going to perforate and cast me into the slough of despond known as 'septicemia', I expected you to rise up and contact me regarding the inevitable interregnum that would result from my death, and how the Peng Challenge Thread would function until my soul reincarnated and was re-discovered by wandering Cesspool monks who would test likely candidates in order to facilitate my return, and proclaim the new 'UberGnome'. C'mon, Joe. Given the imminent collapse of the Western Economic System, the only thing you can be training future mortgage bankers for is the ability to load the kids, obsolete laptops and chickens into a beat-up SUV bound for hard-scrabble lives of disillusionment in some fabled boom economy in places like Shanghai and Hong Kong, ala Steinbeck. You should be cutting back on your commitment to the job, and be concentrating on raising up a corps of true believers whose job will be to go from one outdoor music fest to another open air brewing festival, laying out a variety of objects before children of the right age to see if one of them will select something of mine in order to find my returned soul. Three Olde Ones is a Cesspool of Mythic Significance. Two Olde Ones is just a backed up septic system with an hourly rate for a backhoe and Australians standing around with spades arguing about who's going to pay for the beer once they've shoveled all the s*** up...

The laws need to be changed. I'm so liberal that I make Barack Obama look like Eisenhower, and I cannot come up with even the most half-witted argument against a man spraying annoying teenagers with fox urine. When we can no longer deluge our fools with animal piss, we will have ceased to be a great nation.

Now, do you know, I am an Old Man. I have two small friends, who are like little bolts of joy that make you think about what you sing, and when, and how loud, and when you post. That is my friend Small Emma, and my friend Smaller Nora. Dalem tells me that I should do my own Blog. I know nothing about this business of blogging. Dalem has his own Blog. Dunno how that all works. I do know that I am growing old, and every day I lose a bit of myself to Death, and every day that I play with my Small Friends, I retain a bit, and every day that I die, I die a little bit less if I'm loved. And I post here.

When the stone is grown too cold to kneel In crystal waters I'll be bound Cold as stone, weary to the sounds upon the wheel Now be thankful for good things below Now be thankful to your maker For the rose, the red rose blooms for all to know When the fire is grown too fierce to breathe In burning embers I'll be bound Fierce as fire, weary to the sounds upon the wheel Now be thankful for good things below Now be thankful to your maker For the rose, the red rose blooms for all to know

So, we have Wolfp MII posting then, eh? huzzah. Berli tells me it's Aces and Eights back again. That means more to me. What the feck is 'Wolfp MII'? This, I do not know. I do not approve. I see some banter, some by-play, some give and take. Complete crap. Stand before me, and tell me who you are, Goofy wolf symbols feck.

I do not, and you know I do not. Occasionally I fictionalize, dramatize, and exaggerate, but I do not, as such, lie. And in this case there was no bloody need. The best part was when you picked up the pan that was in flames, and began running about the kitchen with it like a ground squirrel trying to figure out which hole to dive down. I distinctly remember shouting 'NO!' when you rushed towards the sink with the flaming pan in hand, and I remember turning off the gas on the stove before I doubled up laughing over your kitchen counter. I remember laughing like hell. I remember you putting the damn flaming pan back on the stove while mumbling to yourself 'baking soda. I need baking soda'. I remember the fire finally running out of fuel, and you taking the hideously blackened, warped and weird pan to the sink, and sinking it into cold water with a hiss like ten thousand dragons pissing on a hot stove. I remember laughing so hard I damn near pissed myself. I remember you frantically scrubbing at the blackened walls around the range-top, while shouting 'Lies! Lies! I did nothing wrong!' I remember getting another rum and coke. I remember you looking... appropriately embarrassed. I have returned. Two weeks ago, I had a goddamn intestinal infection. I finally went to the doctor on Tuesday afternoon, and he told me: "I'm putting you into the hospital. You're running a high fever, your white count is way high, and 'shifting left' (I'm almost sure that's what he said. I have no idea what it means, medically speaking, but I do know he looked at me like he was not announcing that I'd voted against another four years of Republican misrule). Of course, as the UberGnome of the Peng Challenge Thread, I can't be having with going into the hospital. Not when I have no insurance, and my latest job just ended. So I talked him into sending me home with massive oral antibiotics. And I triumphed! Which is to say, I didn't die. Apparently that option was possibly in the cards. So, now I'm better. But you people, are not. You're just as horrible as I always remembered. Someone fetch me a stimulating drink!

Ah, I'm back from my last near-death vacation, and I'm over at Dalem's, recuperatin', as it were. It's been an enjoyable evening, but I have to admit, the highlight of the evening is when Dalem set the stove on fire... I ****e you not. He set the goddamn stove on fire. It was...magical. Suddenly, there was a lot of running and shouts of 'hell's bells, the goddamn stove is on fire!'. But he never panicked. He made sure that...well, let's just say that it didn't spread. Much. He's going to be after buying a new pan to melt butter in, and the walls needed a good scrubbing. Laughed? I damn near pissed myself. You can't pay for entertainment like that....

There you have it, then. It is Saturday morning...roughly speaking, and I am alive, while Dalem is clearly dead. I look around. I see myself; I do not see Dalem. I attribute my well-deserved victory to clean living, a light, healthful diet of pork, alcohol and radishes, and by the judicious use of my vote to support the Liberal Party. All of which has led to this glorious day, and a soon to be cooked breakfast of eggs, pig and stout. While the outcome was never in doubt, I would like to say that my opponent fought a good fight, but was sadly competing in a league beyond his abilities. And, despite the brutal and savage taunting, which included over 45 minutes of randomly reading things to me off his bookshelves, despite my repeated protests, I bear him no ill-will. As I move now to fill myself a healthful glass, I can only imagine the surprised and rather comical expression that must be on his face right now, as his soul arrives in Hell. Good luck to him, I say, best wishes, and mind the laughing demon with the instruments of torture behind you. Do not think of this as a 'defeat', Dalem, but rather a simple act of 'extraordinary rendition'.

So, it is done. A new President of the United States of America. We couldn't have worse than what we had; we can argue about whether we could have had better than what we have what it is now ours. McCain gave a gracious concession speech. In his speech, I saw the man that I always thought I could have voted for, and not the man that his Republican handlers presented to the American People. I saw an honorable man, who might grumble about his opponent and his politics, but wouldn't normally descend to vulgarity, and lies, and rabble-rousing. Unlike the Party that pinned him like a butterfly to their agenda of viciousness and lies. John McCain is better off out of it. He's a better man than the people who decided to use him to run an empty campaign in an election year that they couldn't win. So...

Bah! I question this reality. But I do not question the judgement of Nidan. If he says that I should re-consider, I will re-consider. If he says that I may have missed a nuance, I will run shaking fingers through my thinning mass of hair, and declaim "Is this all there is then? I'm an Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread, you know! Someone fetch me a goddamn drink, eh?" And then I'll sign off on an SSN. Nidan, is he yours? Do you take him on, eh? When old people have to argue about young people, America wins. Christ, I hate young people. Except for very Small Friends. They're the hope of us all.

Stuka, me old china (isn't that how you Commonwealth extras express yourselves?), I'm just about as fecking cute as you could deal with on a good day in Hell if you were there to meet a pretty girl chewing gum and holding a balloon. Stuka, we both know that when either of us use the word 'cute', it's a challenge. I call you 'cute', and it's a reference to the fact that your aging, silvering haired good looks are starting to wear a bit thing, and that you should be glad to be married, and that you should start thinking about having legitimate children. When you call me 'cute', it's like you're making a go at standing up to the old fellas in your life (maybe your dad, eh?), and prancing about like an antler-less reindeer with issues. Go on, then. Call me 'cute', again. Do you want me to give you a hug? Ruffle your hair, call you a good boy, and tell you that I'm proud of you? Ah, Stuka. I'm so fecking cute that I could hug you to death. Cute. Christ on a crutch. Has your wife been handing you a skin mag and sending you off to another room to contemplate the multifarious implications of the word 'cute'? Silly Aussie bugger.