Seanachai

How 'bout a bit of a singsong. The group says this one is in honour of Tom Waits. It's genius. He’s got the hands of a blind piano player He’s got a feel for the dark like a soothsayer He takes a little bow and tips his fedora Shouts like he’s gonna save Sodom and Gomorrah Workin’ for the circus X railroad bum Carnival barker for kingdom dot come Dusty ol’ Gibson opposable thumb Bangs out the rhythm on a 50-gallon drum Don’t wait for Tom Tom’s long gone He’s already moved on Don’t wait for Tom I saw an ol’ ’55 Buick Just before dawn I said, Hey, hey Tom The sun’s comin’ up You got your wipers on Are you tryna make it rain again? Are you tryna make it rain again? Is it rainin’ just around your bend? Are you tryna make it rain again? Sittin’ in a corner with his pet muskrat Tossin’ his cards into an old man’s hat He grins at the girls and they always grin back He bets an old waltz he could get ‘em in the sack He makes his own music from the bell of a ‘bone A waitress’s falsie and a railroad phone Bobs on his knees to an old tarantella South of the border he stole it from a fella Don’t wait for Tom Tom’s long gone He’s already moved on Don’t wait for Tom I saw an ol’ ’55 Buick Just before dawn I said, Hey, hey Tom The sun’s comin’ up You got your wipers on Are you tryna make it rain again? Are you tryna make it rain again? Is it rainin’ just around your bend? Are you tryna make it rain again? His triple-jointed juke fingers splay like a scarecrow He kneels down and whistles to a fallen sparrow His eyes light up when they wheel in a piano He reads a dirty joke out of an old Baptist hymnal He wears a tuxedo made of sackcloth and ashes Has a tattoo of a girl who can bat her eyelashes Down on the river he was fishin’ with a sword He knocked off John the Baptist for a word from the Lord He takes his coffee with the blood of a turnip Blushes his cheeks with an Amsterdam tulip Choppin’ up a rooster for a pullet surprise If the gravy don’t getcha he’ll getcha with his eyes Don’t wait… Hey Tom… Don't Wait For Tom -Over the Rhine

That may be the most homoerotic thing I've ever read. </font>

Eventually, I always find my shoes, keys, and the door. But I appreciate the rug that decorates the floor, and the floor, that decorates the gnome. We will never drive, until it's time. G'day, Mate! Where do you want to drink, t'day?!

That was absolutely horrible. </font>

No Journey to Byzantium. [ February 28, 2008, 09:17 PM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

Tired, a bit drunk. Need to smoke a cigar or two with that most significant of all complete idiots, Dalem. I miss Boo Radley. Missed the bugger's birthday. Feel bad about that, not half. Making a little bit of money. Step-dad is dying of liver cancer. Wish I'd treated him better. Not a bad guy, we never did get on very well. He never liked my sense of humour. Who would? Feel for my Mom. Another round of hospitals, doctors, doubt, waiting, unhappiness. Another round of being strong. Another round of watching someone you love die. It's February in Minnesota. Two months or better before anyone can paddle. This summer, my friend Small Emma will get to go in my kayak. Her Mom has said so. I will buy Emma a good PFD. We will go down to the shore, together. She will splash in the shallows, and take the measure of the Lake. And then I will lift her little skinny Princess Fairy Ballerina self into my Yukon folding frame, and set her in her Mom's lap, and they will move upon the water. To move upon the water...that is why God gave our State 10,000 lakes. And some will die, and some will move upon the water, and some will simply continue to post here. [ February 20, 2008, 09:05 PM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

This is probably some approximation of your admitting you need to apply devices to yourself in order to achieve sexual satisfaction. We're not with you. Possibly your acronym is something more clever, but you did not approach the Olde Ones of the Peng Challenge Thread with honour, with dignity, with a plea for understanding. Or even a goddamn explanation. Be silent.

Hope, that springs eternal. Madness, that always looks for a place to roost. Stupid buggers that find someone to stand up for them. Berli and Peng, they stood up for me. They'll spend at least another decade standing down for that. Goofy bastards. Makes you feel...good.

How to put this? You need to shove yourself up your own arse, with people waving, and laughing, and demonstrating the sort of stupid behaviour that is only tolerated when it's like a 'family movie' thing. Can't believe I didn't tell Nidan to piss upon you from a considerable height from the get-go. Gods stuff me right up the arse of the Goddess, but I grow increasingly tired of tourists. Ah, well. I guess everyone gets a bit testy here at the harsh, arse-end of winter in the Upper Northland.

Yes, cows are sacred. Especially in the Dakotas. It is important for the inhabitants to always make sure that the cow that they loved, as a young man, hasn't been made into a burger that they may have eaten. That seems fair.

When I next see you, I will kick your worthless ass to death.

I miss Boo Radley. I think...we would have been 'flamingoes' together.

Arsehole. Give better notice of your movements. Kechberger actually called me up to check if you were all right. Didn't give a ****e about me, just wanted to know if you were out of town. I've known him how fecking long? First threatened to kill him when we dumped his drunk roommate into bed in October of 1977? Hasn't heard from me in months, calls to see if you're okay, maybe out of town? Bastard.

So, is this just a final echo of the summer you spent living with the two guys from 'Menudo', you annoying, aging bastard?

Is it shameful to admit that one of the first cassettes I ever bought was Bachmann-Turner Overdrive? We all have secrets...

You're a goddamn idiot. I like you for the roll of doing the 'voice over' of my so-called life.

Peng has a fine post above this, which I shall read when I am in a position of quiet contemplation. His posts always make me feel better, while filling me with anger. Until then, I shall post a brief 'Tale of Small Emma, Smaller Nora, and the Old Man Who Came To Guard Them'. So, last night was the culmination of 3 years of being called 'Grandma Steve'. I got to babysit. Yeah, you heard me right. I got to babysit. This was 'The Real Thing'. Not like the time I took care of them while their Dad drove their Mom to emergency to deal with the fact that she had food poisoning. That involved a huge amount of throwing up. This time, everything was on the up and up. Small Emma knew I was coming over to babysit on Saturday, and Smaller Nora probably knew it too, but she's a little lunatic, and just on the verge of sentience, so it's hard to tell what she registers. And Small Emma, I'm told, had been anticipating it all week. "Mommy, is it tonight that Grandma Steve is coming over to take care of us?!". "No, sweetheart. That is Saturday night, when Daddy and I take Uncle John out to dinner for his birthday." "Oh!" When I got there, Saturday night, everything was in motion. The two Small Friends were already in their pajamas. Their Dad was dressed to the nines in a suit with a great tie (yeah, Chris, I liked that tie, it looked cool. I wish I could look good in evening dress...). Their Mom was upstairs making herself pretty, and the Mom of Small Emma and Smaller Nora is a very beautiful woman (if sometimes a little short of temper; especially with aging idiots...). So, Small Emma runs up to me, and she: TELLS ME THINGS She's getting really good at that. She tells me TONS of things, these days. She was at a Birthday Party for Isabelle. She bonked heads with Alex, but they were okay. And she tells me all this stuff in the strangest mix of voices. One is the voice of a little, piping voiced four year old, and the other is this weird not-yet-adult voice of a little girl who's watched too many movies and tv shows. I mean, you haven't actually lived until you've seen a 4 year old blonde sprite lean forward, slap her thighs, and say 'Oh, but then Nora did the silliest thing!', in a voice and tone that would have put Katherine Hepburn to shame. Goofy little bugger. So, Mom and Dad went out to dinner. And Emma and I went up to 'The Third Story' (this is the finished half-attic that Emma seems to regard as Shangra-La, these days), to watch 'Cinderella II'. I didn't known there was a sequel. But then, I don't otherwise have children. I figured it was about who got the mice in the divorce. But it turned out to be about Cinderella's early days in the castle, and being a princess. It was pretty good, as these things go. The best was watching Emma watch it (It was new. They just got it that day). She'd only watched it once so far! When her favourite parts came up, she'd do her weird 'Holy ****, that's great' thing. It's hard to describe. Her mouth goes to an 'oh', she shudders all over, and she does this 'hands downward, jazz hands' thing that just makes you want to dance. She's a very silly little girl. She makes an old heart glad. And when the movie was over (Mom and Dad were probably into the 'Broiled slices of duck with parsnip puree' course by then), Grandma Steve told her, 'Emma, I think it's time to brush your teeth and pick out your bedtime books'. Oh, hell. I forgot to tell you the best part.. When I arrived, and was playing with her and her smaller sister, she took hold of my hand, and, very seriously, told me: Grandma Steve, there's two things I have to remember tonight. One is, I have to listen to what you say about brushing my teeth, and when to go to bed, and how many stories. And the other is...I can't exactly remember. Just a second, I will think about it... I never did find out what the other one was. She couldn't quite remember. It may have involved obeying everything I had to say if zombies attacked. So, I told her, Emma, it's time to brush your teeth. 'No, Grandma Steve, wait! I think that we should watch just a tiny little bit of 'Annie' (another of her weird movies; you know the thing, the musical by that name, and a deeply disturbed piece of weirdness it is, too). So we watched a bit of 'Annie'. She knew the exact point at which she'd last seen it on the car DVD several days ago. So, I asked her: Emma, when should we put the movie on pause, and tell stories for bed? Because we can't watch the whole thing, it's too late. And she told me: When the doggies start barking. So we watch the movie for a while. But it seems to me there's not a whole lot of dogs in this damn thing. So I ask her again: 'Emma, when should we stop the movie and get ready for bed?' And she says, 'When the doggies start barking'. So I ask her 'Which doggies, Emma?' And she tells me 'Freya and Siguna'. And my brain suddenly kicks in. 'Emma, those are YOUR dogs! They're not going to bark until Mommy and Daddy get home! And the little bugger actually giggles! Do you know how hard it is to be The Lord Master Babysitter, with the rights of High, Middle, and Low Justice, and yet, still, be a Minion? So, we watched about another 15 minutes of 'Annie'. Then I pulled the plug. She didn't object, she was already looking sleepy. But when we got downstairs (to the Second Story, which she calls the First Story), she went immediately into the bathroom, and pushed the door a bit closed behind her). And then there was this weird silence, while I waited for her to either go to the bathroom, or start brushing her teeth. And I said 'Emma, are you alright?' And then I realized...she was crying. Little, jerky child sobs and sniffles. And I said "Emma, are you crying? Are you okay?!" And then it was like the dam burst. She started to sob. Wrenching, gasping sobs, to break a heart of stone. "I want Mommy! I wa...wa...want Mommy!" So I pushed the door open, and gathered her up, and I sat on the toilet, sat her on my lap. 'Emma, Mommy will be home later. She will come in, and give you a kiss.' Weeping, and sobbing. I want Mommy!. So I think, and then I tell her: 'Emma, should we call Mommy on the telephone?' And the weeping stops, dying into sniffles. And she tells me: "Yes". So, I pick her up, and carry her into her room, and put her on her bed. And I go get the cordless phone, and we dial it, and we call Mommy at the restaurant. Mommy, god's bless her, has a cell phone. Welcome to the 21st century. I explain to Jen that Emma wants her to be at home. And Emma talks to her Mom for a bit, and her sniffles die away, she sits up straighter, and she's not so traumatized. We hang up the phone, with Jen telling Emma 'Daddy and I are leaving now, we'll be home in just a little while. Will you be alright until then', with a sobbed 'Yes' as her answer. At this point, it's about 9 PM. At that point, Emma wipes her little nose, and looks around, and sees a weird 'comic book/graphic novel' that her Dad has bought for her (and people think I'm a goddamn pushover), and she tells me 'Oh, Grandma Steve! We have to read this! We are on chapter 3! This is a 'chapter book'. Oh, I have to show you this one thing, it is so funny...' Her voice is animated, she's totally into it. She's totally over the whole 'where is my Mom' thing. I told her, 'Okay, Emma, we will read that, but I have to go get something to drink. I will be right back up.' So, I went downstairs and got a bottle of this interesting, weird 'Chardonnay Non-alcoholic Pop' thing from the fridge, and called her Mom back. I told her Emma was fine, and there was no problems. Jen told me 'Are you sure, I was going to tell Chris we needed to leave'? And I told her 'No, the little bugger is fine'. Then I went upstairs, and we had a lot of fun reading the weird graphic novel her Dad had bought her. Then I read her another small story from a kid's book. And then she turned over, swept up her covers, and said: "Thank you, Grandma Steve! Could you please turn my light off?" So I did. I sat downstairs trying to make the damn dogs be quiet until her Mom and Dad came home, a little after midnight. I think I did okay. I've got a return gig. On Sunday, the 24th, I get to do it again. It was a pretty good night.

Nidan, despite the Thread's ongoing 'Outreach Program' to people of other nations (gods, how I hate foreigners!), and in the interest of fairness to everybody (explain to me again why I can't have people killed who simply fail to amuse me...), I no longer require you to play a game against the Creature Currently Known as 'cool breeze'. If you choose to do so, that's great. If you won't play a game against It, that's fine. But I can't help but notice that it's been ages since you told me I look less drunk in this light. Admit it. You think these posts make me look more drunk!

Oh, yes, yes, Boo. It's important for those of us who can speak, write and, in every way, use English well to make a point of it. Unlike the Australians, who are still trying not to dance from foot to foot and clap whenever they figure out what an actual adjective or verb is, as opposed to the various 'made-up' terms that supply so much of their attempts at language. And I'd be the first to admit that this 'cool breeze' creature, besides sounding like a title from a fecking Air Supply song, should definitely review its ability to use language. I mean...'I want to blow you up and shoot?' Well, clearly we're simply dealing with some Third World... Hmm... Actually, you're right. Either this fecker needs to go back and learn English all over again (under the auspices of someone who can actually speak and write it), or he needs to get some serious sexual counseling. I mean, this is Nidan! The guy looks like The Corps invented a hammer to use to pound silly people to death.

Dumb screenname. I mean, seriously dumb. Tedious, even. But everything else is there. His/Her/It's profile is the sort of thing to make Joe wring his hands in joy, while singing, shuffling and picking watermelon seeds out of his ears. And who could argue with the sentiment? Nidan, as an Olde One half in the bag on a Sunday evening, I command you (man, it makes me titter like a school girl to do that whole 'basso, commando, suffer not my wrath' sort of thing), to give this creature a game. Or let it blow you up and shoot you. It's all one to me.

Boo. I think you are too large and immensely caucasian and Ohioan to use the term 'gris-gris'.

Only until you lose consciousness. And that's a good thing.

Good. You're not dead, Mike the Wino. I wondered. Briefly. I will give you lot a short story about 'cognac'. My Mum and Step-Dad got tickets, a couple of years ago, for 'The Pirates of Penzance' at the Guthrie, the major theater in town. I'd wanted to get tickets for it, but it was too rich for my blood. And my good friend Jen (Mom of Small Emma), also wanted tickets, but couldn't get good ones, so she passed, but regretted it. So, my Mom and Step-Dad couldn't use theirs, so they gave them to me. And I had to ask myself: Who would totally appreciate these? And asked my friend Jen. It was her big night out. She was determined to enjoy it to the max. She dressed up, and no one can dress up better than her. We had dinner at the best Greek restaurant in Minneapolis. So, when the intermission comes, we get in line to buy drinks. She's in line forever. She asks me what I want, and I ask for a glass of Aussie Shiraz. She buys a glass of that, and a glass of Remy Martine cognac for herself. The bartender looks at her beautiful face, long, dark, flowing hair, and ample bosom, and pours her a triple shot. As he gives her her change, the lights flash, and trumpets ring out to mark the five minute call before the Production begins again. And as I looked at her, I raised my glass of red wine, and said: Here's looking at you, kid. We've got five minutes. Let's see who finishes first. I then shot my glass down in about two minutes. When they flashed the lights for final call before the next actl, she had to chug down about 2 ounces of cognac. She told me later that she put it down, but that it was all she could do for the first 20 minutes of the next act not to heave it up on the suburban matron in front of her.

Language murderers. Even the French love to include English phrases in their language. But not the American versions. Noba. </font>

If you ax Berli there's no such thing as "good bourbon" but wtf does that rat bastard know? I was a big fan of Knob Creek and Blanton's back in my drinking days. Good times, good times. </font>