Seanachai

Dalem, I say this not merely as a friend, nor as a fan of huge purchases of alcohol, nor as someone who can look forward to coming over to your house and drinking until your Neo-Con Whore friends say 'Dude, you better slow down; I can't keep up'. But man, you gotta slow down. You're running close on the $500 mark. I've been there, I've done a quick total, complete with 'Moving Our Business' discount. And there is, without a doubt, no more lightening calculator of everything to do with liquor than myself. Look, man, I don't want to arrive there one night to tip a glass of rum with you, and smoke some cigars, and find you dead on the floor of the living room with your starving dog & cat gnawing on your face, because the sheer weight of alcohol in your place moved you to immolate yourself.

Go ahead, but at least mop up after yerself, you serial masturbator...

You know, I've constantly seen comments like this from Euros and Failed Euros (like Aussies), for years. I don't follow Team Sports of any nation, myself, because for the last 20 years, at least, they're simply huge festivals to keep the poor and stupid oblivious to the fact that they should be awake, and asking their government a lot more questions. But I have noticed this: American Football players are beaten into human wrecks. Despite all the safety equipment, the rules, the sheer ARMOUR of their profession, most of them, if they play long enough, and many of them, who can't play for very long at all because of injury, hobble into old age like warriors crippled in battle. I don't see much sign of that in the various other 'World Sports'. I mean, they make a lot of noise about how 'they don't play with all that gear, they play like REAL men', but I don't see the same sort of...shall we call it 'Casualty Reporting' about all the rest of that lot. It's probably just a 'reportage' issue. I mean, we don't really follow the sports news of the rest of the world. So we don't hear about the injuries and cripplings occasioned by the various European inspired sports. I'm sure that if, in the Middle Ages, there was a large number of nations that foreswore heavy armour in favour of jousting in their underwear with peacock feathers, their neighbours that were still using lances, mauls and battle-axes would have been subjected to endless diatribes on the virility of people who weren't afraid to dance naked in dew circles. But I simply speculate. For myself, the obsession of you wankers with sports is a sign that you've given up on making the world any better place to be. I'm with you! Solidarity, brothers! I paddle, now. I don't care if the world spirals into such a tight circle of despair that, like the 'Nowhere Bird', it disappears up its own arsehole. Of course, I'm actually paddling. Most of you lot are just watching the telly. But I figure most of you do something to stay active. Posting, say. Or recycling the empties, maybe. Everyone knows that I'm an opinionated bastard, eh? But watching a sport you don't participate in is like taking pleasure in watching someone else masturbate. Interesting, and even relaxing, on occasion. But ultimately, just another afternoon with a box of kleenex.

Thank you for the story Gnomey, and you never disappoint. </font>

One of the first things I noticed when I moved to Oregon 30 years ago was that it seemed nearly twice a year there would be a mention that the bones of some missing teenaged girl would be discovered up in the woods somewhere. Struck me as a hell of a waste of a teenaged girl. Goddam stupid rednecks. For you on the other hand, it would be a fitting end. Just think of it: to lie beneath the whispering Douglas firs, peed on by random bears. Kinda purty, dontcha think? Michael </font>

I'd claim I remembered this quote from the movie, but it would be a lie, because I've never managed to stay awake to the end of that particular piece of cellusopor. But for one horrible summer, a good friend did have that piece of dialogue as his answering machine message. So I knew the answer, but couldn't stay awake long enough to type it. </font>

I promised Persephone a 'Small Emma' story. I've done my best to not disappoint.

We have now reached the point where we are moving beyond 'The Tales of Small Emma', and moving into the 'Tales of Small Friends'. Because the always imperious, effervescent, and delightful Small Emma is being ever more joined by her sister, Smaller Nora. Smaller Nora is...more 'boisterous' than Emma. To put it concisely: Smaller Nora is a big, big freak. She's louder. She's more demonstrative. She's a little nut-job. But she's just as lovable. She's just as amazing. And, as will occur, she's starting to want to play with 'Grandma Steve', while her sister regards 'Grandma Steve' as a completely owned subsidiary of 'Small Emma Enterprises'. What's a poor minion to do? When I started out on this whole road of being 'Grandma Steve', I never realized I'd have to split an aging heart into two. Christ, it can barely pump enough blood to keep ME alive, let alone find time to amuse two small princesses. We shall just have to work at it. The new, little Smaller Princess, Nora, has always liked me. I've always been there, after all, playing with her big sister, and friends of her Mom and Dad. We're buddies. But now, she's a big enough girl to play. When she sees me, she shrieks (a common reaction), and then laughs (the other most common reaction), and she runs around. She will climb right up on me, and she will hug me. That'll melt the heart. Shrieking, laughing, and hugging. A man could die well, if he knew he'd got that under his belt. Beloved of a child is better than being beloved of gods. They both demand sacrifices. Only children make anything like a return. Gods are ****e. And my other friend, Smaller Nora, has never addressed me in any way. She's laughed at me, she's hugged me, she's climbed over me, and she's mauled me. But she's new to the whole 'language' thing, and she's never called me anything. But now, she's learned enough to say 'Gama Seeee!' That'll do. Her sister, Small Emma, of course, is not completely 'on board' with the fact that, as 'Grandma Steve', I now have to divide one heart in two, as I said. But I know I will only have to do so briefly. Because they are sisters. They will always be in competition, in some ways, but on a deeper level they will be arrayed against the entire world. And when they realize that, I will always be Their Secret Minion. So, I went over there, Friday night, and we played. Nora taught me a new and interesting game. When she held her arms up, I picked her up, and she laughed. Then she put her two small hands underneath my chin, and pushed until I was looking at the freaking ceiling. It's amazing how strong something that you can hold in your arms can be. And I told her Mom, in a strangled tone, 'Jen, your daughter is trying to snap my neck..' And her Mom told me: "Oh, she's just playing the 'push you over' game. When she sits on the couch with mommy or daddy, she 'pushes us over'. We fall over, and then she laughs. Man, she's almost got your head touching your spine, doesn't she?" "Yeah. She's awful strong..." The other purpose of a 'Grandma Steve' is to also amuse the parents... I have achieved the 'penultimate' state. When her Mom asked her what she wanted to do before bed, last night, Small Emma told her, 'I want to play with Grandma Steve upstairs on the third story [at some later time, I will explain the significance of the various rooms/stories of the house], and then I want him to read three books to me. On the third story (because books read elsewhere than her room aren't the same as 'bedtime stories'). And her Mom told her: Okay, I will set the timer (what the hell did primitive peoples do before the invention of the digital timer?). So we played. And we even finished the 'game' before the timer went off. And then I was allowed to have my treat: I read her 'three books'. They were pretty silly, but she likes them. It was the same three books I read to her the last time I was over there. I now believe that's by intent, and not a matter of the books themselves. Children play out patterns, like Opera, and they need the same stories, told in the same way, by the same narrators. I found that with my own nieces and nephews, who didn't have me around as much when they were growing up, and didn't want me to read to them, instead of their mom and dad. But I'm there for Emma Sine, and Nora Mette. I will get to read to them. I hope that, when they get older, I will be there to read them things like Lloyd Alexander's 'Taran' series. Or the 'Hobbit'. When we were done with our books, we walked downstairs (from 'the third story') and her Mom came out, and she had to put on her pajamas. I helped to interpret, for her Mom, the seriousness of 'not wearing pajamas with long sleeves'. The little bugger always wants to wear summer pajamas, even in deep winter. Probably because you could lose a yak in the bed covers her Mom has on her bed. But you know, with kids, they toss and turn, they throw the covers off, and then they wake up cold. And you know Moms. They want you to always be warm, and they're not concerned about the fact that your 'winter' pajamas aren't as charming, and 'ballroom gown-like' as your summer pajamas. It's hard being a Fairy Tinkerbell Princess in cuddly woolies. And then it was time for the 'Bedtime Story'. And her Mom told her: But you already had three books upstairs with Grandma Steve. It's time for bed! And Emma Sine Small Friend told her, quite rightly, in my opinion, 'That was just normal books, it wasn't bedtime stories!' It was all I could do to not jump in and support her. But I didn't, and the only reason I didn't was because I knew her Mom was a reader, and believer in reading. And she didn't let me down. "Okay, you can have one book for bedtime. What do you want?" "I want an Angelina!" For those of you out there without small children, there is a large series of 'Angelina' books out there. Angelina is a mouse, and she likes to dance. They play big with children, and they're fairly charming. "Do you want Mommy to read it to you, or Grandma Steve?" "Mommy!" "Not Grandma Steve?" "No, Mommy!" That's as it should be. I was not slighted. I get to read her the 'sit up books'. Her Mom reads her the 'bedtime story'. And her Dad, too. But I am privileged, beyond all other mortals. I get to tell her stories, and I get to read her 'sit up books'. Seanachai. In Gaelic, it means 'Storyteller'.

Ah, the sweet elixir that predates gout... Bah! You're either threatening me, or you're inviting me. Or both. I will always undertake an Invitation, while ignoring a threat. But I think that, should I ever have the money, time, and wherewhithal to show up in the fecking Oregon hinterlands, I could depend on someone, possibly you, to provide me with a drink. If afterwards you murdered me and buried me in some favoured strand of cedar, or whatever you goofballs do there in the Pacific Northwest, well...I've had a damn good run. And I'd come back, and be-devil you. Count on it. Can't you? I think you can. I curse the fact that I didn't meet this whole, weird community of idjits 20 years ago. I'd have been at each and every one of your doors. Now? I'm old, I'm weak. I don't know where my next paycheck is coming from. I don't have Health Insurance. I have nothing approaching a Pension. My Old Man never taught me thing fecking one about money, even though he made, and lost, a ton of it. As far as I know, you get some money, you spend it to stay alive. I look through my mail every 8-12 weeks. I pay anything that says 'disconnect' on it. Maybe I come to see you, Leeo. We'll sing some songs, look at the moon. The moon is always beautiful, eh? Eh, that won't work. I have to be here for my Small Friends. If I'm not here, who will teach them to paddle? So, you know, I will look for a way to grub another dollar, paste on another smile of certainty. Still, I dream of a time when I can just give it up, and travel across the country, inflicting myself on everyone who's ever spoken a cordial word to me. Probably a time for a Story of Small Friends...

You suffer from delusions of grandeur. Michael </font>

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When I speak to you all, you all, for a moment, go still, like a soul wondering where it should be. After that, of course, you clamor and shatter bottles and piss yourselves like a gang of drunken crackers. But for that one brief moment, when you wonder what I have to say, and contemplate it, you see yourselves...differently. You wonder if I see you as you see yourselves. And you hope that I see you better than you are. But I see you as my little lads and lasses. I will not forsake a one of you.

Sigh. You're a goddamn idjit, Stuka. I like you, lad. Won't leave you out there, hanging. If I could come up with someone as stupid as you are... Well, I'd be looking in a mirror, eh? But I wouldn't be half so handsome. Nor half as convinced of it. So, Stuka. You get to be the handsome one. I get to be the smart one. Go with it. You're not completely stupid. But, if taken in the right light, with the sun shining just so, and the police closing in, you could be quite captivating. Hopefully long enough to dodge a full body cavity search, you annoying Aussie c*cks*cker. I've always liked you, Stuka. But I have to ask myself this: Do you like him enough to risk a popsicle stick up the arse for him? Hell, Stuka! I'm not after saying I'd take the stick up the arse for you, but I'm willing to say that you are the dumbest, weirdest, drunkest Aussie I'd have to even contemplate bending over and spreading them for....

You want to dance, America? You want to fight an unending War? You want to solve the Immigration Issue? Give citizenship to every fool, and his immediate family, who wants to fight for America in Iraq, or Afghanistan (lest we ****ing completely forget that all but lost war that made some freaking sense...) But perhaps that's too cynical. Don't know. My 10th grade German teacher crawled under the wire from East Germany to the West side when he was 15 years old, and became an American citizen by serving in the American Military for four years. That was during the Cold War. He was a great guy. Odd sense of humour, but then, he was German. You can't really trust the goddamn Germans. Is that what we want to be said about us?

This just in from MSNBC News: GOP Candidates Clash in California Hundreds Feared Dead, Tens of Thousands Feared Stupid...

You are forgetting Richard Chamberlain as Aramis. BTW, the 1948 version with Gene Kelly is pretty good too, especially the first half is wonderful. And who could ask for a better Richelieu than Vincent Price? Michael </font>

....While you were asleep in the glove compartment. How did you escape? </font>

Wow. That's like what... 20 bottles of Old Underwear? Not bad. And if you get tired of drinking it (Like when they start snow boarding in hell), you can use it to remove tree sap from your car. Along with most of the paint. </font>

You shame yourself, and make us all sad. There are six pound hammers. There are ten and twenty pound sledgehammers. I used to have a six pound sledge, with the long handle, that I'd chopped off to about 18". Used to toss it in the back yard, hand to hand, spins, fancy tosses. You had to grab quick, or get out of the way, or you'd seriously injure yourself. Six pounds of spinning metal and wood could break a foot, shin, or forearm. I still miss that damn sledge. It was in the car that got stolen. Bastards. They're probably using it now to cave in side-windows...

I'm over at Dalem's, right now, but it's early. That means there's the time and means to log-in as myself, and yet remember to log-out, not leaving a means of ingress to...lesser intelligences. I feel like a stranger here, this night. It's his group of 'gaming' friends. There's some of them around the dining room table, playing a card wargame (something involving 'Warcraft'; pretty much incomprehensible), and the less game oriented, more gregarious, who are clustered in the living room watching 'The Three Musketeers' (the good version, screenplay by George McDonald Fraser, with Michael York, Oliver Reed, Albert Finney, etc in the main roles...Charlton Heston is great as Richelieu). It's a decent Saturday night. I feel good, because I've got almost a $100 worth of single malt in my trunk. The liquor store near Dalem's house is moving, and they're offeriing serious discounts...

How about a nice pic that we can actually see, huh? Michael </font>

You wanna take everyone as the Greeks. </font>

...Sword of Rome, maybe? Man, I wanna take Bugged on with her as the Greeks...

Umm...what board games?

Yassah, MrPeng! Lordy, lordy, rich white folk can eat any dam' ting dey like! Mmm, mmm. Dey wanna eat puppies, dey eat dem puppies! Sorry. Normally I would refrain from such an obvious attempt to 'play the race card' against Peng, but this is an election year. Hillary's paying me almost a thousand dollars a month to muddy the waters by accusing the other Olde Ones of not being black enough, while Huckabee's paying me twice that to offend every voter who isn't a mush-headed cracker right-wing fundie idiot with my antics in an attempt to distract everyone from the fact that even White Supremacists think he's hitting too many dissonant notes. Excuse me, but I have to go off and get another beer, before I light the incense candles (Musk - for Men!) in front of my shrine to G. Gordon Liddy. Hey, Massah Peng! I got your flag pole right here, bubba! I tell ya', lads, it takes it right out of a man to try and cover the political spectrum, these days. Thank all the gods for my day job, in which I promote Scientology for Tom Cruise. The pay isn't so great, but I get to revile psychology, and people with an IQ over 75, and I get to see his 'audit' records. He isn't 'just' gay. He's weird with it. I mean, when you delve into the details, he's not even really gay. If he was a household pet, cat or dog, I'd have him put down. And not quick, or painlessly. But I got stupid, and the money was too good...