Seanachai

Am I pleased, or frightened?

Ah, my Idiot Brethren. How it delights me to come amongst you again. Tales of Small Emma: The Death of Grandma Steve Yeah, yeah, I know: Overly dramatic. I'm not planning on kacking any time soon. But there's going to come a day, in the not too distant future, when Grandma Steve will be so second string that he'll envy the beat-up soft toy brown horsey that's sitting in a pile of 'lesser toys'. My Small Friend is growing up every day. I still get a big greeting. I am still asked, politely, 'Are you wearing your work clothes, Grandma Steve, or are you wearing your Play clothes?!' As far as Emma is concerned, she knows there's a difference, because she's been told, but she asks to verify whether the cheap blue slacks, frayed at the heel, and button-down short sleeve shirt are 'work clothes' (yes), or whether the REI cargo shorts and t-shirt are 'play clothes' (yes). We are still in the 'Playing with Barbies' stage. Lately, this involves me hosting a veritable freaking Hive of Barbies, and serving as their means of locomotion and vocalization. There is the hideously cheap, knock-off Barbie from China, whose leg comes off, periodically, and has to be re-attached, and whose cheap, sequined ball gown constantly slips down to reveal her most prominent features, and which I find myself constantly 'fixing' so as to cover them, gods know why. Then there is the doll that is not, in fact, a 'Barbie', but which gets called Barbie, which is extremely small and petite compared to the other dolls, and which is barely bendable, and whose clothing is rigid, snap around plastic that more closely resembles some sort of Kevlar armor than clothing, even though it's sculpted to resemble skirts and blouses. You can't make her sit without removing the 'snaps open on one side and pivots on the other' skirt. And, finally, there is the 'favored' Barbie. The actual, real Barbie, with the most disturbingly fly-away, platinum blonde hair, and stripy shirt and skirt. There is a heirarchy amongst the Barbies. And the fun they have is based upon their position. They have to be seated in a certain pattern. The 'true' Barbie, also called 'Pom Pom Barbie', is the Alpha Barbie. She is the favourite, and, if our little party of make-believe goes to 'The Mall of America' to ride on the Rides, she gets to go on the good rides. She sits in the 'favored' spot, gets privileges, and, as far as I can tell, gets to eat first on the carcass and breed first. Then there is the 'Petite Barbie', who is not, in fact, a Barbie. She still gets treated well, and, because she is smaller, gets called 'little sweet-pea', which is what Emma's Mom calls Nora, Emma's little sister. She's a stand in for the younger sister. And then there is the cheap, knock-off Barbie, which, in my head, I call the Unter-Barbie. She is always last in the seating. She has no privileges. When the others get to go to the Mall of America, she gets to go to the Doctor. And, apparently, the Doctor is Mengele. She gets 'sting shots'. How these differ from real shots seems to be that they always hurt. She is always 'sick', and has blood drawn a lot. It always hurts. I have this horrible feeling that the Unter-Barbie represents...me. But we never play without her. If she 'runs away' (that is, when I throw her over the back of the couch, because she doesn't want to have another 'sting shot'), all play must cease and a full scale search and rescue operation (rather resembling the pursuit in 'The Fugitive') commences. My Small Friend is increasingly funny to talk to. She no longer looks at me, questioningly, when we talk, and either answers questions briefly, or by repeating back to me what I've said about something. Oh, no. Now she goes on at some length, telling me strange and wonderful things. The other day, when, for the first time in a long time, I showed up with her Mom to pick her up at Day Care, she grabbed my hand and dragged me off to see 'Margaret and Batman', the mascots of the 'Dalmatian' room (oldest group of toddlers before pre-school). Margaret and Batman are hermit crabs. I was informed that Batman is an angry hermit crab. He has pincers, and he likes to pinch people. And he doesn't like noise. So, while he was being shown to me, we had to talk very softly. They were in their 'house', which looked like a ceramic coconut shell. And when we left, Small Emma took my hand, rather than her Mom's (who was, after all, carrying Tiny Nora, who also now in Day Care). And she told me that 'When we get home, we will play Barbies. If you want to." Which I did. The best part of the evening was when Emma climbed up on the couch in the sun porch with me, and threw her arms around me and gave me a hug. And then she draped one arm over my shoulder and leaned against me while she explained to me why the Unter-Barbie needed to go see the Doctor. And, after her bath, she came down in her pajamas, and asked me, in the replete voice of a little girl who had been busy all day and had just had a bath, 'Grandma Steve, do you want to read me my stories?' She sounded somewhat muzzy and tired, but happy. So I read her two short ones, that she picked out. You can always tell when she's tired and out of it, because she wants short books. When she's still a little full of piss and vinegar, she wants to hear things like 'The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins' (which I gave her) and 'Thumbelina'. Those damn things take 40 minutes to read. Especially when, if you're Grandma Steve, you keep pointing out all the hats... [ September 06, 2007, 12:12 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

Double post

Oh, wait! I've got one! I don't think there was a single person playing CMx1 that said: Please abandon the Mac Platform! They were probably thrown off by the fact that BFC had so repeatedly said they wouldn't abandon the Mac that they figured there was no point in even bringing it up.

He's got you there, Michael. Oh, not that load of fetid dingoes kidneys about 'the historic posts that MADE the Cesspool', but he's been posting here relentlessly since pretty close to the beginning. And you did used to spend a great deal of time arguing with Dorosh about weird ****e. Of course, that was before Dorosh decided he was some sort of God/Spokescreature for BFC and decided to spend all his time standing on a plinth holding CMSF over his head and proclaiming 'features that Jupiter could only long for!'

Yeah, but Joe, this actually looks fecking intriguing! I mean, he's going to knock the top off the bastard and raise the roof. Isn't that going to seriously screw with the aerodynamics/stability of the vehicle (such as it is, given that it's a school bus)? And what's he going to do to patch in all that length and support for the top cap? I dunno, Joe, I'd just like to know more about it; see how it all comes out, you know? I mean, this is like Hillbilly armour for the domestic market! Let's face it, it's guys like Abbott over there in Iraq modifying their Humvees so as to keep their privates in place. I mean, Dick Cheney would love this freaking project! You don't go on vacation with the RV you want, you go on vacation with the RV you HAVE! Hey, Abbott! Keep the website up to date!

But DO remember that in the normal course of events ... WE DON'T CARE! Joe </font>

Oh, Peng. You renew me. Like the coming of Spring. You bastard.

Oh man, could I ever go to work on that nearest girl. She is cuuuuuuuute! Michael </font>

You mean we're having fun now? </font>

We rejoice with you.

S'okay. We've been working on him, here in the Great North Country. Did a Wake for his Dad on the night he got back here, me, Papa Khann, and a whole raft of his other weird friends. I, personally, stayed with him until...well, sometime around 5 AM, when I apparently lost consciousness. I woke up at 6 AM because his sodding pet, Joe the Cat, had crawled up on my chest and was meeoowwwing like a bastard. I started petting him, and telling him that he was a good cat, and pretty cat. But when I quit petting him, he thrust his face into mine, and I thought he was just touching noses with me. And then the little swine gently leaned further forward and bit me on the fecking nose. In a tender, playful sort of way, and I thought it was just his way of saying 'continue to pet me, two-legs, or it will go worse for you'. So I started petting him again, and reassured him that I harboured no resentment. And the playful little tyke started licking my face, as I thought at the time, to let me know that he was appreciating me. After a while, I chased him off and found my shoes and DVDs and staggered out into a New Day. He was appreciating me, the little ****e. He was licking up the goddamn blood. When I got home I found I had blood all over my face, and all over the hand I'd swiped over my face. Dalem, your freaking cat is a vampire. You need to have a talk with him about attempting to drain guests who've passed out on your couch. I was kind of wondering why all the people I pulled up next to in Nor'd East all looked over at me with horror. By the time I made West Broadway, every other driver was lagging far behind me, probably trying to dial their cell phones one-handed to tell the cops that they'd just passed a guy who'd been in some sort of violent confrontation. Sodding cats. So, tomorrow Papa Khann and I are taking Dalem out to the Renaissance Festival. There, we will pour alcohol into him, and the manly amongst us will smoke cigars. Which means Papa will not be smoking cigars, because he is a little girl. And we will drag Dalem around to watch the belly dancers, and make much of him. Today, I kayaked 10.5 miles of the Minnesota River, and I am tired. Tonight, I am smoking one of my new, 'La Aroma de Cuba' cigars (yeah, I'm pretty sure that should translate as 'the smell of Cuba'...I love the smell of Cuba in the evening...it makes me think of...victory). Job ended last Wednesday. Used a chunk of the last paycheck to buy a cheap humidor and some expensive cigars on-line. Also, the new Pratchett novel is due out mid-month. 'Making Money'. Can't wait. I owe everyone turns. You'll get them as soon as I stop having fun. And then, you'll get them very regularly, for a change. Because very, very soon, the fun will come to an end.

How about a bit of a sing-song then, eh? stoat solves his problems by calling up his mom Lars solves his problems with drugs and Alcohol Peng solves his problems with a doctor and the law But Berli has his own way and it's better than them all 'Cause Berli solves his problems with a chainsaw Berli solves his problems with a chainsaw Berli solves his problems with a chainsaw and he never has the same problem twice! Whether it's a bill or a cheque arriving late Rancid marble cheese or a steak that's second rate Awful TV programs or a broken Elvis plate Or a game AI that plots a path sending armor out of State Berli solves his problems with a chainsaw Berli solves his problems with a chainsaw Berli solves his problems with a chainsaw zzzRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR Aaaaggghhh Aaaaggghhh problem solved With apologies to the Arrogant Worms for ripping off their material. But since I abused Lars with it, it counts as justifiable use.

Yes.

Don't be an ass! It would be Greeeaaattt! And, if we had a lunatic combat veteran like yourself along, we'd get so less hassled at the Border! After years of having to smile like a goddamn jack-o-lantern and say 'yes, sir, no sir, three bags full sir' at the Border and trying to look like a goddamn Model Citizen, do you know how it would tickle me to run an actual Vet up against the Customs buggers?! Think late July, early August.

It occurs to me that, next year, before I die, I need to do a Peng Challenge Thread Trip to Lake of the Woods. It will, of course, involve inviting the Minnesota Miscreants (Lars, Dalem and Papa Khann) up to our place on Lake of the Woods. And, once we'd agreed on the dates, anyone who could make their way to Minneapolis for the trip, would be welcome to come up. Damn. What an interesting trip that would be. I'll keep you posted.

You know you're right....it has been way too long since I spent some time in the fresh air. However, I would probably tire of you very early on in my visit, and become boorish and even more melancholy. </font>

Ah, I see it now. You know, you need to get out more. You need to come out here and go to my family's cabin on Lake of the Woods. You've got an open invite, you big weird bastard.

Why the hell did you send me to a website about the Society of St. Francis, you weird feck?

So, how have I offended you? Why did you never send a return?

Carpetbagger </font>

Wonderful! Now you can do math! And you aren't even 40, yet! Who's a good boy, then? Who's a very good boy?! Try to calculate this: Your need to return My copy of the First Season of Rome, before I come to your house very late at night, dead drunk and in an ugly mood, and kill all your pets with an axe, and take pictures of your step-daughter naked through the windows of your home? Seriously, I've met your step-daughter, and I could easily recoup the cost of buying the First Season of Rome again with even a dozen or so pictures of her showering and doing girl things. And don't even begin to talk to me about your guns and such, because I've been to your house, know the lay of the land, and would have the advantage of the fact that there's only one night in fifty where you go to bed sober and/or drunk enough to actually have any clue as to what's going on outside your house. LARS LARSON, WHERE ARE MY LEGIONS?!

I thought, after all this time, of spending some money to send you a gift. Just a little something for my large, thuggish henchman. To make him feel 'valued'. Until I read that. Die in Hell.

Dalem -- you know how you are! And I know how it is. Give me a call when you get home, we'll eat some abalone and drink some whisky and piss off a cliff. And we'll smoke some cigars. What's that line from Roger Zelazny's 'This Immortal'? Mighty hunter, we have lost us another.

I am returned from the North. It was quite a nice weekend. On Saturday, which was superb, I managed to kayak about 12 miles, returning to Base periodically to do things like drink another glass, and pick up a cigar. The final paddle of the day was a good 7 miles, and I smoked a cheap cigar with a number of seagulls while paddling to the north end of the bay. That's not bad mileage to rack up on a sodding lake. I did 16 miles for the weekend. Other than that, my friend who went up was a great chum, and it was only on the first night, when she was excited and taken with the wonder of being on Lake of the Woods, that she got completely pissed (as in drunk) and emotional and told me all about the horrors and stress of this last year going through Chemo and overcoming cancer. She was a very good sport, and when I would say to her 'So, and tomorrow, will you spend less time crying and hiccuping, and have more fun?', she would giggle helplessly, and call me foul names. They also serve, who do but bring people to the North Woods, pour wine into them, and stand knee deep in the bursting of the emotional dam. But I was not swept away. Like a pillar of humour and vulgarity I stood, teasing her into a deeper realization of how much she valued having other friends. The best point was when she told me about how, after 15 days of not being able to retain any food, she'd actually contemplated suicide. And I looked deep into her eyes, and wiped away her tears, and I told her: "It means the world to me that you didn't kill yourself. But you know what? You're really harshing my buzz. Fer chrissake, this is a $9 cigar!" Did her a world of good to chase me about the point of the island with that brand she snatched up from the fire. Probably seriously lessened her hangover the next day. Luckily at that point she was all but legless with the drink, so she couldn't catch me. I remain yours truly, the UberGnome.