Seanachai

You'll do what makes sense for you financially, of course, and I approve of that. But I just want to throw a thought into all the debate. When I was looking to upgrade my Mac, I had the choice of buying a new G5, or buying the last possible model G4. I bought the G4, despite the fact that it was 'obsolete', because it was the last Mac that would dual boot into OS X, and System 9, which allowed me to still play Combat Mission, which wouldn't load in OS X. When I wanted to play Combat Mission, I would have to reboot the computer into System 9. And I did it. But when my brand new G4 arrived, it turned out that Combat Mission couldn't play on it with the ATI video card that came standard, because Apple changed the video driver standard that would work with the G4s, and vendors like Battlefront were left without a fix. Of course, neither Battlefront nor Apple let me know this beforehand. So I spent more money and bought a new video card. And all of this was a significant financial commitment. And because my ISP's mail server (fecking MSN) wouldn't support picking up mail in OS 9, I'd have to re-boot into OS X to send email turns, after booting into OS 9 to play the game, then boot back into OS X to get turns again. And I did it. I did it because Combat Mission was a great game. Perhaps the greatest. And because of the incredible community of people I'd come to hate and abuse and play email games with. So, now it looks like the only way I'll be able to play the newest game is to buy an Intel Mac, which is simply NOT in the cards for the next year, at least. And with no guarantee that it will actually 'work'. But I've got a circle of friends with the earlier versions of the Game. So I can, you know, kind of keep playing. No company can survive without making economic choices, and Battlefront has, undoubtedly, made the right ones. But I feel a little bit betrayed. I've made significant economic choices to keep playing Battlefront Games. All the while, with great dismay, watching the re-orientation of the game to the Windows format. I use both platforms endlessly, and interchangeably. I don't really like Windows. Even with XP, I get hardware freeze-ups, and the usual, endless problems with using MS Office (especially Word), despite the fact that MS Office is so tightly bound to the OS that it's almost incomprehensible that the various components screw up and take the System down so often. It's going to be a couple of years before I'll be in a position to replace my computing system. I've sunk my (barely) disposable income into outdoor sports, like kayaking. Other than 'cutting edge' gaming, what I have now is more than up to all I need or want it to do. It's too bad, though. I'd love to play what's coming up. But increasingly, it's becoming a market for those with the newest, most powerful systems. Which also translates into people who buy systems devoted to gaming, or new buyers,or those who buy the latest system out there. Which increasingly means younger gamers. Which also, probably, goes a long way to explaining 'Shock Force'. But, when you get right down to it, the BFC guys have always been more likely to get picked up while clubbing than me. They probably don't even listen to the Kinks.

I now own a fleet of kayaks. Well, at least two. And I can get both of them into the trunk of my car. When I come to visit you all, there will be boats for everyone. I hope that you all have rivers and/or lakes near by. Just, you know, in case we want to go indulge in God's sport...

Okay...I know you are The French. But what you just did was so wrong...oh, hell. Who am I kidding? How's it been, you sod? You working?

Uh, yeah, listen have the UPS guy deliver it to my roof willya? Joe </font>

So in the new game, the US may well have the option of fighting and conquering the Brits, the French, the Canadians, the Dutch and the Germans? Man! This is exciting news! Will it all be tactical, or will there be a campaign element where we can impose Democracy via Haliburton 'cost plus' contracts on their benighted, backwards nations? I hope the Dutch make it into the modules. I'm taking the 3rd Marines in to secure the essential hashish bars near the airports...

All who cannot flee the United Kingdom stay tuned...final word on 'days in Dublin' to be coming my way by Sunday...

Tonight, I spent 35 minutes building a boat in my living room, and then sitting in it. I had an enjoyable 15 minutes of 'talking like a pirate' while looking down the bow of my brand new 13' long, bright blue 'skin-on-folding-frame' kayak. It's a Folbot Yukon. You can see pictures of it here: www.folbot.com/yukon.html. The one pictured is the one I have; same colour, same rigging. Man, I can hardly wait for fecking Spring. I can get enough weight of gear into the new Yukon to make it worthwhile to ambush Lars in his freaking pontoon boat as he zig-zags drunkenly across Lake Minnetonka. Grapnels, rope...shotgun and ammo...instruments of torture (federally approved and certified by the Department of Justice)... I can hardly wait for that moment when, after an educational session on the foredeck, I can tie a rope to his wrist and toss him over the side and drag him across a couple of miles of the lake. It's not like it's cruel, or anything. I mean, the stupid sod has done it to himself...

I am going over to Dalem's house tomorrow night. After reading that hideous bit of...there simply aren't words for what that was. But after reading it, I'm bringing over some rum, some cigars, and an axe handle. Tomorrow night, I will BEAT A SENSE OF POETRY INTO DALEM. Or kill him trying. Either way, it's a win. I feel like Anne Sullivan in the 'Miracle Worker'.

Best damn thing I've read on this Thread in years. Made it worth coming in here tonight.

Whinging [ February 14, 2007, 05:12 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

I'm sorry, did you say something? I seemed to have dozed off in the middle of your post. </font>

And have I then done nothing, Justicar? Is there nothing that I have done? Will you turn your face away from me? Will you deny me? I say this, Joe Shaw. You will deny me three times...

It's still a pretty song, Joe. A lot of them are pretty songs.

I have spoken with MrPeng We agreed that you were all scum. We had the occasional 'ha-ha, yes, he's almost completely idiotic, isn't it amusing how he can actually type, eh?' moment. We talked about Loss. We talked about Wonder. We talked about the Future. We talked about how you lot can figure in the former, but almost never figure in the latter. We talked some about the fact that we're going to die long before most of you lot ever will. We wondered if that was right. We talked some about kids. We like kids. We don't like most of you feckers, all that much. We like where kids can go. Where life will take them. What they might make of the world we've simply pissed on, because no one told us we shouldn't. The beach at Newcomb Hollow The last days of August The other side of low tide The sun is high, the sun is high We’re kneeling in the wet sand Stopping up a wall breach Quick, before the next wave Rushes in, rushes in The moat around the castle Is filling up with water But hope springs eternal All hands ready – here it comes Behind us in the crowd Some kind of commotion A little girl is shouting Fly away! Fly away! But we pay no attention The castle is in danger The ramparts are sinking We dig on, we dig on Then out of the blue There’s an orange canary On our driftwood flagpole Shovels down Boys! – step away The little girl comes running She can’t be more than seven Her mother is behind her With a cage, with a cage And her mother is explaining Baby, it’s just too far And she’ll never survive here On her own, on her own But the little girl’s not listening She’s talking to the bird Mavis you can trust me Now’s your big chance Fly away! If Mavis has been listening She isn’t letting on We’re all just waiting No one moves, no one moves And then comes the wave Swamping the castle No one is watching When it falls, when it falls We’re following the progress Of a little bolt of orange On the long horizon There goes Mavis There goes Mavis There Goes Mavis -Richard Shindell You know, I'm pretty sure none of you sorry arseholes ever go check out the songs I post here. You skip right over the 'poetry' to see if I've vomited on my shoes. You never hear the voices, you never hear the tunes. You may see me, sitting late at night, tap-tapping away at my stupid gibberish, but you never hear what songs make me hum, never hear what songs catch in my throat, never see the tear that forms in my eye. You never see my head nodding. You never see how many times some of these songs are played, over and over. You never hear the mumbled prayer of sing along. You never see how the songs rise up, and pull what I write this way, and that. You never see the full texture of what I post. You miss a lot. [ February 12, 2007, 09:15 PM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

Of course. But here in the Peng Challenge Thread we are all about how our acts impact others. Mostly, of course, we hope that the impact ruptures a spleen or kidney. But sometimes, oh Boo...when the light strikes your huge, ox-like frame - just so... Well, Boo. Then I am moved to allow you all license. 'Io, Saturnalia'! Master is Man, Man, Master! Boo you may drink too much cheap beer, and then caper, a bit. I know you don't actually have a dog. But I can't imagine your cracker neighbours don't have a dog. Drink like a Titan, and then puke like the Cyclops on your redneck neighbour's dog.

YOU ASS! WHY DO I BOTHER TO SET AN ALARM ON MY PDA SO THAT I CAN AMAZE YOU BY WISHING YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WHEN YOU JUST GO AHEAD AND ANNOUNCE THAT IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY?! Have you no shame. You're supposed to sit out there in the Wasteland, drinking rum in a mean stupor, constantly checking the Thread to see if anyone has wished you a Happy Birthday. If midnight comes and no one has, you're supposed to fly into a frothing fury, call everyone c********s and m***********s and vowing terrible revenge for this slight to your status and significance. Then you projectile vomit unto the dog, and fall asleep on the bathroom rug. The next day (latish) you post away quite normal, as if nothing had happened. Which it might as well not, since you have absolutely no memory of it, and are wondering why the dog smells so and is looking at you with loathing.

How 'bout a jolly immigrant singsong, then, eh? Unburdened of their passengers The taxis have all scattered The hawkers move their tables out They’ll be selling no more leather The Oslo Queen is set to sail From the Port of Buenos Aires The ropes are thrown and the big horn moans As she slips out of the harbor The stowaway is keeping still In the dark of his container With his blanket and his flashlight And a picture of his sweetheart He’s rationing his batteries But right now he can’t resist her Standing there with her long brown hair In that Che Guevara t-shirt As the contents of his wallet show His plan’s a little sketchy Three hundred bucks and the bad address Of a cousin in Miami In a couple months with a little luck He’ll be wiring home some money And even if they send him back It’ll make a damn good story Late at night he ventures out Each time a little farther Emboldened by his wanderlust His boredom, and his hunger Til he’s standing out on the open deck Searching for La Cruz del Sur But by-and-by the sky he knows Has yielded to another The moon shines on the shipping lanes Off the coast of Venezuela And as he looks out at the oilers Riding heavy up to Texas He sings a little to himself Luna, luna, luna llena While the moon, a word he’s yet to learn, Betrays him to the cameras Now he’s somewhere in Dade County And six weeks without a lawyer On the basis of the evidence They could keep him there forever The guy with the cuban accent says “Do you recognize this picture?” And there she is with her long brown hair And that Che Guevara t-shirt -Richard Shindell "Che Guevara T-shirt"

Welcome to the Peng Challenge Thread! Could I get you a glass of chai? Could we show you a catalogue of our 'Extraordinary Renditions'? Is there a moment in your life when you wondered if you'd be able to torture someone, simply because they were different? Look no further, Squire! We're a full service provider of doubt, bigotry, guilt and absolution! Here you'll find an amazing cross-section of people so loathsome, so vile, and so deserving of your hatred that even 15 minutes into the water-boarding, you'll still be true to your vision of Freedom! Liberals! Australians! Europeans! Homosexuals! Women! Gnomes! Scots! Step right up, Step right up! Rules? Of course there are rules! Do you think we've become the Greatest, Most Powerful Thread On the Forum without a devotion to rules?! Of course not. After all, We are a Nation...err, that is, We Are a Thread of Laws! And they apply to everyone We say they do. And they never apply to Us. Isn't it jolly how the humorous idiocy of the Peng Challenge Thread has become... What have we become? Joe Shaw, Justicar of the Peng Challenge Thread, I would ask for a Special Dispensation. I would like for just anyone, you know, to wander in here and post. Nothing special. Just a quick 'hello'. Or a 'piss-off'. Whatever. No one dying, you know. I'm pretty sure we could pull it off without calling up 20,000 former posters...

I may be wrong, it has happened before, but... I think from this, I may conclude, that The French have forgiven me. So! I shall now, in my most horrendous, bad, drunk, stupid endlessly repeated voice, sing my favourite Bob Dylan song: Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to. Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you. Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand, Vanished from my hand, Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping. My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet, I have no one to meet And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming. Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to. Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you. Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship, My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip, My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels To be wanderin'. I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it. Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to. Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you. Though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the sun, It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run And but for the sky there are no fences facin'. And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind, I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're Seein' that he's chasing. Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to. Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you. Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind, Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves, The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach, Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow. Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands, With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves, Let me forget about today until tomorrow. Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to. Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you. Where the hell is Berli, eh?

Sigh...unlike George W., I will have to endure a sense of failure, based on my success. Everybody sing! In the dime stores and bus stations, People talk of situations, Read books, repeat quotations, Draw conclusions on the wall. Some speak of the future, My love she speaks softly, She knows there's no success like failure And that failure's no success at all. -Bob Dylan "Dalem is a Great Big Wanker, Hoopla!"

Bloody Belgians. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STURMY!

Boo. Fetch me a cooling drink. One with some rum in it. But, as my friend Small Emma would say: But not too much.

At least it goes to show that it is better to have loved, and lost, and had to hear about it fecking endlessly, while a bunch of tossers nattered on about every stupid thing in their lives, and other complete lunatics talked too bloody much for it to be believed, and then some idjits showed up to talk about how it was all, somehow, worth it, and people wondered if it was worth it, and a lot of people said it had never been worth it, and other people opined about how it had changed their lives, and some fecking absolute 'tree-rat weird' bugger showed up to talk about how he wanted to study it as part of a graduate program that involved examining communication in the New Era, and other people changed their marriages and lives over it all, and other people wished they'd never signed up, and other people became your good friends, and other people let you know that they'd lost their jobs, and other people told you they were dying of cancer, and then they did, and you had to deal with every sort of pissant flamer to ever post on the Forum, and you finally concluded that: IT HAS BEEN ONE, LONG SLEIGH RIDE THROUGH HELL But at least you got the chance to annoy the living **** out of MrPeng. And isn't that what I set out to do?

Ah, yes, Dorosh. You're so smart. This despite the fact that, even though the Invasion clearly failed years ago, you still have no Exit Strategy for gracefully withdrawing from this planet.

It is an exercise in what I like to call 'Not hating yourself so much, and being willing to cut yourself a break', to watch a small personality develop. No, I'm not talking about Boo. I'm talking about my little friend, Small Emma. I know that I haven't been doing as many Tales of Small Emma, lately, but that's primarily because she's just continued to be an amazingly cute small child, but in the usual way, and cute small children are pretty much a genre. I only bring up the various 'Tales of Small Emma' when I find Small Emma to have been strangely thought provoking and bizarre, and when her being Small Emma jibes well with my particular sense of humour, or analysis of the Human Condition. For the rest of the time, she's just Small Emma, being very funny and very interesting, but in a normal child way. And, while her least moment of existence completely trumps the entire lives that some of you Tossers have hideously cobbled together, in a World where 'slap fights' between Dorosh and Leeo can occupy the consciousness of a whole panel of idiotic drunkards from every Continent on the planet, I'm not sure that the day to day amusement of knowing Small Emma will hold the attention of people who have to change their socks every time they urinate. Now, last night, I was over visiting my Small Friend. It has been both a treat, and a learning experience, to watch a personality developing. Unlike most of you lot of fecking halfwits, who have entertained me by watching your personalities deteriorate. She had received, from various relatives and her Mom, several 'dress-up' Princess costumes. Currently the Disney company has tossed aside all other marketing initiatives in order to concentrate on the 'Princess Line', and they're apparently earning more money from it then the Medellin Cocaine Cartels could have dreamed of after doing up an eight-ball and reviewing their payoffs to the Reagan Administration. So, last night, I got a 'Princess Dress-up Review'. I cannot tell you how it moves me to near tears to see this silly little child take such pleasure in the visits of her 'Grandma Steve'. Her mother has converted the strange, walk-in storage closet in their uppermost, attic 'Entertainment Room' to a place for Emma to have her stuff, and play. She ran into the closet, and changed into her 'Aurora' costume. Apparently Aurora is the Princess in 'Sleeping Beauty'. The costume involved a great deal of pink dress, and when I wanted to take her picture, she put out her hand like a traffic cop and stopped me, because she had to run back into the closet to get her tiara and jewelry. When she returned to show me, and I had properly exclaimed "Oh, Emma! You look so beautiful!", she looked silently and soulfully into my eyes, and then held out her small hand for me to take. Which I did, not knowing what the point was. And then I realized that, because she was a Princess, it was so that we could dance. So, like a lumbering, drunken bear, I stood up, and we danced around the room together. And then, in the pose she'd learned from watching countless Disney Princess movies, she stood with her hands clenched in front of her, just before her throat, and, with her eyes cast up onto heaven in the 'girl with faraway eyes' stare, she starts singing: I'm wishing, I'm wishing For the One I love To find me To fine me etc. etc. She makes a pretty good job of it. She's shaky on the tune, but she sounds properly soulful. She looks over at her Mom when ever she gets shaky on the lyrics, and her Mom, who has a beautiful singing voice, helps her out. Sometimes, when she's not sure of the words, or not sure of what the words mean, she makes up words that sound right. All this from a little moppet who stands about as tall as Tinkerbell. Then she looks at me, and says: 'Grandma Steve, you are the Prince!' And I tell her 'Oh, Emma. I am not a very good Prince.' And she thinks about that, and tells me 'Well, I am Princess Belle, and you are The Beast'. And I tell her 'Emma, that works much better. I am a pretty good Beast.' And then we played. Mainly, she ran behind the 3 x3 game table in the dormer window area and crouched behind the last chair and told me she was 'in the Castle'. I would stand in front of the chair and sing: I'm looking, I'm looking, for Emma the Princess. She's lovely, she's pretty, and wears a lovely dress' And then I would have to pretend to knock down the door (it always had to take three tries, and involved a lot of 'oofing' and grunting), and find her. When I did, of course, she would jump up and push me back out through all the passages of the castle (around the table), and shove me out the door, which she would then wave her hands over and 'make the door all strong again'. Because I was 'the Beast', you see. This amused her no end. And made me nostalgic as hell. In between, I had to be tied up and deposited in the Papasan chair by 'the gobliners', which seemed to be comprised of her two dogs, Freya and Siguna, and her baby sister, Tiny Nora. If I got too comfortable being tied up by the gobliners, Emma would come out of the Castle and free me. Then she would run back into the Castle and we'd have to go through the whole 'I've broken down the door to get you', and 'I'm pushing you out, you horrible Beast' game. How art mimics life. When her Mom put Baby Nora to bed, I got to read Emma her two favourite bedtime stories. She's got these beautifully done short versions of Hans Christian Anderson's 'Little Mermaid', and 'the Little Match Girl'. These are the two saddest, most soul-wrenching stories ever done in literature, and I don't know what sick feck decided they were appropriate for children, but I can barely get through a reading of 'the Little Mermaid', and when I have to read the 'the Little Match Girl', by the end of the story my voice is quavering and breaking so badly as I try not to weep, that I can barely finish. She just listens to them all solemn, and, like any child, has no clue as to why the goddamn stories are so sad that no adult can read them without starting to cry. And God forbid you should try to skip over any part of it, or neglect to show her each and every picture, including the final one where the little match girl is dead in the alley. She'll make you go back and put in any missing word, and show her each picture. Hans Christian Anderson was a fecking sadist. But after I've read them to her, and I've left the room and tried to get a grip, I think about this: A very small child has made me read her a story about a little mermaid who sacrifices everything for love, and who surrenders her own happiness and life rather than take revenge. And a beautiful little girl, from a well-off family has made me read her a story about a child of neglect, and abuse, and poverty, who dies alone in the streets, dreaming of a better world. And she understands nothing of the concepts in these stories. And yet she loves them, and wants to hear them every night. And when I look down at her, and I realize how dear she is to her parents, and how dear she is to me, I realize that every child should be dear to every one of us. Why should any child die alone, cold and forgotten in an alley? How can anyone permit it, or live with the knowledge that it happens? It's not a fate that will ever happen to her. She has never known poverty, or abuse, and very likely never will. Her parents are very well off. She is deeply loved, and has dozens of people, including that great, blundering idiot of a Beast, Grandma Steve, who love her, and would do anything to keep her from want or harm. And yet, she makes us read 'the Little Mermaid' and 'the Little Match Girl' night after night. It is almost as though the small, and the defenseless, and the weak hear a voice that we should all hear. A voice that tells them that they are a Princess, and that they should not die alone in an alley, from neglect, abuse and poverty.