Seanachai

Of course. Lars merely speaks a polyglot of 'Western Metro Lakeside', 'Mound Exurb Third Convocation' and 'Extremely Goofy Drunk Danish Bastard'. Hell, I learned the first of those before I ever left High School, picked up the second working with Bail Bondsmen, and a life of aimlessness and chemical use left me fluent in the third. On any given night, I can translate Lars with a 95% accuracy rating. Hell, Lars can't translate himself with that much accuracy. Should I mention his latest bit of illogic when he tried to explain that a 'Card Held at the End of a Turn' was the same thing as 'A Card You Can Hold In Your Hand'? And by 'hold in your hand', he appeared to mean 'unlike the cards you can hold with your feet'. Seriously, playing a game with Lars is like watching chipmunks do gymnastics. You can see it happening, it's bizarrely and even impressively athletic, but there doesn't seem to be any point to it. You just keep wishing the cat would come out and bite his head off.

This 'Viajero' creature. Can anyone here tell me if I should even be acknowledging it? I haven't been keeping up, lately. Does It even know who I am?

Ah. I've used language like a brush to paint a picture, and you've taken the terms you've garnered from reading a gaming manual, and then used them like rocks to hammer away at your own verbal droppings. I don't recognize your screen name, but that doesn't really worry me much, because currently I think you are a very stupid person. I am sorry for you. It must be a very sad existence, being so literal, and embarrassingly arrogant and yet, ultimately, very mentally slow.

When I play 'Dominions 3', as I create them I'm allowed to rename my various Generals, Mages, Priests, Psychotic Bloodlords, Undead Horrors, etc. Generally, rather than go with the game generated names, I take the time and effort to name them after the folk here on the Peng Challenge Thread. So, in the game, I'm playing with characters with such names as 'Berli the Evil One', Shaw Justicar, Boo Radley Henchman, Peng Eviltongue, Emrys Bitterlord, Lars Ironhead, Stuka Lackwit, Mace Drunklord, Nidan Dogsoldier, etc, etc. Dalem is usually my prophet. It helps personalize them, and keep track of who is where in the game. And, of course, there's that delightful little frisson when one of them gets whacked in a battle.

I am a man who is rich in Small Friends, as you know. I have stories, so many stories, that I haven't taken the time to write here. And that demeans me. For every story is the story of us all, although most of us haven't understood them for 20 years or more. I should write more Small Friend stories. Mind you, I tell those stories all the time. To family, to friends, to fools, to people who barely understand how every little vignette is like the Story of Mankind, written small. Because every story of Small Friends is the story of all of us. It's been a good long time since I did a story of Small Friends. They are getting to be very big girls, as it were. And now, at this time, they*are, as they have always been, my masters. They tell me: Grandma Steve, lean down. I need to tell you a secret in your ear! And then, they whisper to me, something very small and silly like, 'Grandma Steve, I want you to get me some chocolate. Don't tell Mommy!' And that's the thing. We've entered into a conspiracy. They know that I am their henchman, and they know that we're in a desperate battle of fun against Mommy. And they whisper to me: 'Grandma Steve, we want to watch a movie.' And 'Grandma Steve, we want dessert'. And 'Grandma Steve, we want, we want, we want, and don't tell Mommy!' Every bit of it is wonderful, and every bit of it is a secret. And every bit of it draws me into a small, secret world where little girls want someone to speak for them, and they want something like a Grown-up to do their bidding, and they shiver with the delight of conspiring against Mommy. And I, their faithful henchman, do my very best to make their Mom give in to them. I, someone their Mom regards as slightly more sentient than the dogs, tells her: "Jen, maybe the girls should get dessert, even though Nora didn't eat enough dinner". And "Jen, maybe the girls should be allowed to watch all of this movie, even though it's getting late". It's all a game. Their mother is the first to give in to them, although she makes a big deal out of letting them have their way, and Grandma Steve is barely acknowledged as a go between. But I do my part. I've known their Mom since long before they were born, and even though she regards me as an idjit, I'm there for them. I'm their advocate. And, when all is said and done, when I'm there they get to stay up later, and they get more dessert, and they know that the only Adult they own is Grandma Steve. Their Mom blames me for a lot, and tells me I'm a bad influence, but we all know that I am their Grandma Steve, and that until they marry, I will be their Grandam Steve, and that anyone who ever makes them unhappy is going to die hard. But you didn't hear that from me. Because the Statute of Limitations doesn't run out on some things. When you get taken in as an old family*retainer, you don't consider consequences, much. But you do pay attention to a small voice saying 'Grandma Steve, I would really like some chocolate pudding'. Hell, who doesn't like chocolate pudding?!

What's that, Joe? You want to tell me that no matter how wrong things get, you'll always be there for me? Liar.

I understand that people, or something very like people, (cough, Lars) have recently been discomfited and discommoded by password problems. All I have to say is: I logged on normally, and am posting as an Old One of the Peng Challenge Thread. So... I guess... I should be a bit vague... and acknowledge the issues of lesser mortals who couldn't log on... and - Sod that for a game of tin soldiers. I'm here, and you lot need to fall down upon your knees (their fecking knees, Justicar), and acknowledge me. That's it. Just give a bit of a cheerful wave with whatever you're drinking this morning, and give me a merry 'Feck Off, Old One!' Look, when it comes right down to it, I'm a complete lunatic without a real job, and I know where each and every one of you sods live. I could show up tomorrow on your front porch, demanding 'America'. I wouldn't have to define it, or have it make any sense. I could show up on your goddamn doorstep, tomorrow, and demand 'America'. I've been completely broke and only casually employed for the last 12 months, and the only thing between myself and debtor's prison (the Republicans had reinstated this, haven't they?), is the love of my family, the concern of my friends, and the certain knowledge that when push comes to shove, that 'America' will have to suffice. 'America'.

Even Jesus occasionally got the latin wrong...

I often write heartfelt things here, in the Peng Challenge Thread, albeit with the bite of humor. But I seldom see anyone else take the time or trouble. Quite probably, you don't even read what I write. No matter, then. Every heart holds it's own secrets, and it may well be that you lot hold your secrets more closely to heart, or you're simply too fecking brutish to cast those secrets into actual language, sharing them with your fellows, or you have no secrets, or you've just recently been arrested for vomiting in a particularly egregious manner while attacking a police horse. It takes all kinds to make a world. It occurred to me, recently, that when I was a young man in my early 20s, I considered anyone who was in his mid-50s to be old, broken down, and on his way out of this world. Now, at that same age, it occurs to me that I take exception to the appraisal of my younger self, and would like to meet me in a dark alley and kick the fecking snot out of myself. Because now, in my mid-50s, I no longer feel myself to be a broken down old man. What really angers me, of course, is that I am, in fact, old, and broken down, and on his way out of this world. There is nothing worse than proving yourself right, if proving yourself right proves you wrong. I take some comfort from the fact that most of you lot of gibbering howler monkeys couldn't be proved right if the Lord God Himself came down and started laying about him with a massive sword, and every stroke left a bloody wound and an imprimatur of 'Not Quite So Stupid As You'd Think' on your hides. Because, when we come right down to it, you're every bit as stupid as you pretend to be. On the other hand, I delight in the odd bits of 'Not Quite As Stupid As You'd Think' that you show...

Well a Scotsman clad in kilt left a bar on evening fair And one could tell by how we walked that he'd drunk more than his share He fumbled round until he could no longer keep his feet Then he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh He stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street About that time two young and lovely girls just happend by And one says to the other with a twinkle in her eye 'See yon sleeping Scotsman so strong and handsome built I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt?' Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt They crept up on that sleeping Scotsman quiet as could be Lifted up his kilt about an inch so they could see And there behold, for them to see, beneath his Scottish skirt Was nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh Was nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth They marveled for a moment, then one said 'we must be gone Let's leave a present for our friend, before we move along' As a gift they left a blue silk ribbon, tied into a bow Around the bonnie star, the Scots kilt did lift and show Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh Around the bonnie star, the Scots kilt did lift and show Now the Scotsman woke to nature's call and stumbled towards a tree Behind a bush, he lift his kilt and gawks at what he sees And in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes. O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize

As succinct as it was pointless...

No, Milady. When I consider the hideous wreckage that is Dalem, I cry quietly to myself in his spare room, which our friend Jen calls 'the chocolate room'. I believe it's a reference to the wall colours. Often, after an evening of contemplating Dalem's many sins, mistakes, foolishness, and even, dare I say it, crimes, I am, in fact, moved to tears. Doesn't keep me from going back there, nor enjoying myself. There is this about individuals who, though otherwise like minded, of a shared sense of humour, given over to reading the same novels, and enjoying discussing them, who watch the same programs and take the same delight from them, who delight in playing games, who do, in fact, enjoy each other's company, but are, ultimately, at complete logger-heads and angry with each other when it comes to something so shallow as 'politics': Well, Milady, then we simply agree (there is a lot of cursing, in the process, and some bitterness) that 'Only Time Will Prove Either of Us Right'. But we are ephemeral beings, subject to mortality, and neither of us have time enough to waste on 'Being Proved Ultimately Correct', especially in terms of something like 'Politics', that may take decades of dispute and analysis to resolve. Politics in the 21st Century has become what Religion was in the 17th Century between Protestants and Catholics. A divisive issue that inflamed hatred, drew lines, brooked no discussion, and was reason to destroy one's neighbour. I like to think that although we may vote our conscience, maintain our beliefs, ponder our national, economic, environmental and global dilemmas, and wonder about our certainties, that we will still be moved to cleave to those who are our friends, family members, and neighbours. And that we will choose our friends from those that it turns out we have a sincere affection for, rather than those sorry individuals who dogma, prejudice and the dictates of politics cast us into bed with. As an aging man who despises much, and despairs of much, and still hopes for much in the world that he has grown old in, I will maintain my friendships where I find them. Ultimately, we will all share the same fate. In a time of economic crisis, political division, religious ferment and environmental disaster, it is rather more pleasant to sit by a fire-pit smoking cigars, drinking rum and singing 'The Sickbed of Cuchalainn' and discussing the works of JRR Tolkien, than it is to hate someone you actually like. Perhaps that makes me a bad... whatever I am politically. But what am I politically? Many here would put a label to me. I would like to think I am a very bad ideologue. But I would like to think that, in exchange, I am a very good American. And, a good friend. On the other hand, Dalem needs a good kicking. Almost daily. I am thinking of writing a short essay on him entitled "Use a Piece of Firewood to Drive Home the Lessons of Reality, Until the Blisters of Accomplishment Burst and Mingle With the Blood of the Recalcitrant". Perhaps an Operetta...

Doesn't change the fact that you're an absolute fecking git, though. I mean, I've barely been here lately, and my account was fine. In and of yourself, alone and unaided, you constitute a complete shower of idjiits.

Bah! I tire of annoying Elvis. And, I thirst. Dalem, it is time that we go to the Beer Store of Ultimate Quality and Expense here in the Twin Cities, and choose for my consumption the case of beer that Elvis, in his foolishness, owes you. Elvis, I will drink deeply of the beer that you will buy for Dalem. Dark shall be the brew, and heady, and, if you're a lucky little bugger, I'll get drunk enough to set his lawn furniture on fire, or somefink, thereby reclaiming a bit of your own in this most stupid of bets. But likely not. For one thing, it takes more than a case of even really good beer to make me set furniture, even lawn furniture, on fire. Also, Dalem doesn't have any bloody lawn furniture. Perhaps I could set the Latino neighbour's lawn furniture on fire? Do you want it done in your own name? I can spell out 'Elvis' using burnt patches of lawn and damaged furniture in either block letters, or a rather intriguing cursive. It's a talent I've, oddly enough, managed to acquire. You should think about it, though. They're really very nice people. I could footnote it that it was 'from you, to them, because of Dalem'. It's not like they aren't already suffering from being his neighbour.

Dalem went to Canada, the way Men do. He brought Sam the Dog. Much fun was had by all, and Dalem even went kayaking. Damn nice trip. Great weather, no problems, cabin in great shape, good people. Only minor hitch was coming back, when US Customs asked if we had any 'tobacco products'. Dalem and I both confessed to bringing back a few un-smoked cigars. They asked us 'where did you buy them', and we told them 'Minneapolis'. They asked if any were 'Cuban Cigars', and we told them 'No'. They had to look at them. So we pulled over under the 'canopy', in the 'lanes of shame', and they allowed us to fish out our own cigar cases. Then they looked at them. One of mine had the word 'Cubana' on the label. They took it inside, to look it up in the 'Big Book', or on the Internet, or however they determine the level of 'Evil'. Of course, it passed inspection. Not simply because it wasn't 'Cuban', but because they just went inside for a minute and talked about lunch before coming back and telling me 'It's not Cuban'. Of course, we had the entire ass-end of a jeep loaded with gear that could have included entire crates of Cuban cigars, but we were allowed to dig through the ****e to produce our own cigars for inspection. It was, oddly, a bizarrely paradoxical display of 'trust'. We had to prove to them that we weren't bringing in two or three 'Cuban' cigars, but no one actually went looking to see if we were being honest with them. I could ask, 'What's the point of that ****e, eh?' But I think it's simply this: They ask us, 'Do you have any cuban cigars?', and we tell them 'No'. 'Well, show us your cigars then', and we pull out some cigars. And they look at them closely and say 'Yup, those aren't Cuban. Have a nice day then, okay?' And we say 'Okay, you too, try and stay cool, this one's going to be a hot one!' No Cuban Cigar has ever been stopped at the Border this way. It seems unlikely that Communism will finally triumph if someone brings a Cuban Cigar back from Canada. Even if it's on purpose. So, what we're dealing with here is the Border Crossing equivalent of 'you know, there's a sprinkler ban on, eh, you shouldn't water your lawn except on even numbered days'. You show up at the Border, they remind you that you can't bring Cuban Cigars back from Canada, you say you have cigars, they pretend to look at them, and then then you go home. No one has to shove a tightly wrapped package of cuban cigars up his bum. No one actually cares if you're bringing cuban cigars back from Canada. Everyone has to go through the Social Dance of 'asking about/checking for/being concerned about Cuban Cigars'. Oh, and on this trip, they actually, for the first time in all my years of crossing the Canadian Border back into the US, which began when I was 8 fecking years old, they asked me if I was brining in any fruit. Forty-six years, man and boy, crossing back from Canada into the US, and they have never asked me about fruit. Of course, we had fruit. Three apples, and a package of blueberries that we hadn't gotten around to eating. The Customs guy informed us that we couldn't bring in any fruit that didn't have 'a sticker or a label' indicating that it was bought in either Canada or the US. The blueberries were in a little plastic package that indicated they came from a distributor in the US. The apples, on the other hand, were in a simple plastic bag, with 'Braeburn/New Zealand' stickers on them. We were not allowed to bring the apples back. They were confiscated by higher authority. To simply complete the story, a few points should be made: First, the apples had been purchased in Minnesota. Not that big a point, and who could be sure, eh? But if the litmus test is that they needed to either show that they'd 'been bought in either Canada or Minnesota', one has to consider that we were crossing at Baudette/Rainy River. Sorry, but even the most Diabolical Bio-Warfare Fruit Scientist, or even simply 'The Stupidest Tourist Who Ever Bought Fruit' would pretty much find it impossible to get apples that 'hadn't been bought in either Canada or the US' to Baudette/Rainy River. Secondly, it should be pointed out that these apples had originally been purchased in Minneapolis, gone North with me and my friend Alison in June, come back from Canada (no one asked us about 'fruit' on that trip), sat in my refrigerator until end of July, then gone back to Canada, and, finally, would have made it back into Minnesota, where they were originally purchased, except that the older, white-haired guy at the Border Crossing said: 'Do you have any fruit?' Those apples went right into the 'confiscated' bin. They were getting a bit ratty, actually. One had already started to go brown and runny. I brought 'em up north to get rid of them. Nobody was after wanting the apples. Personally, I figure they had some sort of 'Inspector General' (a la Imperial Russia) visiting, who was making them dot the 'i's, and cross the 't's, and who had a serious hard-on for illicit fruiting. Or maybe a 'Recent Directive' had gone out, ordering them all to be 'Ever vigilant against foreign fruit!' They made us pull into the 'Lane of Shame'. They were as bored as we were. When you actually cross a Border, go through a Security Check Point at an Airport, etc., you realize that it's all a very strange comedy routine. It's a Social Exercise where most people agree 'No, we shouldn't do that!'. And most of its effectiveness is based on the Social Contract of 'I am not a madman/criminal/terrorist/mutant/smuggler of evil fruit. It's good that we re-affirm that to each other. But only a lunatic would think that the day-to-day business of 'Border/Security/Customs' inspections is anything more than a little song and dance. They stop tons of weird stuff. But the concept of an airtight Border? We didn't bring any 'Cuban Cigars' in through Baudette/Rainy River. But that's because we knew we weren't supposed to. That would be 'wrong'. Personally, I have always liked the fact that we share one of the longest, de-militarized, peaceful borders on the globe with Canada. Hell, it's barely patrolled. I could tell you a dozen places to cross even in a vehicle, and no one would be the wiser, and if you've got a boat, there's no border at all. All that Customs stuff? That's just acknowledging that the best way to be a good neighbour is to be a good neighbour. Do you know why the US Customs guys can piss about asking about 'Cuban Cigars' and 'Undocumented Fruit At a Border So Far From Foreign Fruit Production That Even the Evil Foreign Fruit Producers Aren't Ever Going to Go There'? It's because Canada's got our back, man. Screw this whole 'Special Relationship' with England thing that the Limeys have been pushing since Churchill's day. Sod the Queen. Canada, that's our friend. Instead of throwing our weight around and talking trash, let's start making-nice with the one nation on earth, other than Australia, that shares both our history, our background and our interests. Not to mention a border thousands of miles long. The only thing bad you can say about Canada is that they simply 'opted-out' of Empire. They should have taken the road with us, and driven their freedom home with a ball-peen hammer. There's a new reckoning coming. Old Europe is trying to revitalize itself. The Russians are trying to have a history that doesn't involve Primitivism, Empire or Communism (good luck to them). What America should have been pursuing all these years is a close relationship with Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. I'm willing to take the first, and biggest step. I'm going to let those confiscated apples go. There were three of them, and they cost me around $5 US, but the new North American/Australia/New Zealand Federation is worth the investment. I am willing not only to work toward this new, greater union of great nations, making personal financial sacrifices in the process, but am also willing to take on a high profile, intensive and suitably remunerated position in the Government To Be. I feel that my work as an 'Old One of the Peng Challenge Thread' qualifies me for the challenges to come, coordinating the integration of four great nations (five, if we include the sodding French Canadians, who're going to get a lump of coal right up their stocking, if they don't learn to play ball). Sod the goddamn Euro. When we release the new 'NAANZ' Dollar, we're going to be putting a financial .12 gauge shotgun to the head of the rest of the planet, and shouting 'Who's your daddy, eh? Who's your daddy?!' And everyone who doesn't shout 'Yowza!' is going to be looking for jobs as chain-gang guards over-watching British Petroleum Execs who're doing beach clean-up on the Gulf Coast...

And while I'm sure that somewhere in the puddle o' piss that is the Cesspool, Lars explains why he is now 'Sir Lars', and a 'Junior Member', I simply can't be bothered to pull on the waders and go looking for it. So, 'Sir Lars', give me the short version. You amazingly half-witted bugger who clearly did something awful to your account of many years standing.

However, when we left, the statement can still be made that 'All the rum was gone'...

Are you too stupid to read my posts? I certainly hope not, because I am a fecking Old One of the Peng Challenge Thread, and, therefore, like a god unto you. So you should have seen MY post to you informing you that Dalem will let you know what case of beer you will buy him once I consider all the ramifications, which means: When I decide what beer I want to have in Dalem's house for my pleasure, you'll be informed. Keep up this unseemly whining, Elvis, and I'm going to choose some bizarre quadruple-bock Belgian beer (with an alcohol content so high that the only human on the planet who doesn't get a 'health warning' on the label about drinking it is Lars), and that's made by virgin nuns who roller-blade, make beer, and chant the works of Hildegard von Bingen while making beer. I live serene in the knowledge that such a beer undoubtedly exists, that I will have no problems finding said beer, and that paying for a case of it will cost you more than a luxury automobile. So shut the hell up, and I will inform Dalem shortly as to what beer you are buying him.

So, Dalem. Which character of the 'Lord of the Rings' do you think you are?

And yet, you are all still children, that post and prance before me. I went to a wedding tonight, for the oldest of my younger cousins. I danced with my nephew, to show them how old people dance. I did the dance of 'Old Man Manuevering His Walker, Shaking His Fist At All the Young People.' It was a hit. The young people thought I was weird, and the old people thought I was...weird. My nephew understood the satire, and applauded me. Lightening, here, and the odd burst of thunder, as I sit, smoking a cigar and taking care of the dogs of my Small Friends for the last night. Rain is beginning to fall. The old people wanted the young people to drive me home, and the young people wanted to go on dancing, and drinking. I'm drinking a glass of Jameson's, and smoking my cigar, and hoping all those young people got home okay.

And as we bid 'goodnight' to the residents of the Peng Challenge Thread, we wave at Stuka, murmuring the traditional Birthday wish of 'die, die, Aussie swine!' And Stuka? May flights of angels sing thee to sleep.

I wanted to post a story of Small Friends, but it will have to wait untill tomorrow, because I'm using a laptop right now, and I hate the keyboard and the fact that I'm not sitting at a proper desk. Frankly, I only partially get the appeal of laptops. As great as it is to be able to have computer 'anywhere', there's often no real point to it.

Stuka, I know you're not after wanting Birthday wishes, because, as we all know, it's not possible for you to be getting any older. Like the wind, the rain and certain sexually transmitted diseases, you don't get old. You just continue on.

This makes me happy. But...ummm...what do you mean, he looks comfortable with him? Is he trying to wear him as a hat? I mean, I know how things are different for you New Yorkers...

Ummm...you're almost completely insane, aren't you, Mace? I mean, even for an Australian.