Seanachai

This makes me happy. That was a good place to eat, I might add. And I asked my small friend, Emma, the other day: Emma, where did all the snow come from?! And she looked at me like I was just this side of senile, and told me: The sky.

Before I slip into unconsciousness, I'd like to have another chance at bliss... Peng and the miscreant Elvis as neighbours? What is this? A kinship-oriented restructuring of the Pennsylvania prison system? Hey, Peng and/or Elvis! What the hell is the deal with Pennsylvania? Half the 'What the Hell Is That?!' stories I read in the news on the Web are either about Pennsylvania or New Jersey. You're becoming the Texas of the North. Isn't it time you two gathered up your families and brought them to a new land where hope still flourishes? I mean, it doesn't have to be Minnesota, or anything, but Pennsylvania is clearly going down the toilet. There's lots of places in America where you can make a new life. Skip South Dakota, of course. Their solution to the fact that no one in their right goddamn mind would want to live there is to force women to bear children. I've been to South Dakota. It's not going to be enough. Within the next six months I anticipate their Governor will be enacting a law forcing men to raid other States and carry off women of child-bearing age as chattel. Our grinning halfwit 'what, me worry' Governor is currently not heeding calls to station the National Guard on the border in anticipation of South Dakota's anticipated drive to maintain its population by the 'Sabine Women Ploy'.

Winecape? Capital lad. Damn good wine. He sent it to Lars, but I'm sure I drank half of it. On an island on Lake Minnetonka, I believe. He's a lovely person. ENTER HIM ONTO THE BOOKS AS 'ONE OF US'! Such as we are...

My God, this is absolutely amazing. I believe I have found a Customer/Reviewer on Amazon.com that may, in fact, be Gaylord. The handle is John Q. Public "vhspreowner". I swear that after looking at only a handful of this creature's reviews (ignore what he reviews, much of it is weird), I am convinced that this is the late, unlamented Gaylord Fockker. 'John Q. Public' has written over 2,000 reviews, almost every single one of them negative, every single one with endless, half-witted misspellings and grammatical errors, many with the same aimless and rather retarded social and political opinions that Gaylord wrapped about himself like a discharge from a malfunctioning colon. If this reviewer on Amazon is not Gaylord, then very likely I have ID'd another strand of the dangerously degenerating DNA from which Gaylord dangles...

I give you all a good night, wherever sleep and song overtakes you.

Oh, and I'd invite that unspeakably arrogant bastard Grog Dorosh too. In Lake of the Woods, no one can hear you scream. Well, some can, but they'll just open another beer.

An invite by default. I'm jealous. </font>

Well, unlike you, I'm winding down from my day at 2am so I want to hear something soothing to lull me to sleep. It's Pink Floyd for me. </font>

You know, someday I'm going to come out there, and get piss drunk and tell everyone in that fecking Canadian town that I'm your long lost more intelligent brother. Serve you right.

I'm for bed, then, eh? Damn knee is starting to stiffen up. Time to go and dream about being up North. Further up North, that is. I pity you lot that live...lower. Strangely, the other night I dreamt, in glorious technicolour and with a level of detail that would make most psychologists stutter, that I was in South East Asia filming a documentary about salt water crocodiles, replete with footage of voice-overs of hunters in small boats trolling with hunks of carcasses on hooks behind them. Interviews with villagers who had to swim in crocodile waters. And I haven't watched a Nature special in months.

Still Pink Floyd. The Wall. With repeat performances of Comfortably Numb and Hey You. </font>

Umm Motorhead turned up really loud? </font>

Knowing my indifference is a gray world worse than being caught between life and death. Everyone should seek to either glory in my hatred, or bask in my love. Or at least matter enough to have a Labatt's blue with me in the dark on a lakeside in Canada. Hmm...hmm. Lady Bugged, what if it was 2 AM?

Okay, right now, I'm a little...unsettled...about the fact that every time I flush my toilet, I hear this weird, ghostly lizard gurgling noise coming out of the basement under my feet in our 4-plex. I mean, I've been down there twice, and there's no ****e floating about in a glorious Ethel Merman synchronized cascade over the basement floor. Unlike you lot of puddled dog vomit. I dunno. Maybe I should have married your mothers? But I ask myself, would that have been enough? There's times when...well, I wished I'd never paddled a kayak into a peaceful, sheltered bay in Lake of the Woods and looked on pines that hadn't been seen by a whiteman since the last boat-load of drunken Illinois and/or Missouri fisherman had been by there asking themselves 'Heya, do you think there's, like, any bass here' on a bay in a Lake fabled for walleye. One day, I'm going to head up there, and kill every M**********r who talks too South. Martin Luther King had a dream, and I have mine. Spring is coming. I will go North. I will go to a Lake bigger than the muddiest dreams of the muddiest of you, the Dreamers. I will put my music on the stereo in our cabin. I will have a drink, or perhaps two. Of whatever. I will turn the music WAY UP. And then, as the horizon darkens, I will push the kayak off the rocky shore, and take up the paddle. I will paddle out onto the darkened lake of beauty. I will paddle out, languidly. I will find myself in the dark, adrift. Alone. Breathing. Wondering. You will all be there. You are always there. You are my problem children. Those who I want to see experience...bliss. I could die out there. And it's nothing like some sort of pure moment. But it is. It's dark as hell. The clouds are rolling in. The wind is kicking up, and the waves are starting to roll. And you hit your stride, and get to that island off the west end of the island, stroking hard. And you scare up some pelicans. Hah! The bastards never heard you coming! And you round the point, and head home, and the horizon is...dark. Everything is dark. It's fecking 11 PM. But now you're facing East. And peaceful. You're the banner of the wind. It's behind you, and you're a bit drunk, but even that doesn't free you from the fear of death. And you wonder about what made you paddle out here, in the dark. You're a leaf on the wind. Was it the desire to have a last, good paddle on a Lake that you've been coming to since you were 8 years old? Is that what life is all about? And the storm is coming in behind you. You've never smelled air so fresh, or felt like such an aging, over-weight fecker out on the water late at night, with only one port to run to. So you paddle like a son-of-a-bitch. And the exhilaration is tempered with the usual mundanity. You're thinking: I should have told someone I was going out here, out on the water. Out, paddling into the darkness, with a storm coming on. Been drinking too much. I should have told... Who? You're there alone. Oh, family friends are on the far end of the Island. 60 years old. Out of reach. Asleep. It's late. Paddle like hell, and get back. See what's on Satellite TV. Maybe some weird, soft-core porn. Or maybe there's Dr. Who on that BBC channel? Or maybe there's a satellite station with a Clint Eastwood marathon going on? Pretty good waves, but they're all from behind. Easy to paddle with the waves and the wind behind you. A storm is coming. I am driving the kayak on towards home. It's all poetry, when you think it. But the reality is, you're in a plastic shell, riding two feet over the water. And you're dipping the paddle, and wondering about what's waiting for you on the other side, if this time you've fecked up. But you'll never forget the sound those pelicans made when you came clipping over the water like a freaking ghost, when it was still all darkness and there was yet a sliver of light on the horizon, as you came paddling out of the dark like a bastard. And how they lifted off the water in a panic. And all the dark drive of the paddle home. Waves have come up. Rum has all burned off, and now it's just trying to get back home. In the dark. Focus on the cabin light, burning like a torch. That's where the rum is. That's where there's music. That's' where all this will just be another stupid thing you did, when you were...well, no longer young. And above you...above you there would normally be...a glory of stars. Stars that would make you feel young again. The Milky Way, like you'll never see in town. Shooting stars. Every constellation picked out in diamond. But tonight, there's only roiling cloud. And there's no poetry, in the darkness, pulling and worrying about the fact that the waves are becoming contrary. And then...you reach the island. And you've made it. **** it all. You don't pull in to your cabin's end. You do a grand sweep down the South side, and round the East end, and you drive, into the waves, up the West side before you beach the kayak. And you go in, and you have another rum & other. And you put on some more music. And you hope that someday, before you die, you can bring everyone you love, or like, or even hope to redeem, to this place. And that they can find themselves out on that water, in that darkness. But on a clear night. A calm night. With nothing but stars between them and the fact that everyone dies. And then, we'll all drink some rum, and we'll go for a paddle. And when we come back, and light a bonfire on the shore, we'll do some music. And that's my question to you all tonight, as I sit here longing for the North. What music would you want to hear, there, on the granite shore of a dark lake, pines all around, and the wind kicking up? [ March 13, 2006, 12:09 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

My work here is done. Let's ride!

Beaten to death under the East River Bridge by a fellow street urchin over ownership of a bottle of rubbing alcohol? </font>

Fair's fair. The next time I wake up lying on your chest on a Sunday morning I will lie there and let you slap the ****e out of me before I run off to find some Labatt's Blue Label. Everyone knows my type. I'm an open book of courtly behaviour. I'm the perfect, parfait Knight. I am I, Don Quixote. BOO, as you love the gods, my lady, and me, saddle my horse! We ride! Milady Bugged, have I introduced you to my large, thuggish henchman, Boo? He's a complete and utter whore at the very lowest and most useless levels of the Advertising World. Daily he slaves to bilk and abuse America's citizens out of the money they won last night at the pull-tabs at the American Legion Post through his wonderous ability to manipulate the graphic images of products that no one fecking needs. But he has a Soul of Gold! Where would I be without my Radley, eh?

SHUT UP, ALL YOU TOSSERS! I return. Now, did you miss me? Go ahead, lie and tell me 'No'. I don't know...what posture should I take with you all tonight? After 5 fecking years of posting here, I sometimes worry that I'm beginning to repeat myself. Have you come to know Seanachai? Has every spiky bit of my personality been trotted out for you to enjoy? Has every unswept corner of my soul been laid bare for you to mock? Have I become surplus to current requirements? Have I been made redundant? Frankly, I think that I am. Do I fade away? Do I disappear? I rather favour the 'That's it, I'm out of here, you're not going to have Seanachai to kick around any more' final posting that we've seen again and again over the years as long time posters close the door on their participation, if only because it's so droll. Its all so tangled, of course, because there's the simple participation of myself, Seanachai, as one of the long-standing 'jokes' of the Peng Challenge Thread; the pompous, pointless, hubristic and long-winded gnome, mocked by all, appreciated by no one. But there remains 'The Seanachai'; the satirical, embittered, angry Embracer of Hatred with a quasi-mythic quality. Well...six of one... Tonight, shall I address you paternalistically? Shall I simply ramble on and on in my incarnation as 'long winded gnome'? Shall I manifest as one of the Olde Ones of the Peng Challenge Thread? Shall I caper? Shall I brood? Is there any expectation I should fulfill, or disappoint? Aging roue? Arrogant progenitor? Maudlin old man? Bard? Zeus? Pan? Fool? Hairy Thunderer? I think... That you lot of fetid dingoes kidneys should be damn glad to have, as one of your ongoing mentor/sponsors, a miserable bastard who can take on any or all of those roles with almost lightening rapidity. And without batting an eye. You're lucky to have me. I owe Boo a setup. OGSF is a fecking toad who might try returning a turn to me, despite the fact that he's ashamed to be losing his arse to me. Again. I have been beaten by Kerchberger's 9 year old son. The vicious little bastard cheated by sending a gamey setup. Lars has not been reformed by his recent marriage, but remains a complete and utter tosser. The redemption of Dalem's soul (such as it is), goes on.

I concur. 'Zulu!' was/is a modern epic/classic. It was a well acted, fairly historically accurate, and well filmed presentation of the Battle of Rourke's Drift. It was straight-forward, as well. No 'evil nigger savages'. No 'Imperialistic British war-mongers'. It didn't judge. It was told from the perspective of the Brits, who are our heroes (Christ, it was a 60s film; it's 40 years later and we're still not ever going to see a Hollywood movie from the perspective of the 'evil nigger savages'), but it didn't demonize anyone. It was a war film. People fought and died. Unless you're familiar with the history, the viewer would never know why, or wherefore, or what. At the end, the seemingly unstoppable horde of Zulus simply give up. Both sides have suffered horrific casualties. And there's absolutely nothing strategic about what they've fought for. And there's nothing tactical that could justify the casualties. It's a brilliant depiction of the aimlessness of Modern War. It's a lot like playing a game against Boo Radley, who is a big, big whore. I like Boo. He makes me feel better about the world. But before they give up, the Zulus honour 'the nut that was too hard to crack', and give them their lives. Which is nothing like Modern War. We don't honour those who oppose us. We demonize them. And they now demonize us. Politics, religion, economics... Nowadays, we want what we've always wanted. Simple heroes, simple villains. The guilty, and the innocent. Good guys, bad guys. White Cowboy Hats, Black Kaffiyeh. Us and Them. Our Fears, Their Anger. White. Brown. Christianity. Islam. West. East. Until the twain can meet, Democracy is just another word for Subjugation. Kipling should be a poet, not the Imam of the West.

Suicidal? Were you vomiting in the loo when God was selecting which twelve Englishmen were going to get a brain the month you were born? The day I'm 'suicidal' is the day that the Anglican Church celebrates rapprochement with the Papacy. The day when I don't concentrate every molecule of my being into hanging onto this planet is the day England apologizes for fecking over Ireland since Elizabeth I: murdering, oppressing and exploiting the inhabitants simply because they wanted everyone to think they had a pair, and because they could. The day I contemplate taking my own life is the day I will fraudulently withdraw Dalem's life-savings from the bank, steal and load up his guns, and charter a private plane to England in order to SLAUGHTER YOUR ANNOYING ****ING ASS LIKE A TOAD UNDER THE HARROW, YOU LIMEY BASTARD! Did you see how I made an effort to put what I said into terms that your British arse could follow? I'm lovable that way. Suicide. You know any suicides, Sunshine? You ever accuse me of contemplating suicide again, I'll show you my Dark Side.

Whoa. Stuff the Abrams, that's a cute girl. Aren't the courts monitoring you, Michael, so that you don't have access to pictures of attractive women? After all, a relapse on your part is just going to make more work for the Canadian legal system...

She would say: I'm touching the tiger's toes. Now you do it, Grandma Steve! And she would watch me, very serious, until I had touched the tiger's toes. There's no one like a 2 year old for cosmically pure and lovable tyranny. But you're right. As Grandma Steve, I cannot disengage from the world simply because I'm filled with ennui over my own existence. I think it was my defeat by Boo that sent me down the spiral of despair. In other words: I blame Boo Radley. I trusted him to make Ohio Blue, and he betrayed me.

That's not true. It it looked like an old movie poster for 'Mutiny on the Bounty', it would feature a shot of Rune locked in combat with Mr. Christian...

What the hell, did they use to bus you home from school to Disney World? They got married in the Caribbean. That means that after they split the package they bought from the street kid/Kiwi drifter/bull dyke/what-have-you three ways with the guy they met in the beach-side bar wearing an Aussie hat, he married them on the beach. For all practical purposes, not only are Lars and Shari married, but they're also currently married to some aussie hat wearing junkie who's currently prowling around St. Kitts asking people how to get to Jamaica. Christ on a crutch, I knew that Akron wasn't a center of cosmopolitan glitterati, but I didn't realize that you were as clueless as a Nebraska drunkard trying to figure out if Denver was in the direction of the rising or setting sun.

I have become bored with my existence, and therefore no longer participate in it until it improves.