Seanachai

You know, I can actually parse this to get the intended meaning, but it still strikes me that Stuka should simply have quietly passed out, possibly to aspirate just enough vomit to awaken him, rather than kill him, lungs burning, staggering off to kneel in the bathroom under the bright fluorescents; coughing, coughing, clearing his throat over and over, sweat beading his forehead, eyes tearing from the pain, trying to clear the stomach acid from his lungs... Go to the whoopass can closet And open one of them Can? Closet? Open? In the bright bathroom, all is pain...

Joe, really. Would I curse children? Would I shout at children? It's like the last few years, you've been reading the first line of my stories, and then assuming that the rest is all in praise of you. Which is sharp practice, even for a Justicar. There are, in fact, a 'multitude of voices', Oh Shaw. But they sing. Some better than others. I haven't got everyone's name worked out yet, but for sure the one named 'Hunter' has a deep, but somewhat gravelly bass, and the one named 'Wee Willy' is squeaky and off-key. The rest fall somewhere in-between. I'm trying to get them organized, but there's a lot of coming and going. It's a stone bitch trying to play choir director to the voices in your head.

Now, it is said, and said truly, that on occasion I get together with Dalem, and we talk. Sometimes there is drinking. Not all the time. Anyone who says different is an idjit. And it is true, that we do not always agree on everything, although we more often agree than not, when we're talking about history, and literature, sci-fi and movies, the outdoors, and whether you can get a good flank steak off a unicorn, and things like that. But it is also true, that, when we get on to topics of a certain pith and marrow, involving such subjects as 'politics', and such social issues that often relate to a political world view, that a certain amount of both heat and coldness can enter into our friendship. I, as the most reasonable, wise, and long-suffering friend, do all within my power to smooth over these unavoidable, and even necessary ripples in the lake of friendship. It would be a funny old world, after all, if we were all the same. And there are times when these 'larger issues', that require cool heads and thoughtfulness to discuss, intrude into much smaller matters, and cause Dalem to get on a high horse and rant. Personally, I like a good rant. But in Dalem's case, it sometimes comes with brow-beating, and that's more annoying. But enough on that. So, a very small and unimportant point came up, recently, and I diffidently edged it out there, fully expecting Dalem to 'get on the high horse', and put the spurs in. And I told him so. He took, as is his wont on such issues, the path of 'wounded dignity'. He denied that there was a horse, and, if there was, that it was not very high, and furthermore, that he would never climb it. So I simply asked him to 'not get on a pony' about the topic. And we had a bit of back and forth about it, and he also denied that there were ponies. And after talking with him for a while, I began to laugh, because I realized that, as is often the case when we discuss things that he will not admit, cannot accept, does not believe, will not acknowledge, denies the possibility of, doesn't like, regards as vile, and has irrefutable pointlessly biased data regarding, that he was, as usual, standing upon the back of something that was shifting nervously beneath his feet, while explaining with furrowed brow why I was wrong about everything. And it made me think of the ancient joke, and grab a shovel. Because under all that horse-****, there simply had to be a pony! I have, in all our discussions, both heated and cold, acknowledged that I sometimes have doubts, entertain possibilities, and am willing to admit that wisdom, such as I may attain, might still be far off. But, to paraphrase Treebeard: I admitted many doubts, but he never repaid me in like kind...his mind became like windows in a stone wall: windows with shutters on the inside. I will name Dalem's pony 'Fidget'. I will bring apples with me, when I go to visit. There are times when you're a Pale Rider, upon a pale horse. And there are times when you're just a guy standing on a pony named 'Fidget', trying to deny that if you lose your footing, you're going to land in horse-****. And I think I remain what I am: A horrible old man, clothed in tatters, dancing around a fire in the Wasteland, and waiting to be shown what the World will become. But I retain, in my heart, an understanding of what the World is.

So feck off, all you horrible, hairy men (and good night to you, you Ladies of the Pool), 'cause I'm going to bed now. Here's forty shillings on the drum For those who'll volunteer to come To 'list and fight the foe today. Over the hills and far away. O'er the hills and o'er the main. Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain. King George commands and we obey. Over the hills and far away. When duty calls me I must go To stand and face another foe. But part of me will always stray Over the hills and far away. O'er the hills and o'er the main. Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain. King George commands and we obey. Over the hills and far away. If I should fall to rise no more, As many comrades did before, Then ask the fifes and drums to play. Over the hills and far away. Then fall in lads behind the drum, With colours blazing like the sun. Along the road to come-what may. Over the hills and far away.

So, a very brief Tale of Small Fiends, for Persephone. The other night, you know, I was on the phone with my friend Jen, the Mother of Small Fiends. And while we were talking, she began to chuckle, suddenly. And in the background, I could hear a small voice shouting. So, I asked her 'What's going on?' And she told me: 'Well, Nora is in the bathroom, and she's trying to poop. And she just started shouting 'Release the Kraken!' I laughed so goddamn hard that beer came out my nose. It's good to give the sinuses a good rinse like that, occasionally. And a couple of nights ago, I got invited to go out to dinner with Nora and Emma and their parents, and we went to a really good restaurant in the Mall of America. As we drove there, we were on Cedar Avenue (I can't be bothered to know the new designation, but it's not Cedar anymore, but it's out where I grew up), and I told my Small Friends: 'Do you know, if we stayed on this road, and went across the river, we'd come to my Mom's house'. And Emma said 'and we could go swimming in the swimming pool?' Kids never forgot what you tell them, unless it's important. And I said 'Yes, Emma, and this summer I promise you we will go out there and swim in the pool!' Nora said 'Grandma Steve, do you live with your Mommy?' So I had to tell her, 'No, honey.' And she asked 'Why not? I thought about it for a second, and told her 'Well, honey, because I'm grown up now, and my Mom lives with her husband, and because she's met me.' This got blank looks, so I added 'And because I live in south Minneapolis now, so I can be closer to you and Emma'. This was, beyond all belief, met with child cheers and acclaim. They were actually happy that I was living nearer to them, and accepted this as a reason as to why I didn't live with my family. And, when we were at dinner that night, Emma took up her new topic: 'Why are you Grandma Steve? You're a boy. Why aren't you Grandpa Steve?' So I told her, 'Well, honey, I'm not your Grandpa. You already have Grandpas, and I'm not them.' Sbe said 'Yes, but why are you Grandma Steve?' So I told her the story: 'Honey, years ago, when you were very small and I barely knew you, your Mom was talking to me on the phone, and she said 'Oh, Emma, it's Grandma Steve', because she'd just been talking to your Grandma Nelson on the phone, and she made a mistake. And your Dad heard it, and started to laugh, and your Mom started to laugh, and I said to her 'That's going to stick, isn't it?', and it did. Your already have an Uncle Steve, and an 'Auntie Steve' (Jen's gay friend), so I had to either be 'Grandma Steve', or 'Grampa Steve', but I'm not really your Grampa. So I'm your Grandma Steve.' She's still pondering this. I think, eventually, she will come to grips with it. And I will remain 'Grandma Steve'. As the gods intended.

And, Joe, I accept your hatred. I have reviewed my entire life, and I cannot find any fault with your hating me. But, Joe, Justicar of the Peng Challenge Thread, I want to be redeemed. And not in that sort of way where you turn me in for a set of patio furniture, or a toaster oven that can brown stuff... No, Joe. I want to be.... Redeemed. I have lived an awful life, and I am a bad, bad man. I want to make bad people lift up their eyes to something better. I want to make the worst and the most awful ask themselves: Isn't there something better, out there? And so, Joe, I continue to post here. I tell my Tales of Small Friends. I continue to love each and every one of you, because I know that, like me, you have all done evil. You have all, all, been as horrible, even as I am horrible. And I will dance here, and sing, and carry on, like some half-wit prophet, given over to wondering how much the world can shine, if we just look for the sparkle. Did you think I began all this simply to challenge Peng? I could have challenged him in an email. But sometimes, Joe, you just have to... Dance.

Frankly, I often wonder what the upstairs neighbour, whose name is 'Jamie', makes of the endlessly repeated songs that sometimes get played late at night. Poor bastard. I'll post some lyrics, shortly. I can hear him up there, moving around.

Boo me old friend. You know how it is. Tonight, lad. Tonight, I am...sad. I am listening to sad songs, and wondering about what I could have been, rather than what I am.

I've this to put into to the pot, as regards this question: First: I have seen any number of pictures of Boo Radley, and I am here to tell you. Boo Radley is nae small man. He's a big feckin' fella. That's what first drew me to him, when I was looking for a large, thuggish henchman. Looked like a big, dumb bastard who could take a hit, and keep on posting. Since then, of course, I've come to know Boo as a delightful and convivial conversationalist who will talk to you like he knows where his pants are long after you've forgotten where yours are. Point to Boo. Second: Emrys is a horrible old man. I have spent many long, thoughtful hours in thinking about this, reconsidering Emrys's many long, and thoughtful posts to both this Forum, and to the Peng Challenge Thread, and I am left with the knowledge that Emrys is a complete ****er. Sorry, part of that probably got lost in the stupid 'Forum Inserts Random Characters Because We're Afraid Someone's ****ing Mom Will Come Down On Us'. What I meant was, Emrys is a vicious, annoying, stupid old man. I embrace him. And the final point I want to make is, you're a complete shower of bastards. I don't know how else to put that. So, let me try and make it more clear: You're a complete shower of useless bastards. I hate each and everyone of you more than I can express. And I'm not afraid to say it. I am an Old One of the Peng Challenge Thread. I hate each and everyone of your stupid bastards more than I could ever express, except, perhaps, in either story and song.

Here's a Tale of Small Friends that I started a while back, and finished the other day. I call it: Tales of Small Friends: Movie Night, Robots and Pirates. I dedicate it to Peng and Joe Shaw, who hate my Tales of Small Friends. The other night my friends Jen & Chris had the opportunity for a night-out occasioned by the Oscar Awards. They had a chance to go drink champagne and eat shrimp at the house of a friend who was having an Academy Awards Party. And so, cue: Grandma Steve, Baby Sitter to the Stars! Well, not as such, although Jen and Chris are, in fact, stars in my book. Oh, and as a side note, when they returned home, they told me that they got to watch the Oscars with someone who was actually in one of the movies up for awards. The Coen Brothers are Minnesota boys, right? And 'A Serious Man' was up for awards, right? Well, the woman who had a minor role as a secretary in that movie was at the Oscars party with them. I know, I know! The stars come out in Minnesota! So, I arrived about 6 PM, and as is always the case when I babysit, we had cheese pizza. It's gotten to the point where when I show up to babysit, Smaller Nora shouts "Yay! We're having pizza!" Which is amusing given that I spend the entire dinner hour trying to get her to eat her pizza. I get her to the table, she eats two bites, and then, theatrically, she announces "Grandma Steve, I am TOO full". The next 50 minutes are spent telling her: 1) No, you are not full, eat your pizza 2) No, you do not get dessert unless you eat your pizza 3) Fine, go to the bathroom, but then come back and eat your pizza 4) No, we do not get to watch a movie until you eat some pizza 5) No, we cannot play until you've eaten your pizza 6) No, no one eats any chocolate, of any description, until you've eaten some pizza 7) No, I will not eat your pizza for you, I have my own pizza to eat 8) Stop doing that, please, and eat your pizza 9) I don't care if you don't want dessert anymore, you still have to eat more pizza 10) Look, you had better eat some pizza, or I'm going to call Mommy and tell her to come home, because you won't eat your (expletive thought, but not voiced) pizza! 11) I don't care how much it looks like the dogs need a hug, you better get back here, young lady, and eat this sodding pizza (expletive uttered, but they don't follow it). I have become a past master at commanding, bullying and coaxing children into not starving. Small Emma, now quite the young lady, watches this with quiet amusement, unhelpful suggestions, and the odd helpful attempt to get her sister to eat pizza. Eventually, after the labors of Hercules, enough pizza is eaten to maintain life for another day. It needs, perhaps, to be admitted that even though the consumption of pizza is paltry, and sometimes insufficient, that dessert is still forthcoming. I would like to be one of those masterful, stern, brutal figures who laughs and says: "Haha! There will be no dessert! You haven't earned dessert!" But I'm not. If the Bounty mission had been left up to Grandma Steve, they'd have never left Tahiti. But, and I want to emphasize this, I work at getting the both of them, despite every attempt to the contrary, to eat at least a minimum amount of pizza. And, I succeed. Roughly speaking. Of course, within an hour, Smaller Nora looks at me and says: Grandma Steve, I am hungry! When I offer her some pizza, she says 'No'. So, usually I get her a banana, or some yogurt. Something that cannot be identified as 'more dessert'. Not directly. Hell, fruit, yogurt, it's all food. Silly little bugger. But that's an ongoing struggle. This particular night, dinner goes pretty well. Emma eats her pizza, Nora is cajoled into eating her pizza. Pizza is eaten. And, because Mom and Dad know that perhaps it's best to give Grandma Steve an easy assignment, they get to watch movies. Jen and Chris are pretty good at limiting the TV/Movie intake. But it's still cold outside, and the backyard is still full of dog sh- poop, so it's not yet time for playing outside in the evening. So, rather than have the two little demons run Grandma Steve ragged with one of their strange, kid's games (I could do a freaking doctoral thesis on kid's games: their strange, repetitive nature, their apparent similarity to stories/movies/tv shows that go off in directions that NO ONE understands, and the insistence on rules that change according to a formula that I am THIS CLOSE to quantifying...), so instead, I get the easy job of watching movies with them. Easy. First, we race up to 'the third story', where the big screen tv, dvd player, etc. are. Grandma Steve, puffing and blowing like a walrus the whole way. Ah! But to be a 'movie night', we have to all CHANGE OUR CLOTHES! Well, not me. But everyone else gets into pajamas. Now, normally, this would be great. Everyone already in their pajamas. But it's still January, and the third story is probably about 55 degrees. And do Small Friends put on warm pajamas? Christ no! They put on something cute, like they're on a cruise of the South Pacific. They dance around like 'Fairy Princesses' in something you'd wear in July. Stern enjoinders to 'put on something warm, it's cold up on the third level' are ignored. But, finally, after all the 'eat your dinner', pajama changes, impromptu games, bathroom breaks, etc., we're going to watch a Movie! This has all taken bloody hours! They're supposed to be in bed, by even the most lenient time schedule of an old man who is often up until 3 AM, by 9 PM. And now we're going to watch a movie! But, and I know you're asking yourself this, which movie? That's easy. For Nora, who's going through a phase, it's the Disney version of 'Hercules'. For Emma, of course, it's a whole bunch of stuff. And the thing is, Emma is 6 1/2, and she definitely wants to be in charge. And, generally speaking, if it's down to her, her sister, and Grandma Steve, she is in charge. So, she wants to watch the 3D version of 'Coraline'. No prob. I love that movie. And Emma can almost always talk her sister around to 'making the right choice'. What's hilarious is watching her give her sister a choice, and then, first, ignoring it, and then second, talking her sister around to it. I swear to the gods, this little girl should be our ambassador to the UN. For one thing, after a couple of years of this, Nora is no longer an easy sale. And the way that Emma goes about it is simply priceless. Let me give you a taste: "Nora, Nora, do you want to watch 'Hercules', or do you want to watch 'Coraline'? In 3d, Nora, with the glasses and everything? (response "HERCULES!"). Okay, Nora, but do you want to watch Hercules, which we've watched a bunch of times lately, or do you want to watch 'Coraline'! Which is great! Remember how you like the part where XYZ happens?! (response "Hercules"). Okay. Okay. But Nora, do you want to watch 'Hercules', or do you want to watch 'Coraline', with me and Grandma Steve, and we'll put on the glasses and we'll be all on the couch together, and you know you like Coraline a lot, and we'll all be on the couch and watch 'Coraline' together. Is that what you want, Nora? (response 'yes?'). Okay, so we're going to watch 'Coraline', okay, Nora? (response 'HERCULES!'). NO! Nora, you just agreed we're going to watch 'Coraline', and we're all going to sit on the couch together, and you can sit next to Grandma Steve, and we're going to put on the 3d glasses, and we'll watch 'Coraline', right, Nora? (response "Hercules?"). No! Nora, we watched 'Hercules' last night, and it's my turn to pick, and you like 'Coraline', and we're all going to sit on the couch and you can sit next to Grandma Steve and we'll watch 'Coraline' with the 3d glasses, and it will be great, right? (response, somewhat quiet, "Ok"). It's a delightful combination of persuasion, wheedling, and bullying. So, we're going to watch 'Coraline' in 3d. And they get all set, in a room that's just above the temperature where you can see your breath, and they're dressed like freaking Tinkerbell, and Grandma Steve goes to put on the (by unanimous decision) 'Coraline'. In 3d. But there's a problem. Daddy has routed the plugs on the Amazing Home Entertainment Center so that the Blu-Ray player isn't in the loop. And Grandma Steve usually takes a solid 5 minutes, even when everything is working as expected, to simply sort out the various remotes and devices to get ANYTHING to happen. And 'Coraline', in 3D, is only possible on the Blu-Ray player. Have you ever fumbled around with 3-4 remote control devices, trying to get one of 4 possible devices (Cable TV, DVD player, Blu-ray player, Wii, or Weird Mystery Device) to work, while two small children dressed like fairy princesses at a slumber party, each wearing weird arsed, square-framed glasses with red and blue lenses watch you, increasingly impatient, and commanding you 'Grandma Steve, turn the movie on!'? I thought not. It is a humbling experience. Look, I've retrieved a single, lost file from the remote, virtual back-up drive for an entire office on an operating system that I had no comprehension of at all. I've set up stereo systems, trouble-shot hardware installations for friends, and fixed all the formulas in Excel for an office when I'd never even opened Excel before. But I couldn't get that movie to play, because the Blu-Ray player was out of the equation. But it's way weird, to have two small girls looking at you with red and blue glasses on, and insisting that 'you're not doing it right'. And when I explained that 'Small Friends, we cannot watch that movie, because Daddy will need to make the Blu-Ray player work again', Emma told me: "Grandma Steve, you can do it. Just switch things around!" And I told her "Honey, Grandma Steve cannot do it. I don't want to start pulling cords and swapping plugs, because I don't want to make Daddy spend most of tomorrow trying to get everything to work again if I get it wrong." Worst Renfield EVER. So, there's always the alternative. The regular DVD player is online. We could watch a different movie (response "HERCULES"!). Emma does NOT want to watch 'Hercules'. So, she resorts to the Great Stratagem. She runs and gets the 'Movie Drawing Box'. Which is a box filled with movie titles written on scraps of paper, and she lets Nora pick. But she reads the first title, and they both agree they don't want to watch it, so she draws another. And that one is terrible, so she draws another. She finally just goes through them until she gets one she thinks isn't too bad. It's 'Zathura'. I've watched this movie with both of them before, but it's been a long time. So Emma decides that will be cool. But it's not necessarily a movie for a four year old, like Smaller Nora, because there's some scary parts. So she tells her sister 'Nora, you sit with Grandman Steve, who will protect you if it's scary, and if it's too scary, put your hand over your eyes.' So, we put on the regular ole DVD version of 'Zathura'. And it's good. They're digging it, it's pretty good for adults, everyone is happy. And Small Emma, little girl in charge that she is, first takes away all the remote controls and puts them on the side table, and then turns off every light in the room 'so that it's more like a movie theater'. Until the scene with the giant, malfunctioning robot (the 'broken robot', in the terminology of Small Friends). And when it appears, and attacks the kids, Nora budges up to me, and I can feel her trembling. And she says 'Grandma Steve, I do not like that robot!' And I tell her "Nora-gnu, we will beat that robot! It is okay!" And that's fine, so far as it goes, because the robot, if you've ever seen it, plows into the fireplace, arms extended, and sags and stops. Which, as all adults know, is simply the prelude to what comes next: The robot comes back to life, pulls its arms out through the brick, and goes more berserk. And Smaller Nora begins to scream. Piercingly, and repeatedly. This is not a little shriek of surprise. This is the kind of scream that runs right up your spine, and into your ears, and rushes to attach electrodes to that part of your brain that remembers being a monkey. A small child 'I'm unhappy and scared ****less' kind of scream that, if you heard it in another room, would make you pick up anything that could be used as a weapon and rush in to kill something, or be killed. And it keeps going on. I swear by all the gods I rose 3 inches off the couch. And Emma starts shouting "Nora, cover your eyes! Grandma Steve, turn it off, turn it off!" And I am all but gibbering, because it's totally dark, and I'M shouting 'I CAN'T turn it off, Emma! What did you do with the remotes?! Turn on the lights!' So, I've got a small, screaming child hanging on one arm, and I'm shouting at her 6 year old sister to find the damn light switch, and I'm flailing around with the other arm trying to grab the proper (out of 5, count them 5 freaking remotes; universal remote my arse), and I finally find the right remote and switch off the movie about the same time that Emma finally gets the table lamp on. And then, we all just sit there, for a while, breathing. And Nora says: "I do not want to see that robot anymore". And no one can argue with that. After we sat there for a while, the Small Friends were recovered enough to ask 'can we watch a Different Movie?' So we talked about it. And Emma suggested we watch the live action 'Peter Pan'. She said: "Do you want to watch Peter Pan, Nora? We watched that the other night, and you liked it. Should we watch that?" Nora thought about it. I told her 'Nora, remember, there are pirates in it. Would you be scared about the pirates?' And Nora thought about it, and she said 'We can watch Peter Pan. And if there are pirates, and they scare me, I will PUNCH them!' Normally, I know my place as Grandma Steve, and I do not advocate punching, hitting, hair-pulling or any other acts of child violence. But I totally agreed with her. "Yes, Nora. If the pirates try and scare us, we will punch the snot out of them!" Mom and Dad came home, and found us ready to rip the lungs out of anyone who messed with us. It was pretty much past everyone's bedtime. But we were pretty pumped up. I'd have hated to be a pirate that showed up there that night.

Weeeellll... I was just talking to Dalem on the phone, and he said to me: "I'm like a lamb, trembling in the field, afraid of the wolves...and then I reach down for my drop piece..." I think, perhaps, that Dalem has a less than perfect understanding of lambs.

Boo, round up the usual suspects. I don't trust anyone. I think people are screwing with my sleep patterns. And my dreams. They've been very strange, lately.

You will, of course, rot in hell for Eternity. Eternity is a long, long time, Dalem. I'll see you Saturday. And there will be a reckoning.

True, Joe. Not to mention that he's not worth a ****e as a coward. But, and I think this is significant, he's quite good in terms of roaring and carrying on. And although his behaviour when deep in his cups is often ridiculous, his sheer capacity for drunkenness is impressive. Not like myself, of course. He's simply the D'Artagnan to my Athos. I am one of Nature's noblemen.

The ultimate, final upshot of all this 'beard talk' is simply this: Everyone who knows Dalem, after the 'clean shave', told him: Dude. Grow back some facial hair. No one wants to see that.

Yeah, the 'cavalry whiskers' were a fecking piece. I got to see them, and I still curse the fact that my camera wasn't in my back-pack that night. Truly hideous. Made me feel like Lucan, Cardigan, Dalem and I should hit the bars before trying to find a knocking shop in Columbia Heights. I just kept touching my face all night, to make sure it wasn't contagious.

I remember late nights in February when I would grip my glass and try to focus, and pronounce: "General Dalem, I need you to remove those people from the ridge. You will put your men into line, and bid them charge. I cannot tell you sir, how important it is that those people should be swept away." It's like his beard reached into my very being and opened a door that filled the room with the scent of whisky, cigars, black powder and blood, and filled the air with shouts, screams and curses. Given that it was Saturday night at Dalem's, the only element that came from some imagined memory was 'the smell of black powder'. Pretty much everything else was just the normal smells and sounds of a weekend at Dalem's. You don't get the 'smell of black powder' at Dalem's on a weekend. He's very thorough and careful about locking up the guns and ammo when the cap comes off the bottle. 'Course, you still get the smell of blood, because after a few hours of heavily imbibing himself, he's pretty good about handing round the swords, including museum quality rapier replicas. And the gladius. That damn thing has actually been given a true edge. Half the damn wounds are self-inflicted, of course. Give a number of shouting drunkards swords, and almost invariably the first thing they'll manage to stab is themselves. We manage to stab each other just often enough to keep the evening interesting, and make sure that everyone's on their toes. You can't depend on the fact that just because the last 14 times he was given a sword, Lars just managed to rip up his own shirt, coat, pants leg, give himself minor stab wounds 3 times, cut himself mildly 6 times, destroy a stack of mail, and scare all the pets. Because the 15th time, he could puncture your lung. And a sucking chest wound is nature's way of telling you that you should have paid more attention to Lars.

And yet, strangely, you've never offered to introduce us...

Sparkly vampires Glittering werewolves Effervescent zombies Monster that shine Sparkly vampires Glittering werewolves Shiny monsters, I love you...

We are coming up on the greatest part of they year. The part where we can all go North. I've been discussing it with Dalem. We need to go North soon. Of course, right now, Lake of the Woods is still ice-covered. Last lake in Minnesota/Canadian border that still is fully ice-covered. Ice out soon. Very early this year. I will be paddling by this weekend, down here in the South of the State. A full week ahead of last year. Of course, because of my trip to the Everglades, I already have a good chunk of paddling time and mileage racked up. Well, not a full week. Last year, I was on the water by the 15th. Still, being on the water by the 10th or 11th isn't too shabby. Does it make anyone else want to sing?

I am an Old One of the Peng Challenge Thread, and I approve this concept. Is there a new Lady Stuka yet? I mean, it's been hours since I raised the point...

My little lad, if they ever show up here, they'll never even make it that far. Like anyone interested in the Public Health, they're weak, and wouldn't get past the vestibule of my apartment before being overcome.

Errrr...not to be a bastard or anything (although I am a bastard, but a serious bastard, so that's 'Mr. Bastard' to you lot) which Lady Stuka are we on now, exactly? I mean, sequentially, not perched on her, or anything. Christ on a crutch crossing himself, I've been here so long that I have to ask which Lady Stuka we're on. I mean, is this like the Jane Seymour of 'Lady Stukas', or is this the Anne Boleyn of 'Lady Stukas'? Does Stuka even know any more?

SHAW! Shaw. Are you there? I'm tired. Do I still need to amuse them? Do I still need to be mocked? Do I still need to need them? The Wasteland is calling me, Joe. Will you never let me sleep?

Goddamn it, Joe, my very good friend. I really wanted to get all medieval on your sh - wait for it! * t, but you simply must learn to attribute your responses. Joe Shaw, the Justicar of the Peng Challenge Thread. I will dance for you, anytime. As long as I know why I'm dancing, you feck. You do not achieve my age, and general hideousness, without needing to dance for some sort of piper. Joe, I'm doing a sort of 'schottische' in my living room right now. I am working your name into the song that I am singing. This is not a joke. This is what I've been doing for the last ten minutes. Now, Justicar. You need to dance for me. You need to sing a song, and dance a dance for me. You need to do it for real. You don't need to admit it to anyone. You can totally laugh about it to everyone else, and mock me. The song is your own, the steps are unquestioned. You can pretend to everyone but yourself. But you need to get up, in your study, unwitnessed, and do a dance. The song you sing is your own favourite. No one has to see. And, in good faith, I will now get up and dance again, and I will sing a song. It will be a waltz. I will sing 'The Dutchman', by Michael Smith. It is a tune that you and I must love, and dread. Isn't it where we're going? The Dutchman’s not the kind of man, to keep his thumb jammed in the dam, that holds his dreams in. But that’s a secret only Margret knows. When Amsterdam is golden, in the morning, Margret brings him breakfast She believes him. He thinks that tulips bloom beneath the snow. He’s mad as he can be, but Margret only sees that sometimes. Sometimes she sees her unborn children in his eyes. Let us go to the banks of the ocean where the wall rise above the Zuyder Zee long ago, I used to be a young man and dear Margret, remembers that for me. The Dutchman stills wears wooden shoes, his cap and coat are patched with love, that Margret sowed him Sometimes he thinks he’s still in Rotterdam. He watches tugboats down canals, and he calls out to them when he thinks, he knows the captain. Till Margret comes to take him home again. Through unforgiving streets, that trip him though she holds his arm Sometimes he thinks that he’s alone, and calls her name. Let us go to the banks of the ocean… The windmills whirl the winter in she winds his muffler tighter, they sit in the kitchen Some tea with whiskey keeps away the dew He sees her for a moment, calls her name, she makes the bed humming some old love song She learned the tune when it was very new He hums a line or two, they hum together in the dark The Dutchman falls asleep and Margret blows the candle out. Let us go to the banks of the ocean where the walls rise above the Zuyder Zee Long ago, I used to be a young man and dear Margret remembers that for me.