Back From The Edge
by Ensley Hill
08/29/2011, 8:20 PM #
Sometimes not knowing what the future holds is a bit of luck in itself. If I had known just over 4 months ago that diabetes, a heart attack, and a blod clot would have taken off both of my legs just below the knees and almost cost me my life, I would have been much more despondent and much less cheerful and optimistic than I now am.
When the doctor told me that in his opinion saving my legs would be impossible and that he was at present trying to save my life. "Let's do it, then," I replied; what else was there to say? It certainly wasn't welcome news, by any stretch but really, at that point I was pretty depressed, and in pain, and I was thinking, "What difference does it make, my life is over anyhow." For the first few weeks many people, including me, had doubts about whether I would live, and at that point I didn't even really care.
For the first 3 weeks or so I was receiving a shot of morphine every 3 hours and sometimes arguing for more. I had never experienced such pain nor for so long. The drgs caused occasional halicinations and weird dreams. But shortly thereafter my body kicked in and fought back, beginning to become actively involved in the healing process in a way I could feel and appreciate and the care and medicine added to that to greatly slacken the frequency and severity of the pain and speed up the healing and stregthening process. My mood and comfort dramaticly improved and I was quickly advanced to rehab in Halifax and trained to become proficient with the wheelchair, to the point where I now live alone in my new wheelchair-accessible place in privacy and confidence although the medical and home care people still check on me to monitor my general health and transitional progress.
Some friends, relatives, and health care professionals have made serveral comments throughout my healing and readjustment process about my courage, and good spirits and attitudes, etc, and I certainly appreciate the compliments, but really I was just accepting what I could not change, trying to keep the suffering and dispair to myself as much as possible, and then when the pain abated, little by little, and my healing and strength improved, I was really in good spirit and feeling upbeat, realizing my luck in being alive, relatively healthy and able to enjoy my life and life independently with few discomforts apart from havinf no legs and being confined to a wheechair. I have a decent place to live, an electric wheelchair and a hi-speed internet connection. I sometimes tell people that most times now I don't feel handicapped, I feel privileged. So many people in the world, even healthy people, are not nearly so lucky or so comfortable.
And now that I've finished making homemade bread and homemade soup and am settled at the computer here to whine and dine, indulge me a bit further while I count my blessings. Thank my lucky stars that I live in a fabulous country, Canada, with an awesome universal healthcare program filled throughout with professional, compasionate people from the abulance attendants (paramedics) to the doctors annd nurses, to the interns and student nurses. These wonderful people were amazingly helpful patient and supportive throughout my 4+ months in the hospital. I think that a civilized society is measured by its treatment and respect for all its citizens and that Canada is the champion by leaps and bounds. I realized the cash-crunch problem and the need to pay for the social net and administer it prudently and efficiently but our system is 2 notches above great and I hope we can save it and keep it sustainable.
Of equal importance and relevance to me, is the value, loyalty, and compassion of my friends and family. I had lots of visitors throughout my stay and they continue to do so even now. This is also true of my online, specifically Fray, friends, whose emotional and material support was so unexpected and heartwarming that it actually brought me to tears, and I'm not one easily moved to tears (a weakness prrhaps, I'm not bragging about it). I could say more about those Fray friends but they wish to keep the matter private and I respect their wishes. My family ans lifelong friends continuously exceeded my high opinions of them and were a bastion of strong support. I am exceedingly blessed in the quality of my friends and family, beyond anything I can verbally express. They were my tower of power in times of trouble. I have better friends and family than I deserve. I feel sorry for those who don't.
So, as for me, I am doing well and feeling fine. I'm a stronger and more grateful man than that guy who went to the hospital in an ambulance some 4 months ago. I hope all is well with you and yours.
Showing posts with label ensleyhill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ensleyhill. Show all posts
31 August 2011
16 March 2009
Fray Bash: The Morning After
Fray Bash: The Morning After
by Keifus
03/16/2009, 11:42 AM #
The sun breaks cold on our old farmhouse, cresting over mowed cornfields so vast you can almost see the curve of the earth on the horizon. Color bleeds into the landscape, such color as there is at this time of year, the reds of an occasional stand of trees resume their vigil over the sere tans and browns of dead earth, and the blacktop, so bleached with years it's now nearly white, stretches out toward the west in a straight thin line, toward the half-remembered connections this place originally had: a mailbox, a road, a strand of wire stretched out along a lonely line of telephone poles. An engine hums in the distance, heard down the road before it is seen. In the budding daylight, it's a significant sound. The destination is inevitable.
There has been, up to now, no traffic to speak of. We can infer the passage of cars, from drift and flow of the crowd, there's been an occasional drive-by and people have been noted for their comings and goings, but the path in or out hasn't ever been connected very clearly to the bash. Like any good gathering, it's firmly set in terms of place and company, a zen-like eternal now, oblivious of the exits. The best parties are somehow able to hold the passage of time at bay for a while. The night seemed to last years somehow, more than a night's worth of tragedy and discover snuck in from the outside (although the paths are obscure there too) shared in the communal space, and changed us, but somehow the party has kept going. Who knows, maybe in the long night, in the twists and turns of conversation, the labyrinth of human contact, time itself stretched out beyond its natural capacity. On the old country road, morning sunlight glints on chrome.
From the driveway, only one broken window is visible. The remnants of a few rolls of toilet paper float lazily about. Some porcelain is visible just off in the bushes, and the ground is dug up with a few dozen escaping feet. Minimal property damage, perhaps. The long sedan is black, and as it gets closer, the bent antenna becomes visible, and the one wrong-colored door, obviously salvaged, and the shattered left headlamp. As it pulls in, the engine bucks a few times and stalls, and disturbs some late-season birds from their morning gathering. A woman who'd been quietly sitting in a lawn chair with her lap blanket sighs and folds up her sketchbook and watches one tailored leg stretch out of the mismatched door and crunch the gravel. The driver does not acknoweldge her.
Pushing open the door is difficult, however, and it takes a good shoulder to dislodge the nearest drift of cups and plates, sherriff's badges, discarded clothes, empties, props, food, paraphernalia, cans of potted meat, obsolete electronics, cigarette butts, socks with glued-on googly eyes, hairballs, cancelled checks, bile, and, apparently, the snoring body of some unsightly vermin who yelps and scurries away through the litter when the door hits him, muttering something incomprehensible. The speakers are emitting a loud staticky N-R-R-R-R-R, and as the door grinds open, MaxFischerPlayers, alone in the booth at last, cracks a red, bleary eye and smiles acidly before putting his head back down. Below him, a mound of jewel cases shutters and spills, and a hand emerges to claw at a bundle of wires. The pop of the speakers feels climactic.
The visitor dusts off his sport coat. Was it this bad when he left? He looks down and gingerly takes a step forward into the debris, tottering a little in his Italian shoes. He looks up just in time to see a woman powerwalk into him, poking nervously at her iPod. The bump on his shoulder sends him wheeling--he's still a little unsteady on his lifts--and one second it's all worried face and disheveled hair, and the next it's untucked blouse and the back end of a briefcase, apparently stuffed with grass and leaves, dripping strawberry-colored liquid from one sodden corner. Rundeep slams the door before the visitor can address her, but off to his right, a grunt of feminine disdain can be heard.
Topazz is a model of composure in the scene of general chaos, or would look so if you didn't carefully take in the details. She's perched on a chair, and precisely touches up the corners of her mouth with lipstick as she accepts the vistor's glare. "Well? What did you expect?" The makeup is perfect, but Topazz' clothes are tattered, and behind her is an entire tier of exhausted male bodies, all of which look older, hairier and fatter in the morning light than they did even a few hours ago. The visitor starts to splutter "we lent you this barn, and, and--" Topazz sniffs. "If keeping order was your job, then you clearly didn't do it very well." "Ingrate! Just get out! Leave! Now!" The rebuke stings: topazz, who, quite beyond her control, starts to mist up, rushes for the door, looking for something to throw herself onto. "Fuck you, Geoff," comes a voice from the pile, followed by a half-empty Molson, which sails within an inch of the guest's head and shatters behind him.
The noise is enough to rouse a few more of the squatters. Inkberrow and Archaeopteryx tumble out of the back room in a reeking cloud of cigar smoke. Run75441 creeps out of the basement hatch, and then tiptoes away quietly. A moment later, and Ellen, shamefaced, still in her safety mittens, climbs out after him, hustling away in the opposite direction. After another pause, ci-inc and Dreambird follow the first pair, and if run and Ellen were embarrassed, these two are downright mortified.
Geoff turns back to the bottle-thrower but only sees the last couple of bodies heading out the door, and Schadenfreude poking in just long enough to offer him a sumptuous middle finger. Hearing new rustling behind him, Geoff spins yet again to find another collage of guilty faces, which break like billiard balls under his gaze. There's RonB52 wheeling off in one direction, spilling chessmen behind him, and there goes skeptical, chattering in Spanish to JackD, who's shirtless and slowed down by his soaking wet goat leggings. EnsleyHill caroms off the wall, and breaks right at the last minute, while Appolonius races out toward the nearest window, and as he leverages his reedy body over the sill, several of the other bodies just disappear in puffs of smoke. Gypsy is left standing there in the exact center of it all, and for good measure, Geoff orders her to leave directly, which she does. He sighs. This isn't really satisfying, and despite his intentions, he's going to leave here reeking of skunked beer. He shakes his moist pant-leg and almost tips over again. He grunts and picks his way over to one of the back windows.
The scene outside is disturbing, and Geoff pulls out the handkerchief from his breast pocket and swabs his head with it in discomfort. The huge black crater, he thinks, is a big part of the problem here. A few charred bodies still circle it, slowly. Urquhart is identifiable by the shattered monocle hanging from its ribbon, the stem of a martini glass, and the British officer's helmet, which is somehow still immaculately white. He raises his baton as if for a charge, but the backswing doesn't end, and in a moment, he's laying asswards in the rubble. Demcon and LaurieAnne are standing arm-in-arm on the rim, and they're close enough to the window for Geoff to hear their conversation. "It's really embarrassing what damage people will inflict to express their single political issues," he says. The female voice responds: "I don't understand why people can't be open-minded and forgiving, like we are. I should talk to Geoff about it." As they walk away, Geoff's Blackberry buzzes, and rather than answer it, he unclips the thing and tosses it without affectation into the general pile of refuse. The decision is what it is, then. No surprise, really.
He edges his way to the back door, and kicks it open with a ruined shoe. He looks over at the crater, and despite some lingering smoke, all of the bodies have managed to shamble away, perhaps to do battle elsewhere. There are still some stragglers from the party lurking about: Isonomist and TheBell are giggling and passing back and forth what looks like a shoebox with a length of PVC pipe stuck in the top, while Schrodinger stands over them both with his arms sternly folded. WasLTT is trailing Sawbones around, trying to cadge some free medical advice under the guise of questions about guitar equipment. Sarvis is sitting by himself on a rock, with a keyboard on his lap, chanting "the dwarves are for the dwarves" as he types, whatever the hell that means. An intelligent-looking crow flits down onto a branch and squawks "Nevermore" once, before it flies away again to points unknown.
What the fuck do they expect from me, thinks Geoff as he moves across the yard to the small toolshed. I wasn't the first to get here, and I wasn't the first to leave. Hell, I was just the guy who was dumb enough to answer the phone when it kept ringing. He roots around for the jerry cans in back. I'm just doing the job I've been asked to. It's not my fault I was doing ten other things when they asked. Any one of them would have done things exactly the same way, I'm sure of it, at least either of those two that are sometimes halfway worth reading. Don't they realize I'm doing them a favor? What insignificant morons. No one knows how badly I feel inside about this. He unscrews the lid of the first one, and makes his way back across the now empty lawn.
He moves around the side of the building, pouring. Sure, the structure looks sturdy, he observes, but it's outlived its original purpose, and played out its swan song too. Maybe it could be used for something else, but hey, space is cheap here, and tenants are even cheaper. The circuit takes him under the bathroom window, and out into the driveway again. The last cars appear to be pulling out, and weaving along the country road. Good, he thinks, and rips off a match. When things are going along nicely, he gets in his car and motors along too. The sun hasn't even reached its apex.
If seen from above, the smoke would be observed to stretch out in a cone over the empty landscape, a gray blot stretched out over the old fields and eventually dissipating. But it's not something anyone really notices. No one around can smell it, and the farmers, wherever they are exactly, have all packed it in for the season. The conflagration can't really be said to be observed by the hundred or so partiers either, but it's sensed somewhere behind them, and taken with them forward to their homes--maybe switters' farm is out here somewhere--or maybe to new parties. There's a wedding to look forward to, and looking back, the excursion to Birdland had been a lot of fun after all, and the California thing ended badly, but then this is ending badly too. No, this is worse: it's ending stupidly, but everything does come to a stop eventually, and it's not like no one saw it coming. That this party could keep twitching for a good year after the plug was pulled tells me it was a hell of a run. I'll see many or most of you in other digs, I'm sure, and it won't be the same, but it probably won't be worse. Take it easy. Drive safe.
Ah, there's nothing like a Monday morning hangover!
by SecretAgentMan
03/16/2009, 5:39 PM #
I'll pick up the story where you left off.
The BOTF building is a smoking ruin. Police cars, ambulances, and little white trucks surround the property. Outside the police tape, a crowd of gawkers has gathered. Ender sees the crowd forming, talks his way into a police uniform and goes to meet them.
"Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. Move along." Lowers voice and starts passing out cards. "Here, take this card. It's my new web site..."
A couple of investigative reporters from the Washington Post arrive and start questioning those still inside. The police, ambulances, and little white trucks have been hauling people away since dawn and there are still more than 60 people left inside. Amazing.
The reporters enter the building and look around. There is a strange disconnect between the smoldering remains of the once-illustrious hall and the patrons who are still partying as if nothing has happened. At the first table they come to a man sitting by himself, polishing a machine gun.
Reporter: "Excuse me, sir, did you see what happened here? Can you tell us how it started?"
Predicto: "I sure can. I was just sitting here, minding my own bizness, when this group of illegal Mexican liberals came barging through the door and..."
The reporters move on looking for others to question. They see a wild-eyed little lady talking fast and excitedly. They ask her if she knows what happened.
zinya: "I sure do. We were just having a calm rational discussion when this group of neocon Nazi terrorists came barging through the front door and raped all the women, and some of the men (the cute ones), then they planted these explosives and left, snickering about how they would blame it on the radical left-wingers."
This girl appears to be the cool, calm, collected, voice of reason so the reporters write down every word she says (3 notebooks full) and then continue to question the patrons. Amidst the beehive of activity they spot a sedate looking fellow sitting quitly by himself so they wander over to question him.
Reporter: "Excuse me, sir, can you tell us what happened here?"
Schadenfreude: "Sure. Pot, kettle; mote, beam; that kinda thing"
Reporter: "Excuse me?"
Schadenfreude: "The emporer's new clothes; the boy who cried wolf; chicken little--sky falling; the Department of Truth; looking for Mr. Goodbar. Do you get it...yet?"
Reporter: "...ummm...no, I guess not, but thanks for your time, just the same."
Schadenfreude: "No problem. Glad I could help."
Before the reporters can advance any further they are distracted by a woman who has climbed up on the soapbox in the center of the floor and begun to recite:
Tempo: "There once was a man from Nantucket..." [howls, whistles, and jeers] "...0h shut up, you assholes...just SHUT THE HELL UP...you're just jealous because I'm a REAL poet, like you all wish that you were but aren't...IMHO, of course..." [laughter and more howls, whistles, and jeers] "...unlike you bloviating blowhards, I *have* been everywhere and really *have* done everything...I've been an editor--a REAL one for a BIG magazine--an electrician, a carpenter, a consultant, a realtor, an artist, a deisel mechanic, a doctor, a lawyer, an astronaut, a hooker..."
After a few minutes of arguing with the audience, Tempo resumes her recitation:
"Little Bo Peep has lost her creep
And now must go look for another
But where will she find
In these sad hard times
One who's different, yet just like the other?"
[A mixture of cheers and jeers]
The reporters, mesmerized by this performance, recover their faculties (such as they are) and resume their interogations. They approach a small crowded table near the center of the room and speak to the person nearest to them.
Reporter: "I'm wondering if you can help us...?"
Daveto: "Not likely. I'm a Canadian, eh?"
Reporter: "..ahhh...right. Thanks anyway. Have a nice day."
Daveto: "Sure. Why not?"
In the center of the room, near the soapbox, Tempo has finished her recitation (finally) and catnapping prepares to climb the box and recite. She whispers to the next in line behind her, JackDallas:
"Well, that'll be a hard act to follow, but oh well, the show must go on! hehe"
The two reporters are becoming frustrated but they soldier on and approach a large table, that you can tell at a glance is populated by former star posters of the top echelon, and they address a lady who is obviously the focus of their attention and subject of their admiration.
Reporter: "Can you tell us what happened here and who is responsible for this carnage?"
Gostofa-z: "Well, that depends: was that a sincere question (to which I could assume you want a simple [and possibly truthful] answer), a rhetorical question (to which you already know the answer [or think you do]), a metaphysical question (based upon faulty constructs and untested hypotheses [or unworkable social conventions--I don't know which would be worse, but that's another question]); or a trick question (I don't play those kinds of silly word games, thank you very much)?"
Reporter: "Ummmmm...it's just a question."
Ghostofa-z: "Define 'just a question'."
Reporter: "We'll get back to you. Thanks."
The reporters are becoming desperate. They scan the crowd (all 60 of them--they're all present and show no signs of leaving) looking for someone who looks like they might have useful information and might be inclined to share it. Over against one wall they see a couple of guys huddled together and talking in low voices.
Days: "You realize this was an inside job, don't you?"
Justoffal: "I know it and you know it, but no one else will believe it."
Days: "That's true. People believe what they want to believe and their minds are closed to the truth."
Justoffal: "Exactly."
The reporters glance at each other and frown, but decide to approach them anyway. At least they seem like two who might have been watching and just might tell what they saw.
Reporter: "Excuse me, gentlemen, can you tell me what happened here?"
Days and Justoffal look at each other and frown.
Days: "Why don't you ask that guy over there? [He points to Fritz-Gerlich, sitting at the former-star heavy-hitter table] He's a judge from Alaska, a real smart guy, and I'm sure you'll believe him more than us, anyway."
Justoffal: "Oh Days, don't be so gullible! He's really a beer-swigging truck driver from Alabama who likes to dress up and put on airs!"
Days: "Oooooh...no...I didn't know..."
The reporters give up on them and continue searching. In one corner of the room a fist fight has broken out but no one pays attention and back at the old soapbox it's JackDallas's turn to recite.
JackDallas: "Good evening, friends and felons, my first poem tonight is called 'A Sentimental Look at Torture Chambers of the Past'..."
The reporters come to a group of people standing near the back door and speak to the one who has just finished speaking.
Reporter: "Can you tell us what happened?"
Cicero/Hauteur: "Of course I can. So could anybody. It was that miserable little prick that you call an editor, Geoff, and you are among his cohorts and enablers so you're also responsible, as is your boss, his boss, and everyone else in your unholy alliance of gangsters and thugs that call themselves by the group names: Slate and Washington Post. But if you want the arsonist himself, I'm pretty sure I saw Geoff running away from here with an empty gas can just before dawn. He shouldn't be hard to find. You'll probably find him sitting on a stool in some gay bar bragging about his misdeeds, the arrogant little turd!"
Reporter: "Um, thank you, we'll check it out." The reporters look at each other and frown, and continue their circumnavigation of the remains of the room. Over in a dimly-lit corner tending bar is a non-descript individual who is watching everything and everybody with great interest. They decide to give it a shot.
Reporter: "Excuse us, Sir, could you tell us what happened here?"
EnsleyHill: "I could but I won't. It's not worth the bother. And I've been over it so many times already. I'm tired. Would you like a beer?"
Reporter: "No, thank you."
EnsleyHill: "How about some cheap California wine? It's not too bad, really, once you get past the taste...and the smell."
Reporter: "Maybe later. Thank you."
The reporters decide to make one last try for a one-on-one interrogation. They approach a skinny fellow with a handkerchief tied around his head, strumming a guitar and humming.
Reporter: "I'm really really hoping that you can tell us what happened here over the weekend!"
Appolonius: "I can tell you anything that you want to know. I know everything about everything and I've forgotten more than the two of you will ever know, if indeed, you ever knew anything, which is doubtful. Don't ask me how I know. It only matters that I do know. I am the custodian of all the ancient mysteries and if you two confused airheads had any sense you would have come to me first instead of last. I'm sorry, what was the question again?"
The intrepid Wapo reporters are really annoyed by their lack of progress so they go to the center of the room where JackDallas is wiping his eyes with a white hanky and sniffing as he recites a series of short love poems about carpet bombing, waterboarding, hellfire missiles, and so forth. They push him off the soapbox and one of the reporters climbs onto it and shouts in a booming voice:
"Look, you people, we dont care about the building, and we don't give a rat's ass about the fire, the shootings, the noise, or the sex or the booze or the narcotics or any of that stupid shit! All we want to know is this: Who the fuck pulled the fire alarm and made all of those fucking calls to 9-1-1? It's a simple question! Does anybody know?"
Sixty hands immediately spring into the air and wave frantically as a hubbub ensues with everyone talking at once. The two reporters shake their heads, run out the front door and disappear into the night. They were last seen in Canada, working for the Department of Parks and Recreation for the Province of Ontario.
THE END
Note: BOTF is the only thing in this organization worth reading (with rare exceptions), pretenses to the contrary notwithstanding, and if they wish to shut it down they will injure only themselves. They've injured themselves already by messing with an idea and a vision that worked and had great potential until they took over and undertook so many "improvements" and it has been dying the death of a thousand small cuts ever since. But it was great and has survived (to this point) all attempts to starve and strangle it to death. It's been a slice.
by Keifus
03/16/2009, 11:42 AM #
The sun breaks cold on our old farmhouse, cresting over mowed cornfields so vast you can almost see the curve of the earth on the horizon. Color bleeds into the landscape, such color as there is at this time of year, the reds of an occasional stand of trees resume their vigil over the sere tans and browns of dead earth, and the blacktop, so bleached with years it's now nearly white, stretches out toward the west in a straight thin line, toward the half-remembered connections this place originally had: a mailbox, a road, a strand of wire stretched out along a lonely line of telephone poles. An engine hums in the distance, heard down the road before it is seen. In the budding daylight, it's a significant sound. The destination is inevitable.
There has been, up to now, no traffic to speak of. We can infer the passage of cars, from drift and flow of the crowd, there's been an occasional drive-by and people have been noted for their comings and goings, but the path in or out hasn't ever been connected very clearly to the bash. Like any good gathering, it's firmly set in terms of place and company, a zen-like eternal now, oblivious of the exits. The best parties are somehow able to hold the passage of time at bay for a while. The night seemed to last years somehow, more than a night's worth of tragedy and discover snuck in from the outside (although the paths are obscure there too) shared in the communal space, and changed us, but somehow the party has kept going. Who knows, maybe in the long night, in the twists and turns of conversation, the labyrinth of human contact, time itself stretched out beyond its natural capacity. On the old country road, morning sunlight glints on chrome.
From the driveway, only one broken window is visible. The remnants of a few rolls of toilet paper float lazily about. Some porcelain is visible just off in the bushes, and the ground is dug up with a few dozen escaping feet. Minimal property damage, perhaps. The long sedan is black, and as it gets closer, the bent antenna becomes visible, and the one wrong-colored door, obviously salvaged, and the shattered left headlamp. As it pulls in, the engine bucks a few times and stalls, and disturbs some late-season birds from their morning gathering. A woman who'd been quietly sitting in a lawn chair with her lap blanket sighs and folds up her sketchbook and watches one tailored leg stretch out of the mismatched door and crunch the gravel. The driver does not acknoweldge her.
Pushing open the door is difficult, however, and it takes a good shoulder to dislodge the nearest drift of cups and plates, sherriff's badges, discarded clothes, empties, props, food, paraphernalia, cans of potted meat, obsolete electronics, cigarette butts, socks with glued-on googly eyes, hairballs, cancelled checks, bile, and, apparently, the snoring body of some unsightly vermin who yelps and scurries away through the litter when the door hits him, muttering something incomprehensible. The speakers are emitting a loud staticky N-R-R-R-R-R, and as the door grinds open, MaxFischerPlayers, alone in the booth at last, cracks a red, bleary eye and smiles acidly before putting his head back down. Below him, a mound of jewel cases shutters and spills, and a hand emerges to claw at a bundle of wires. The pop of the speakers feels climactic.
The visitor dusts off his sport coat. Was it this bad when he left? He looks down and gingerly takes a step forward into the debris, tottering a little in his Italian shoes. He looks up just in time to see a woman powerwalk into him, poking nervously at her iPod. The bump on his shoulder sends him wheeling--he's still a little unsteady on his lifts--and one second it's all worried face and disheveled hair, and the next it's untucked blouse and the back end of a briefcase, apparently stuffed with grass and leaves, dripping strawberry-colored liquid from one sodden corner. Rundeep slams the door before the visitor can address her, but off to his right, a grunt of feminine disdain can be heard.
Topazz is a model of composure in the scene of general chaos, or would look so if you didn't carefully take in the details. She's perched on a chair, and precisely touches up the corners of her mouth with lipstick as she accepts the vistor's glare. "Well? What did you expect?" The makeup is perfect, but Topazz' clothes are tattered, and behind her is an entire tier of exhausted male bodies, all of which look older, hairier and fatter in the morning light than they did even a few hours ago. The visitor starts to splutter "we lent you this barn, and, and--" Topazz sniffs. "If keeping order was your job, then you clearly didn't do it very well." "Ingrate! Just get out! Leave! Now!" The rebuke stings: topazz, who, quite beyond her control, starts to mist up, rushes for the door, looking for something to throw herself onto. "Fuck you, Geoff," comes a voice from the pile, followed by a half-empty Molson, which sails within an inch of the guest's head and shatters behind him.
The noise is enough to rouse a few more of the squatters. Inkberrow and Archaeopteryx tumble out of the back room in a reeking cloud of cigar smoke. Run75441 creeps out of the basement hatch, and then tiptoes away quietly. A moment later, and Ellen, shamefaced, still in her safety mittens, climbs out after him, hustling away in the opposite direction. After another pause, ci-inc and Dreambird follow the first pair, and if run and Ellen were embarrassed, these two are downright mortified.
Geoff turns back to the bottle-thrower but only sees the last couple of bodies heading out the door, and Schadenfreude poking in just long enough to offer him a sumptuous middle finger. Hearing new rustling behind him, Geoff spins yet again to find another collage of guilty faces, which break like billiard balls under his gaze. There's RonB52 wheeling off in one direction, spilling chessmen behind him, and there goes skeptical, chattering in Spanish to JackD, who's shirtless and slowed down by his soaking wet goat leggings. EnsleyHill caroms off the wall, and breaks right at the last minute, while Appolonius races out toward the nearest window, and as he leverages his reedy body over the sill, several of the other bodies just disappear in puffs of smoke. Gypsy is left standing there in the exact center of it all, and for good measure, Geoff orders her to leave directly, which she does. He sighs. This isn't really satisfying, and despite his intentions, he's going to leave here reeking of skunked beer. He shakes his moist pant-leg and almost tips over again. He grunts and picks his way over to one of the back windows.
The scene outside is disturbing, and Geoff pulls out the handkerchief from his breast pocket and swabs his head with it in discomfort. The huge black crater, he thinks, is a big part of the problem here. A few charred bodies still circle it, slowly. Urquhart is identifiable by the shattered monocle hanging from its ribbon, the stem of a martini glass, and the British officer's helmet, which is somehow still immaculately white. He raises his baton as if for a charge, but the backswing doesn't end, and in a moment, he's laying asswards in the rubble. Demcon and LaurieAnne are standing arm-in-arm on the rim, and they're close enough to the window for Geoff to hear their conversation. "It's really embarrassing what damage people will inflict to express their single political issues," he says. The female voice responds: "I don't understand why people can't be open-minded and forgiving, like we are. I should talk to Geoff about it." As they walk away, Geoff's Blackberry buzzes, and rather than answer it, he unclips the thing and tosses it without affectation into the general pile of refuse. The decision is what it is, then. No surprise, really.
He edges his way to the back door, and kicks it open with a ruined shoe. He looks over at the crater, and despite some lingering smoke, all of the bodies have managed to shamble away, perhaps to do battle elsewhere. There are still some stragglers from the party lurking about: Isonomist and TheBell are giggling and passing back and forth what looks like a shoebox with a length of PVC pipe stuck in the top, while Schrodinger stands over them both with his arms sternly folded. WasLTT is trailing Sawbones around, trying to cadge some free medical advice under the guise of questions about guitar equipment. Sarvis is sitting by himself on a rock, with a keyboard on his lap, chanting "the dwarves are for the dwarves" as he types, whatever the hell that means. An intelligent-looking crow flits down onto a branch and squawks "Nevermore" once, before it flies away again to points unknown.
What the fuck do they expect from me, thinks Geoff as he moves across the yard to the small toolshed. I wasn't the first to get here, and I wasn't the first to leave. Hell, I was just the guy who was dumb enough to answer the phone when it kept ringing. He roots around for the jerry cans in back. I'm just doing the job I've been asked to. It's not my fault I was doing ten other things when they asked. Any one of them would have done things exactly the same way, I'm sure of it, at least either of those two that are sometimes halfway worth reading. Don't they realize I'm doing them a favor? What insignificant morons. No one knows how badly I feel inside about this. He unscrews the lid of the first one, and makes his way back across the now empty lawn.
He moves around the side of the building, pouring. Sure, the structure looks sturdy, he observes, but it's outlived its original purpose, and played out its swan song too. Maybe it could be used for something else, but hey, space is cheap here, and tenants are even cheaper. The circuit takes him under the bathroom window, and out into the driveway again. The last cars appear to be pulling out, and weaving along the country road. Good, he thinks, and rips off a match. When things are going along nicely, he gets in his car and motors along too. The sun hasn't even reached its apex.
If seen from above, the smoke would be observed to stretch out in a cone over the empty landscape, a gray blot stretched out over the old fields and eventually dissipating. But it's not something anyone really notices. No one around can smell it, and the farmers, wherever they are exactly, have all packed it in for the season. The conflagration can't really be said to be observed by the hundred or so partiers either, but it's sensed somewhere behind them, and taken with them forward to their homes--maybe switters' farm is out here somewhere--or maybe to new parties. There's a wedding to look forward to, and looking back, the excursion to Birdland had been a lot of fun after all, and the California thing ended badly, but then this is ending badly too. No, this is worse: it's ending stupidly, but everything does come to a stop eventually, and it's not like no one saw it coming. That this party could keep twitching for a good year after the plug was pulled tells me it was a hell of a run. I'll see many or most of you in other digs, I'm sure, and it won't be the same, but it probably won't be worse. Take it easy. Drive safe.
Ah, there's nothing like a Monday morning hangover!
by SecretAgentMan
03/16/2009, 5:39 PM #
I'll pick up the story where you left off.
The BOTF building is a smoking ruin. Police cars, ambulances, and little white trucks surround the property. Outside the police tape, a crowd of gawkers has gathered. Ender sees the crowd forming, talks his way into a police uniform and goes to meet them.
"Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. Move along." Lowers voice and starts passing out cards. "Here, take this card. It's my new web site..."
A couple of investigative reporters from the Washington Post arrive and start questioning those still inside. The police, ambulances, and little white trucks have been hauling people away since dawn and there are still more than 60 people left inside. Amazing.
The reporters enter the building and look around. There is a strange disconnect between the smoldering remains of the once-illustrious hall and the patrons who are still partying as if nothing has happened. At the first table they come to a man sitting by himself, polishing a machine gun.
Reporter: "Excuse me, sir, did you see what happened here? Can you tell us how it started?"
Predicto: "I sure can. I was just sitting here, minding my own bizness, when this group of illegal Mexican liberals came barging through the door and..."
The reporters move on looking for others to question. They see a wild-eyed little lady talking fast and excitedly. They ask her if she knows what happened.
zinya: "I sure do. We were just having a calm rational discussion when this group of neocon Nazi terrorists came barging through the front door and raped all the women, and some of the men (the cute ones), then they planted these explosives and left, snickering about how they would blame it on the radical left-wingers."
This girl appears to be the cool, calm, collected, voice of reason so the reporters write down every word she says (3 notebooks full) and then continue to question the patrons. Amidst the beehive of activity they spot a sedate looking fellow sitting quitly by himself so they wander over to question him.
Reporter: "Excuse me, sir, can you tell us what happened here?"
Schadenfreude: "Sure. Pot, kettle; mote, beam; that kinda thing"
Reporter: "Excuse me?"
Schadenfreude: "The emporer's new clothes; the boy who cried wolf; chicken little--sky falling; the Department of Truth; looking for Mr. Goodbar. Do you get it...yet?"
Reporter: "...ummm...no, I guess not, but thanks for your time, just the same."
Schadenfreude: "No problem. Glad I could help."
Before the reporters can advance any further they are distracted by a woman who has climbed up on the soapbox in the center of the floor and begun to recite:
Tempo: "There once was a man from Nantucket..." [howls, whistles, and jeers] "...0h shut up, you assholes...just SHUT THE HELL UP...you're just jealous because I'm a REAL poet, like you all wish that you were but aren't...IMHO, of course..." [laughter and more howls, whistles, and jeers] "...unlike you bloviating blowhards, I *have* been everywhere and really *have* done everything...I've been an editor--a REAL one for a BIG magazine--an electrician, a carpenter, a consultant, a realtor, an artist, a deisel mechanic, a doctor, a lawyer, an astronaut, a hooker..."
After a few minutes of arguing with the audience, Tempo resumes her recitation:
"Little Bo Peep has lost her creep
And now must go look for another
But where will she find
In these sad hard times
One who's different, yet just like the other?"
[A mixture of cheers and jeers]
The reporters, mesmerized by this performance, recover their faculties (such as they are) and resume their interogations. They approach a small crowded table near the center of the room and speak to the person nearest to them.
Reporter: "I'm wondering if you can help us...?"
Daveto: "Not likely. I'm a Canadian, eh?"
Reporter: "..ahhh...right. Thanks anyway. Have a nice day."
Daveto: "Sure. Why not?"
In the center of the room, near the soapbox, Tempo has finished her recitation (finally) and catnapping prepares to climb the box and recite. She whispers to the next in line behind her, JackDallas:
"Well, that'll be a hard act to follow, but oh well, the show must go on! hehe"
The two reporters are becoming frustrated but they soldier on and approach a large table, that you can tell at a glance is populated by former star posters of the top echelon, and they address a lady who is obviously the focus of their attention and subject of their admiration.
Reporter: "Can you tell us what happened here and who is responsible for this carnage?"
Gostofa-z: "Well, that depends: was that a sincere question (to which I could assume you want a simple [and possibly truthful] answer), a rhetorical question (to which you already know the answer [or think you do]), a metaphysical question (based upon faulty constructs and untested hypotheses [or unworkable social conventions--I don't know which would be worse, but that's another question]); or a trick question (I don't play those kinds of silly word games, thank you very much)?"
Reporter: "Ummmmm...it's just a question."
Ghostofa-z: "Define 'just a question'."
Reporter: "We'll get back to you. Thanks."
The reporters are becoming desperate. They scan the crowd (all 60 of them--they're all present and show no signs of leaving) looking for someone who looks like they might have useful information and might be inclined to share it. Over against one wall they see a couple of guys huddled together and talking in low voices.
Days: "You realize this was an inside job, don't you?"
Justoffal: "I know it and you know it, but no one else will believe it."
Days: "That's true. People believe what they want to believe and their minds are closed to the truth."
Justoffal: "Exactly."
The reporters glance at each other and frown, but decide to approach them anyway. At least they seem like two who might have been watching and just might tell what they saw.
Reporter: "Excuse me, gentlemen, can you tell me what happened here?"
Days and Justoffal look at each other and frown.
Days: "Why don't you ask that guy over there? [He points to Fritz-Gerlich, sitting at the former-star heavy-hitter table] He's a judge from Alaska, a real smart guy, and I'm sure you'll believe him more than us, anyway."
Justoffal: "Oh Days, don't be so gullible! He's really a beer-swigging truck driver from Alabama who likes to dress up and put on airs!"
Days: "Oooooh...no...I didn't know..."
The reporters give up on them and continue searching. In one corner of the room a fist fight has broken out but no one pays attention and back at the old soapbox it's JackDallas's turn to recite.
JackDallas: "Good evening, friends and felons, my first poem tonight is called 'A Sentimental Look at Torture Chambers of the Past'..."
The reporters come to a group of people standing near the back door and speak to the one who has just finished speaking.
Reporter: "Can you tell us what happened?"
Cicero/Hauteur: "Of course I can. So could anybody. It was that miserable little prick that you call an editor, Geoff, and you are among his cohorts and enablers so you're also responsible, as is your boss, his boss, and everyone else in your unholy alliance of gangsters and thugs that call themselves by the group names: Slate and Washington Post. But if you want the arsonist himself, I'm pretty sure I saw Geoff running away from here with an empty gas can just before dawn. He shouldn't be hard to find. You'll probably find him sitting on a stool in some gay bar bragging about his misdeeds, the arrogant little turd!"
Reporter: "Um, thank you, we'll check it out." The reporters look at each other and frown, and continue their circumnavigation of the remains of the room. Over in a dimly-lit corner tending bar is a non-descript individual who is watching everything and everybody with great interest. They decide to give it a shot.
Reporter: "Excuse us, Sir, could you tell us what happened here?"
EnsleyHill: "I could but I won't. It's not worth the bother. And I've been over it so many times already. I'm tired. Would you like a beer?"
Reporter: "No, thank you."
EnsleyHill: "How about some cheap California wine? It's not too bad, really, once you get past the taste...and the smell."
Reporter: "Maybe later. Thank you."
The reporters decide to make one last try for a one-on-one interrogation. They approach a skinny fellow with a handkerchief tied around his head, strumming a guitar and humming.
Reporter: "I'm really really hoping that you can tell us what happened here over the weekend!"
Appolonius: "I can tell you anything that you want to know. I know everything about everything and I've forgotten more than the two of you will ever know, if indeed, you ever knew anything, which is doubtful. Don't ask me how I know. It only matters that I do know. I am the custodian of all the ancient mysteries and if you two confused airheads had any sense you would have come to me first instead of last. I'm sorry, what was the question again?"
The intrepid Wapo reporters are really annoyed by their lack of progress so they go to the center of the room where JackDallas is wiping his eyes with a white hanky and sniffing as he recites a series of short love poems about carpet bombing, waterboarding, hellfire missiles, and so forth. They push him off the soapbox and one of the reporters climbs onto it and shouts in a booming voice:
"Look, you people, we dont care about the building, and we don't give a rat's ass about the fire, the shootings, the noise, or the sex or the booze or the narcotics or any of that stupid shit! All we want to know is this: Who the fuck pulled the fire alarm and made all of those fucking calls to 9-1-1? It's a simple question! Does anybody know?"
Sixty hands immediately spring into the air and wave frantically as a hubbub ensues with everyone talking at once. The two reporters shake their heads, run out the front door and disappear into the night. They were last seen in Canada, working for the Department of Parks and Recreation for the Province of Ontario.
THE END
Note: BOTF is the only thing in this organization worth reading (with rare exceptions), pretenses to the contrary notwithstanding, and if they wish to shut it down they will injure only themselves. They've injured themselves already by messing with an idea and a vision that worked and had great potential until they took over and undertook so many "improvements" and it has been dying the death of a thousand small cuts ever since. But it was great and has survived (to this point) all attempts to starve and strangle it to death. It's been a slice.
06 March 2006
Hi Dawn.
Subject: Hi Dawn.
From: EnsleyHill
Date: Mar 6 2006 7:14PM
As one of those (possibly even the principal one) who gave you such warnings about Tempo, I'm glad to read that they resulted in some measure of protection for yourself. I sensed at the time that you may be one of those who would be sucked in by her recruiting methods, which is why I took pains to emphasize what would, in all probability, lie ahead and to share what I'd learned of her methods and motives.
I still post with her (as I do everyone) and even enjoy the exchanges at times, but although I'm one of the world's truly great suckers on the first pass, I tend to remember what I've learned. I suspected (and still do) that you shared that first trait and probably also the second.
My main purpose in posting to you now is to tell you that you need not be reluctant about naming me as a source or referencing the comments regarding Tempo that I made in emails to you. Although I respect the privacy of individuals and never pass their personal info and rarely mention my email traffic at all, for the most part, in this case I consider it a public service to provide fair warning to innocent posters who might be blindsided by Tempo, a maniac who devotes too much time to Fray machinizations and sells out principle at the drop of a hat for even the most trivial of personal gains. Her desire to by known as the Fray Diva is nothing short of pathological.
So thanks for regarding private conversations and info as a sacred trust (a view I share) but in this case feel free to reveal and discuss--it has my blessings.
Poor Tempo can't help herself and no amount of argument or discussion will ever change her from being the basically selfish, dishonest user/abuser that she is. Her talk of morals and principles only add insult to injury!
She does everything Jack said in his post on the subject, and he didn't say the half of it. If she could, she would tell everyone on the planet what to say, when and how to say it, which threads to load with responses (mainly hers) and which to abandon as orphans (mainly everyone else's), and her posting pals would need her permission to go potty. I rebuked her sharply for those presumptions from my earliest days on the Fray but it did no good. Only when I slammed her hard on the board did those outrageous attempts at manipulating my postings stop.
Again she can't help herself. It's her psychosis and she won't part with it. Still, I get a kick out of her at times and I suspect that she gets a great deal of latitude on the board simply because she's box-office. Ka-ching, ka-ching, when she's spamming up the board I'm sure many sane and semi-sane posters open a few because they can't help asking themselves, "I wonder what that whacky bitch is up to today!" That's my theory and I'm sticking to it:)
A few words about emailing in general, while I'm in the mood to prattle on: I have never blocked anyone, neither on the Fray nor from my email account. I can understand that some feel the need, but I don't. I like my own policy on this subject and never intend to ammend it. The day I can't handle it is the day I should close both accounts--that's my view.
Although I have email communications with a great many posters (the amount and some of the names included would probably surprise many) I am probably one of the world's laziest emailers. This is a matter to which you yourself could attest. Even among my most favorite posters, email traffic with me are probably less frequent than Papal Bulls (although hopefully more sensible and interesting to read).
As for email ethics, I think most of us can easily distinquish between innocuous comments and personal and/or delicate data and would conduct ourselves accordingly, so that the issue is largely a non-issue to begin with. But some can't and/or won't. Regrettably, Tempo is one of those so challenged in respect to concept recognition and ethics. It's sad and it'll piss her off--again--but it's true. So I urge people to follow my example and deal with each person according to how you find them. When dealing with Tempo: beware:)
Sorry to prattle on but I knew of no way to make it shorter without suffering clarity.
Have fun.
http://fray.slate.com/?id=3936&m=17088587
From: EnsleyHill
Date: Mar 6 2006 7:14PM
As one of those (possibly even the principal one) who gave you such warnings about Tempo, I'm glad to read that they resulted in some measure of protection for yourself. I sensed at the time that you may be one of those who would be sucked in by her recruiting methods, which is why I took pains to emphasize what would, in all probability, lie ahead and to share what I'd learned of her methods and motives.
I still post with her (as I do everyone) and even enjoy the exchanges at times, but although I'm one of the world's truly great suckers on the first pass, I tend to remember what I've learned. I suspected (and still do) that you shared that first trait and probably also the second.
My main purpose in posting to you now is to tell you that you need not be reluctant about naming me as a source or referencing the comments regarding Tempo that I made in emails to you. Although I respect the privacy of individuals and never pass their personal info and rarely mention my email traffic at all, for the most part, in this case I consider it a public service to provide fair warning to innocent posters who might be blindsided by Tempo, a maniac who devotes too much time to Fray machinizations and sells out principle at the drop of a hat for even the most trivial of personal gains. Her desire to by known as the Fray Diva is nothing short of pathological.
So thanks for regarding private conversations and info as a sacred trust (a view I share) but in this case feel free to reveal and discuss--it has my blessings.
Poor Tempo can't help herself and no amount of argument or discussion will ever change her from being the basically selfish, dishonest user/abuser that she is. Her talk of morals and principles only add insult to injury!
She does everything Jack said in his post on the subject, and he didn't say the half of it. If she could, she would tell everyone on the planet what to say, when and how to say it, which threads to load with responses (mainly hers) and which to abandon as orphans (mainly everyone else's), and her posting pals would need her permission to go potty. I rebuked her sharply for those presumptions from my earliest days on the Fray but it did no good. Only when I slammed her hard on the board did those outrageous attempts at manipulating my postings stop.
Again she can't help herself. It's her psychosis and she won't part with it. Still, I get a kick out of her at times and I suspect that she gets a great deal of latitude on the board simply because she's box-office. Ka-ching, ka-ching, when she's spamming up the board I'm sure many sane and semi-sane posters open a few because they can't help asking themselves, "I wonder what that whacky bitch is up to today!" That's my theory and I'm sticking to it:)
A few words about emailing in general, while I'm in the mood to prattle on: I have never blocked anyone, neither on the Fray nor from my email account. I can understand that some feel the need, but I don't. I like my own policy on this subject and never intend to ammend it. The day I can't handle it is the day I should close both accounts--that's my view.
Although I have email communications with a great many posters (the amount and some of the names included would probably surprise many) I am probably one of the world's laziest emailers. This is a matter to which you yourself could attest. Even among my most favorite posters, email traffic with me are probably less frequent than Papal Bulls (although hopefully more sensible and interesting to read).
As for email ethics, I think most of us can easily distinquish between innocuous comments and personal and/or delicate data and would conduct ourselves accordingly, so that the issue is largely a non-issue to begin with. But some can't and/or won't. Regrettably, Tempo is one of those so challenged in respect to concept recognition and ethics. It's sad and it'll piss her off--again--but it's true. So I urge people to follow my example and deal with each person according to how you find them. When dealing with Tempo: beware:)
Sorry to prattle on but I knew of no way to make it shorter without suffering clarity.
Have fun.
http://fray.slate.com/?id=3936&m=17088587
26 January 2006
Requiem For A Lightweight.
Subject: Requiem For A Lightweight.
From: Anomalon
Date: Jan 26 2006 2:02PM
Somewhere In The Middle
Today is the day. It always is on fight night. The challenger walks briskly towards the ring. His name is Squim. No one quite remembers how he came to get stuck with that moniker but it had a gimmicky ring to it so his coach and manager played it up.
He's not very big, you might even call him short. But he has desire, and focus and intensity. He's got a little box of matches and an aching desire to set the world on fire. His coach had told him, "You ain't got the size or the power but you've got a lot of heart. Let's see how far it takes you."
This bout is little noted by the boxing world and is expected to be a warm-up exercise for Squim's opponent. To Squim it's the biggest fight that ever was. He is here to walk among the giants. To slay the giants. To be the giant.
Squim was born and raised on the tough streets of a heatless town in a soulless country of this brutal world, but he's not looking for sympathy or excuses, he wants victory. He wants it. He needs it. He can taste it.
Suddenly he runs a few steps, bounces into the ring and does that curious little boxer's dance to the center of the ring where he delivers a blinding flurry of punches at the air in front of him.
"You ain't half the man I am!" he screams. He stops and looks around. Every eye in the building is on him now. They watch quietly, questioningly, expectantly.
Squim's eyes roam until they rests upon his opponent, who is watching him, now sneering at him, as he makes his way with cocky and irritating slowness towards the ring. Squim stares at him as he walks towards the edge of the canvas.
"Come and get it, asshole!" he thinks savagely. "Your dinner's ready, bitch!"
A tall and bent old man with a cane is standing near the ring. He's always there, he never misses a fight in this arena.
"You're a bum!" he yells up at Squim. "*I* could take you!"
Squim mouthes an obscenity down at the old man, who mouthes one back.
Squim rolls his head around, back and forth, and up and down, to keep the neck muscles loose. He walks towards his corner and again scans the crowd. All eyes are on him. That is as it should be. They are wondering, no doubt. Squim will explain things with his fists very soon.
He reaches his corner and lowers his head, with his eyes closed.
"They love me. Fucking right they love me."
http://fray.slate.com/?id=3936&m=16738063
From: Anomalon
Date: Jan 26 2006 2:02PM
Somewhere In The Middle
Today is the day. It always is on fight night. The challenger walks briskly towards the ring. His name is Squim. No one quite remembers how he came to get stuck with that moniker but it had a gimmicky ring to it so his coach and manager played it up.
He's not very big, you might even call him short. But he has desire, and focus and intensity. He's got a little box of matches and an aching desire to set the world on fire. His coach had told him, "You ain't got the size or the power but you've got a lot of heart. Let's see how far it takes you."
This bout is little noted by the boxing world and is expected to be a warm-up exercise for Squim's opponent. To Squim it's the biggest fight that ever was. He is here to walk among the giants. To slay the giants. To be the giant.
Squim was born and raised on the tough streets of a heatless town in a soulless country of this brutal world, but he's not looking for sympathy or excuses, he wants victory. He wants it. He needs it. He can taste it.
Suddenly he runs a few steps, bounces into the ring and does that curious little boxer's dance to the center of the ring where he delivers a blinding flurry of punches at the air in front of him.
"You ain't half the man I am!" he screams. He stops and looks around. Every eye in the building is on him now. They watch quietly, questioningly, expectantly.
Squim's eyes roam until they rests upon his opponent, who is watching him, now sneering at him, as he makes his way with cocky and irritating slowness towards the ring. Squim stares at him as he walks towards the edge of the canvas.
"Come and get it, asshole!" he thinks savagely. "Your dinner's ready, bitch!"
A tall and bent old man with a cane is standing near the ring. He's always there, he never misses a fight in this arena.
"You're a bum!" he yells up at Squim. "*I* could take you!"
Squim mouthes an obscenity down at the old man, who mouthes one back.
Squim rolls his head around, back and forth, and up and down, to keep the neck muscles loose. He walks towards his corner and again scans the crowd. All eyes are on him. That is as it should be. They are wondering, no doubt. Squim will explain things with his fists very soon.
He reaches his corner and lowers his head, with his eyes closed.
"They love me. Fucking right they love me."
http://fray.slate.com/?id=3936&m=16738063
06 June 2005
I would never piss on a Koran
Subject: I would never piss on a Koran
From: IdesOfMarch
Date: Jun 6 2005 8:45AM
because it isn't worth the effort and would be a waste of good water. Besides, they burn better when they're dry.
It's always interesting, in a twisted perverse kind of way, to read the great outpouring of ersatz concern and compassion from the hypocritical liberal 5th Column upon such topics, demanding respect and careful treatment of the world's most violent and intolerant religion, and its various icons and criminals.
And those prisoners at Gitmo--those picked up among the Taliban and al-Qaeda in Afghanistan--why they surely must be the very salt of the earth, right? No wonder there is such "concern" for their fair treatment and well being! And they just happen to be followers of Islam, don't they? Just a coincidence, is it?
Ignorance, hypocrisy, and treason--these seem to be the hallmarks of liberalism. I wish I had a dollar for each of the posts of the liberal flakes on the Fray who wrote that the casuality figures from Iraq proved that "they" were right and "we" were wrong!
They are siding with the people--mostly Islamic foreignors--who are bushwacking and killing U.S. and Iraqi soldiers and police, as well as private Iraqi citizens, foreign contractors, tourists, aid workers, etc, even as they, and their handlers and supporters, make it clear that they will allow no tolerance for other religions, hate democracy and freedom, and wish to impose the same brand of Islamic tyranny that is ruining so many other countries that it has infested!
Then they go a step further and denounce Bush for being willing to do something to stem the tide of tyranny and threats in the Mid-East and condemn the coalition for attempting--with some success to this point--to give Iraq a fighting chance to establish itself as a civilized country and help fight off its attackers.
Only brain-dead liberal airheads could arrive at the conclusion that casualty figures prove one thing when they clearly prove the opposite. If anything, the coalition--which means the U.S. with a tiny handful of token support--is not doing enough, and should be involved in other countries, like Sudan, and to hell with the griping of murderers, rapists, and hypocrites and their Western 5th Column supporters.
I just read an article [sympaticomsn.ctv.ca] that says that the ICC is investigating charges against some 51 individuals in Sudan. Oh yeah, that's what we need in Sudan--more study! And then when the Islamic gov has wiped out the Sudanese population maybe they can study it some more.
Every one knows that the Islamic "government" of Sudan is currently engaged in the systematic killing, raping, and selling into slavery, of African Sudanese people. But hey, they're Muslims, so maybe they have a reason, right?--maybe some kid accidentally stuck a wad of chewing gum on somebody's copy of the Koran! Well, we don't know for sure, but I guess one pretext is as good as another when murder, rape, and territorial theft is your real mission.
Remember Nigeria? Mullahs ordered their faithful members to rush out in the streets and start killing people, obstensibly because some Muslim reporter had said that Mohammed might have liked the scantilly-clad beauties of a particular pageant. Wasn't that a great reason to butcher non-Muslim strangers at random? Oh dear God, no, surely the Holy Pervert wouldn't have liked pretty women and would have been proud of the campaign of murder that followed.
Let's just get off this silly shit, shall we, and call things as they are. We should respect those who respect others, and that does not include tyrants and terrorists, nor the barbarian sycophants of the world's most perverse religion.
And then there's Israel. The present mission in Iraq also involves Israel, of course. Israel is the only legitimate democracy in the region, with infinitely higher standards of civilization than its neighbors, so of course the hypocritical liberal 5th Column is very much opposed to them. Mind you, they are not opposed to the foreign Islamic organizations that are bleeding the Palestinians white and destroying their lives and future hopes for their own nefarious purposes. Oh no, it is liberal policy to honor and support the most wretched and disgusting abusers, while denigrating the defenders.
And the only thing worse than a regular anti-Semite is a Jewish anti-Semite! Naturally, these too are found among the liberal 5th Column.
Securing Iraq's national integrity and not allowing nukes among the rougue states of the Mid-East is necessary both for the protection of Israel and the advance of civilization, thus we must continue to oppose tyranny and hunt down and eliminate terrorists, until terrorism and tyranny stop, however long it takes, whatever it takes.
In today's world, no nation can truly isolate itself from world events. The fools who think otherwise (mostly liberals, naturally) are very much out of touch with reality. Our own protection, and the future of humanity, compels us to maintain the fight, and maintain vigilance all over the world. We have no legitimate body nor practical means for doing that at the present, but we should be doing it.
Of course, if your real mission on the Fray is to get Fraywatch mentions and that type of thing, you'll have to tell Dumb Ass what Dumb Ass wants to hear. That's understood. The real marvel is that the liberal 5th Column (most of them at least) appear to really believe the garbage they write and have adopted a curious brand of Newspeak that makes the definitions of "traitor" and "good guy" interchangable. As one writer put it, "The same people who bite the hand that feeds them also lick the boot that kicks them."
http://fray.slate.msn.com/?id=3936&m=14795068
From: IdesOfMarch
Date: Jun 6 2005 8:45AM
because it isn't worth the effort and would be a waste of good water. Besides, they burn better when they're dry.
It's always interesting, in a twisted perverse kind of way, to read the great outpouring of ersatz concern and compassion from the hypocritical liberal 5th Column upon such topics, demanding respect and careful treatment of the world's most violent and intolerant religion, and its various icons and criminals.
And those prisoners at Gitmo--those picked up among the Taliban and al-Qaeda in Afghanistan--why they surely must be the very salt of the earth, right? No wonder there is such "concern" for their fair treatment and well being! And they just happen to be followers of Islam, don't they? Just a coincidence, is it?
Ignorance, hypocrisy, and treason--these seem to be the hallmarks of liberalism. I wish I had a dollar for each of the posts of the liberal flakes on the Fray who wrote that the casuality figures from Iraq proved that "they" were right and "we" were wrong!
They are siding with the people--mostly Islamic foreignors--who are bushwacking and killing U.S. and Iraqi soldiers and police, as well as private Iraqi citizens, foreign contractors, tourists, aid workers, etc, even as they, and their handlers and supporters, make it clear that they will allow no tolerance for other religions, hate democracy and freedom, and wish to impose the same brand of Islamic tyranny that is ruining so many other countries that it has infested!
Then they go a step further and denounce Bush for being willing to do something to stem the tide of tyranny and threats in the Mid-East and condemn the coalition for attempting--with some success to this point--to give Iraq a fighting chance to establish itself as a civilized country and help fight off its attackers.
Only brain-dead liberal airheads could arrive at the conclusion that casualty figures prove one thing when they clearly prove the opposite. If anything, the coalition--which means the U.S. with a tiny handful of token support--is not doing enough, and should be involved in other countries, like Sudan, and to hell with the griping of murderers, rapists, and hypocrites and their Western 5th Column supporters.
I just read an article [sympaticomsn.ctv.ca] that says that the ICC is investigating charges against some 51 individuals in Sudan. Oh yeah, that's what we need in Sudan--more study! And then when the Islamic gov has wiped out the Sudanese population maybe they can study it some more.
Every one knows that the Islamic "government" of Sudan is currently engaged in the systematic killing, raping, and selling into slavery, of African Sudanese people. But hey, they're Muslims, so maybe they have a reason, right?--maybe some kid accidentally stuck a wad of chewing gum on somebody's copy of the Koran! Well, we don't know for sure, but I guess one pretext is as good as another when murder, rape, and territorial theft is your real mission.
Remember Nigeria? Mullahs ordered their faithful members to rush out in the streets and start killing people, obstensibly because some Muslim reporter had said that Mohammed might have liked the scantilly-clad beauties of a particular pageant. Wasn't that a great reason to butcher non-Muslim strangers at random? Oh dear God, no, surely the Holy Pervert wouldn't have liked pretty women and would have been proud of the campaign of murder that followed.
Let's just get off this silly shit, shall we, and call things as they are. We should respect those who respect others, and that does not include tyrants and terrorists, nor the barbarian sycophants of the world's most perverse religion.
And then there's Israel. The present mission in Iraq also involves Israel, of course. Israel is the only legitimate democracy in the region, with infinitely higher standards of civilization than its neighbors, so of course the hypocritical liberal 5th Column is very much opposed to them. Mind you, they are not opposed to the foreign Islamic organizations that are bleeding the Palestinians white and destroying their lives and future hopes for their own nefarious purposes. Oh no, it is liberal policy to honor and support the most wretched and disgusting abusers, while denigrating the defenders.
And the only thing worse than a regular anti-Semite is a Jewish anti-Semite! Naturally, these too are found among the liberal 5th Column.
Securing Iraq's national integrity and not allowing nukes among the rougue states of the Mid-East is necessary both for the protection of Israel and the advance of civilization, thus we must continue to oppose tyranny and hunt down and eliminate terrorists, until terrorism and tyranny stop, however long it takes, whatever it takes.
In today's world, no nation can truly isolate itself from world events. The fools who think otherwise (mostly liberals, naturally) are very much out of touch with reality. Our own protection, and the future of humanity, compels us to maintain the fight, and maintain vigilance all over the world. We have no legitimate body nor practical means for doing that at the present, but we should be doing it.
Of course, if your real mission on the Fray is to get Fraywatch mentions and that type of thing, you'll have to tell Dumb Ass what Dumb Ass wants to hear. That's understood. The real marvel is that the liberal 5th Column (most of them at least) appear to really believe the garbage they write and have adopted a curious brand of Newspeak that makes the definitions of "traitor" and "good guy" interchangable. As one writer put it, "The same people who bite the hand that feeds them also lick the boot that kicks them."
http://fray.slate.msn.com/?id=3936&m=14795068
23 February 2005
Rewriting The Hits
Subject: Rewriting The Hits
From: IdesOfMarch
Date: Feb 23 2005 4:57PM
Desitnranta
Go placidly amid the Stormy Poets,
and remember what peace there may be in Amber.
As far as possible without regurgitating
be on good terms with all posters.
Write your absurdities quietly and clearly;
and read the others,
even Katip and Fritz Gerlich;
they too have their fantasies.
Avoid loud and aggressive liberal wingnuts,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with neocons,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always most are greater and few are lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your checkmarks even though you don't derserve them.
Abandon your professional duties, however urgent;
it is a lot more fun to be posting your crap on the Fray.
Exercise caution in posting your pictures;
for the world is full of psychotic stalkers.
But let this not blind you to what pleasure there is;
many persons strive for lower standards;
and everywhere life is full of whoredom.
Be anybody but yourself.
Be The Bell or someone who can actually write.
Neither give any thought to love;
for in the face of all such sappy sentiments
it is more popular to write as s gras.
Take kindly the counsel of Itrati,
gracefully surrendering the joys of youth.
Nurture throngs of sycophants to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with important issues.
Many diatribes are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome bohemianism,
be gentle with twiffer and Geoff.
You are a child of the internet,
no less than the banned and the stars;
you have a right to be queer.
And though little or nothing seems clear to you,
no doubt you have waaayyy too much time on your hands.
Therefore be at peace with locdog,
whatever Kevin may conceive Him to be,
and whatever JV-12 or Bluto may counsel,
in the noisy confusion of Tempo keep peace with Slendid_IREny.
With all its Darknight, Skeptical, and FreedomLost,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be zinya.
Strive to be silly.
http://fray.slate.msn.com/?id=3936&m=13938524
From: IdesOfMarch
Date: Feb 23 2005 4:57PM
Desitnranta
Go placidly amid the Stormy Poets,
and remember what peace there may be in Amber.
As far as possible without regurgitating
be on good terms with all posters.
Write your absurdities quietly and clearly;
and read the others,
even Katip and Fritz Gerlich;
they too have their fantasies.
Avoid loud and aggressive liberal wingnuts,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with neocons,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always most are greater and few are lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your checkmarks even though you don't derserve them.
Abandon your professional duties, however urgent;
it is a lot more fun to be posting your crap on the Fray.
Exercise caution in posting your pictures;
for the world is full of psychotic stalkers.
But let this not blind you to what pleasure there is;
many persons strive for lower standards;
and everywhere life is full of whoredom.
Be anybody but yourself.
Be The Bell or someone who can actually write.
Neither give any thought to love;
for in the face of all such sappy sentiments
it is more popular to write as s gras.
Take kindly the counsel of Itrati,
gracefully surrendering the joys of youth.
Nurture throngs of sycophants to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with important issues.
Many diatribes are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome bohemianism,
be gentle with twiffer and Geoff.
You are a child of the internet,
no less than the banned and the stars;
you have a right to be queer.
And though little or nothing seems clear to you,
no doubt you have waaayyy too much time on your hands.
Therefore be at peace with locdog,
whatever Kevin may conceive Him to be,
and whatever JV-12 or Bluto may counsel,
in the noisy confusion of Tempo keep peace with Slendid_IREny.
With all its Darknight, Skeptical, and FreedomLost,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be zinya.
Strive to be silly.
http://fray.slate.msn.com/?id=3936&m=13938524
31 December 2004
I'll Be Blunt...
The day Kevin banned me, EnsleyHill (I think he was posting as IdesofMarch at the time) asked Kevin why he'd banned Catnapping. Kevin responded:
14 December 2004
Twas the Fray before Christmas...
Click on this image to enlarge, or scroll down to the text below.
Subject: 'Twas The Fray Before Christmas
From: EnsleyHill
Date: Dec 14 2004 11:11AM
'Twas The Fray Before Christmas
The Fray is having a Christmas party and I just love parties so I have invited myself and am preparing to go. On the Fray you can be whatever you want to be, from Jesus Christ to Joe Shmuck, and with a little skill with the search engine you can believably pose as a genius or a philosophizing hayseed, so I'm donning my cyber-tux, the only kind I can afford, and have called for the limo.
"That's fine, Smedley, I can open the door myself, thank you very much."
As we pull up to the 2-story brick building that is the Fray a gentle snow is falling. I alight from the limo, remove a glove and elegantly wave off the hired help, slip on a piece of ice, and land on my ass. A Hollywood entrance if I ever saw one. I brush myself off, recover a few loose shreds of dignity and enter the BOTF grand ballroom--party central.
Entering the vestibule, I give my coat and hat to the hat check girl, Amber, who is urging everyone to check in ALL of their clothing, but with very limited success. Even the liberals here are a little conservative.
"Hey Ens!" yells M.A. as he waves from the service table, where he is busy doctoring the punchbowl. I wave back and marvel yet again that he and Clinton hail from the same state.
As I saunter forth I encounter Geoff, who is already a little tipsy and carrying a full bottle of Jack Daniels. Uh-oh!
"Fuck'em," he sputters. "Fuck'em all!"
He grabs my shoulder for support, points a finger at me and says "Fuck you too!" before staggering off. I have a feeling this will be a night to remember.
Schad watches all this with interest and, for the moment at least, keeps his own expletives to himself.
Across the long hall, JMB, Rat, Appolonius, and a couple of others I'm not familiar with, are warming up on the stage with one of the Fray's standards:
"The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…"
On the small podium in the center of the floor, Ender is pontificating upon the dynamics of the Fraycentric universe. The multitude listens silently and raptly, except for Geoff, who between sips of JD, can still manage to correct some mathematical flaws in his theories.
The place already appears packed but more are still coming. In walks Denny, with a coat he borrowed from James Dean, and a voice that came from you and me…and Robert Frost. On his arm, GG is decked out as a spritely Southern Belle.
Soon chango and his entourage stroll in and regally work the room. He even has Paris Hilton on his arm; talk about coals to Newcastle! Soon chango and his gang…er…entourage…annouce that they have places to see and people to do, and abruptly leave as their laughter echoes behind them.
Meanwhile Twiffer has stationed himself at the hat check counter where he can flirt with Amber and make faces at everyone entering the ballroom. Tempo rewards his efforts with a swift kick to the groin, tugs on the leash, and heads towards the podium with Robes in tow.
Ender has relinquished the podium, having concluded that this mob isn't worthy of enlightenment, and Jack Dallas is now reading his latest poem:
"There once was a man from Nantucket…"
As he finishes there is a polite ripple of applause and loud boos and handfuls of popcorn from Ted Burke and some of his friends.
At one of the tables butterscotch is tearing a strip out of doggydevil who holds up his hands and pleads, "Will you lighten up, butters! You're taking this WAY too seriously!"
Locdog is there, wearing a "Jesus Saves!" T-shift and the jacket of a navel aviator. He and his friends are passing out tracts and offering to pray for everyone, except Fritz-Gerlich who has been pronounced an irredeemable reprobate. Fritz follows locdog and his group, chuckling at their efforts and pronouncements. He is already heavily marked up with bites but he keeps coming back for more.
Tempo now mounts the podium and delivers her latest poem:
"There once was a man from Nantucket…"
Thi-i-inc listens attentively as a dozen or so of his clones furiously take notes. Jack Dallas, Ted Burke, and a motley throng from Poetry applaud loudly as she finishes. Tempo beems triumphantly and announces that if it isn't prominently featured in the next Fraywatch article she will send poison-pen emails to every computer on Earth!
At a large table in a corner TQM is telling the Canadian contigent that they are representing their noble country at this event and should behave themselves accordingly. DrNo says yes, Juno concurs, Deej, ghost, and others nod agreement and harmony prevails at the Canuck table.
Except for daveto. He wanders from group to group, listening to the entire debate being offered, then snuffs "Dork!" and moves on to the next. He isn't very congenial or talkative tonight, but he takes it all in.
Hawk and Hawkeye are arguing about who really owns the name and how did the other have the brazen gall to even show up, and so forth. Elephant Gun has placed himself at the European table, where Moira Redmond and some folks from the Guardian are holding their audience spellbound. At a table nearby, J.D. Connor and some friends from Hawvawd have their own little discussion going. These are bright lads and I suspect they will learn to speak English in no time.
As I pass one of the halls leading off the ballroom, I come upon a group discussing architechural matters. The usual arguments about form vs function and some other stuff so far over my head that I don't even speak the language. But I did catch a glimpse of Qui-Tam so it wasn't a total waste.
Throughout all the hubbub, the band is really cooking and some Fraysters are starting to dance. Even Skeptical, in his "GOP Saves!" T-shirt has hit the dance floor to trip the light fantastic, as he dances on the toes of biteoftheweek. Even ThomasD is on the dancefloor, alternating between Splendid-IREny, seasquirt, and zinya as his dancing partners. Music supercedes even religion and politics. Ghazzan has attracted a throng of die-hard liberals which forces them to move to a larger table.
At the rear, near the big picture window, stand Kevin Arno and Adam Christian, dreamily gazing out at the snow and pretending not to see NoStar, who is pounding on the bullet proof glass, demanding to be let in. Geoff wobbles towards them and slurs:
"Oh let'im in, fer fuck sake! I'll smack'im upside the head with this bottle!" which is now empty.
I decide to check back on this story later and go to the Fray Shrine of Fallen Posters. Of course the late lamented Bob (REW-OEM) has a massive monument in this alcove, right in the front. Some of the others I don't think are really gone but are missed nevertheless. Loran, pollymath, GimmeCoffee, Marti, Rachel (the west coast law student), Bluto, mofoBenson, and countless others are featured here. A large banner over the front of the shrineroom says "Sacred To The Memory Of Those Who Have Left Us."
Well now it's late and almost everyone has passed out or getting there. The band winds up with the Fray Anthem:
"How I wish
How I wish you were here
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fishbowl
Year after year
Going over the same old ground
What have we found
Same old fears
Wish you were here."
Apart from the band, only myself and Geoff are still on our feet, and he just barely. He heads to the door, stops and makes a little bow and says:
"Merry Christmas to all, and good fuckin' night!"
He then departs into the driving snow, wearing a heavy parka that he swiped from Fritz, when that luminary had passed out.
I step outside and find that my limo is now a Volkswagen Passat with several large dents and a few spots of rust.
"Home, Smedley, and don't spare the horses!"
I turn away from the mirror so that he won't see me wipe a tear from my eye.
Sorry for those who were missed.
Merry Christmas to all.
Subject: 'Twas The Fray Before Christmas
From: EnsleyHill
Date: Dec 14 2004 11:11AM
'Twas The Fray Before Christmas
The Fray is having a Christmas party and I just love parties so I have invited myself and am preparing to go. On the Fray you can be whatever you want to be, from Jesus Christ to Joe Shmuck, and with a little skill with the search engine you can believably pose as a genius or a philosophizing hayseed, so I'm donning my cyber-tux, the only kind I can afford, and have called for the limo.
"That's fine, Smedley, I can open the door myself, thank you very much."
As we pull up to the 2-story brick building that is the Fray a gentle snow is falling. I alight from the limo, remove a glove and elegantly wave off the hired help, slip on a piece of ice, and land on my ass. A Hollywood entrance if I ever saw one. I brush myself off, recover a few loose shreds of dignity and enter the BOTF grand ballroom--party central.
Entering the vestibule, I give my coat and hat to the hat check girl, Amber, who is urging everyone to check in ALL of their clothing, but with very limited success. Even the liberals here are a little conservative.
"Hey Ens!" yells M.A. as he waves from the service table, where he is busy doctoring the punchbowl. I wave back and marvel yet again that he and Clinton hail from the same state.
As I saunter forth I encounter Geoff, who is already a little tipsy and carrying a full bottle of Jack Daniels. Uh-oh!
"Fuck'em," he sputters. "Fuck'em all!"
He grabs my shoulder for support, points a finger at me and says "Fuck you too!" before staggering off. I have a feeling this will be a night to remember.
Schad watches all this with interest and, for the moment at least, keeps his own expletives to himself.
Across the long hall, JMB, Rat, Appolonius, and a couple of others I'm not familiar with, are warming up on the stage with one of the Fray's standards:
"The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…"
On the small podium in the center of the floor, Ender is pontificating upon the dynamics of the Fraycentric universe. The multitude listens silently and raptly, except for Geoff, who between sips of JD, can still manage to correct some mathematical flaws in his theories.
The place already appears packed but more are still coming. In walks Denny, with a coat he borrowed from James Dean, and a voice that came from you and me…and Robert Frost. On his arm, GG is decked out as a spritely Southern Belle.
Soon chango and his entourage stroll in and regally work the room. He even has Paris Hilton on his arm; talk about coals to Newcastle! Soon chango and his gang…er…entourage…annouce that they have places to see and people to do, and abruptly leave as their laughter echoes behind them.
Meanwhile Twiffer has stationed himself at the hat check counter where he can flirt with Amber and make faces at everyone entering the ballroom. Tempo rewards his efforts with a swift kick to the groin, tugs on the leash, and heads towards the podium with Robes in tow.
Ender has relinquished the podium, having concluded that this mob isn't worthy of enlightenment, and Jack Dallas is now reading his latest poem:
"There once was a man from Nantucket…"
As he finishes there is a polite ripple of applause and loud boos and handfuls of popcorn from Ted Burke and some of his friends.
At one of the tables butterscotch is tearing a strip out of doggydevil who holds up his hands and pleads, "Will you lighten up, butters! You're taking this WAY too seriously!"
Locdog is there, wearing a "Jesus Saves!" T-shift and the jacket of a navel aviator. He and his friends are passing out tracts and offering to pray for everyone, except Fritz-Gerlich who has been pronounced an irredeemable reprobate. Fritz follows locdog and his group, chuckling at their efforts and pronouncements. He is already heavily marked up with bites but he keeps coming back for more.
Tempo now mounts the podium and delivers her latest poem:
"There once was a man from Nantucket…"
Thi-i-inc listens attentively as a dozen or so of his clones furiously take notes. Jack Dallas, Ted Burke, and a motley throng from Poetry applaud loudly as she finishes. Tempo beems triumphantly and announces that if it isn't prominently featured in the next Fraywatch article she will send poison-pen emails to every computer on Earth!
At a large table in a corner TQM is telling the Canadian contigent that they are representing their noble country at this event and should behave themselves accordingly. DrNo says yes, Juno concurs, Deej, ghost, and others nod agreement and harmony prevails at the Canuck table.
Except for daveto. He wanders from group to group, listening to the entire debate being offered, then snuffs "Dork!" and moves on to the next. He isn't very congenial or talkative tonight, but he takes it all in.
Hawk and Hawkeye are arguing about who really owns the name and how did the other have the brazen gall to even show up, and so forth. Elephant Gun has placed himself at the European table, where Moira Redmond and some folks from the Guardian are holding their audience spellbound. At a table nearby, J.D. Connor and some friends from Hawvawd have their own little discussion going. These are bright lads and I suspect they will learn to speak English in no time.
As I pass one of the halls leading off the ballroom, I come upon a group discussing architechural matters. The usual arguments about form vs function and some other stuff so far over my head that I don't even speak the language. But I did catch a glimpse of Qui-Tam so it wasn't a total waste.
Throughout all the hubbub, the band is really cooking and some Fraysters are starting to dance. Even Skeptical, in his "GOP Saves!" T-shirt has hit the dance floor to trip the light fantastic, as he dances on the toes of biteoftheweek. Even ThomasD is on the dancefloor, alternating between Splendid-IREny, seasquirt, and zinya as his dancing partners. Music supercedes even religion and politics. Ghazzan has attracted a throng of die-hard liberals which forces them to move to a larger table.
At the rear, near the big picture window, stand Kevin Arno and Adam Christian, dreamily gazing out at the snow and pretending not to see NoStar, who is pounding on the bullet proof glass, demanding to be let in. Geoff wobbles towards them and slurs:
"Oh let'im in, fer fuck sake! I'll smack'im upside the head with this bottle!" which is now empty.
I decide to check back on this story later and go to the Fray Shrine of Fallen Posters. Of course the late lamented Bob (REW-OEM) has a massive monument in this alcove, right in the front. Some of the others I don't think are really gone but are missed nevertheless. Loran, pollymath, GimmeCoffee, Marti, Rachel (the west coast law student), Bluto, mofoBenson, and countless others are featured here. A large banner over the front of the shrineroom says "Sacred To The Memory Of Those Who Have Left Us."
Well now it's late and almost everyone has passed out or getting there. The band winds up with the Fray Anthem:
"How I wish
How I wish you were here
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fishbowl
Year after year
Going over the same old ground
What have we found
Same old fears
Wish you were here."
Apart from the band, only myself and Geoff are still on our feet, and he just barely. He heads to the door, stops and makes a little bow and says:
"Merry Christmas to all, and good fuckin' night!"
He then departs into the driving snow, wearing a heavy parka that he swiped from Fritz, when that luminary had passed out.
I step outside and find that my limo is now a Volkswagen Passat with several large dents and a few spots of rust.
"Home, Smedley, and don't spare the horses!"
I turn away from the mirror so that he won't see me wipe a tear from my eye.
Sorry for those who were missed.
Merry Christmas to all.
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