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.
Showing posts with label keifus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label keifus. Show all posts
16 March 2009
17 October 2008
Fray Bash - A Pilgrim's Progress
Fray Bash - A Pilgrim's Progress
by Keifus
10/17/2008, 7:48 AM #
There's nothing like a song around the nighttime campfire to attune a person to the sense of earthly friendships and even higher powers. Everyone held hands as Sawbones picked out the first couple chords of Kumbaya and sparks drifted peacefully up into the sky. And when Appolonius flicked on the amp, the crowd swayed gently for all ten minutes of his solo, and distortion echoed through the fields below, drowning out the crickets for a time. Faces dance and blur in the flickering firelight, and shadows loom over everyone's backs. Facing inward there's a deep sense of unity and purpose to the gathering, but the moment can't go on forever, and when the song ends, the huge group breaks back up and spreads out into the night to seek their own answers, or back into the building to grab some more food and drink.
As the night air fills back up with noises and illegal aromas, some even seek to continue that sense of peace and togetherness, and the men and women with higher convictions hope to nab some converts while the spirit is still strong. A few pilgrims tread between the groups of the faithful, exploring their diversity of messages, and we follow one man tonight on such a quest. Like many of us, he may be young or old, we may know him or we may not, and as usual, it's hard identify him for sure, but this evening he is our Everyman, our Christian. He is a reasonable man. Will he find his way?
There are a few people who want to keep the sense of sacred fellowship alive right there by the fireside. Bright Virago soberly announces a prayer meeting for anyone who's interested, and half a dozen partiers choose to linger. A reasonable man is not offended by the idea, and given the company, he hopes for an interesting discussion. He even offers up the first conversation starter.
"So how do Christian ideals bear out at a shindig like this? We seem to have a lot of connection here, but not a lot of explicit Christian practice." He gestures at a basket of paraphernalia sitting on top of a bongo drum. "I feel filled with some manner of spirit, but I'm not sure if it's that Holy Spirit that I always hear about... Does it all work out?"
Demosthenes2 raises his hand. "Well, according to Paul's letter to the Romans, faith is the source of good acts, but, as I've argued, the converse must also be implied in that. Good acts are by their nature a manifestation of faith, even if it's of an unknowing sort. For good deeds, faith is implicit; it's part of the human experience. This is actually confirmed in official Catholic doctrine, that essentially says that holy acts evolve from the essential spirit, and that salvation can be found even without specific knowledge of Christ."
JV-12 interjects. "Your rational view is completely illogical. Paul's conversion was miraculous, and that's what's important. I'm sorry if you can't see the signs. Jesus is going to burn the evil rationalizers, and elevate his truest servants who figure out for themselves what to believe."
Daysman says, "I can see the signs!"
Revrick: "...and that's exactly why abortion is such a conflicting issue. Permitting it is an Antichristian act, but then so is refusing it. It removes the will to act from an individual, which is why the theology around reproduction is so divisive."
Ducadmo: "Actually, it's multiplicative. Times and times again, the squares keep rooting and the population grows quadradically. It's a power law. Ahem. 'All the people on the earth do dwell....'"
JV: "That wine! It was water a minute ago, I'm sure of it!"
"'Him serve with fear...'"
D2: "Uh, in a wine bottle?"
Days: "God knows who reads the signs! Praise Jesus!"
"'and for us His sheep He doth us take...'"
JV: "Praise God!"
Firstphonelicense: "My cat's breath smells like cat food."
Bright is sitting on a lawn chair, holding her face in her hands.
"'And shall from age to age endure...'"
A reasonable man wants to help her out, but even more reasonably, he just wants to get the hell away. So to speak.
Probably going inside would have been wise at this point, but just beyond the fire, over the ridge, there is arising a most enticing aroma. On top of exotic woodsmoke, there's the smell of slow-roasting flesh touched with the mouthwatering scent of bacon, and no reasonable man can pass by without finding out more. Our pilgrim wipes his chin, and heads off down the bank.
A homely scene opens before him. Just below view of the campfire circle is half of a 55-gallon split lengthwise and it's smoking lazily. Over it an enormous hog is spit ass to snout on a steel pole, turning slowly, as sizzling drops of liquid fat fall hissing into the coals. There's a rusty sprocket on the end of the rod, and it's rotated by chain driven by a small electric motor. Overlooking the gadgetry is a lumpy, affable fellow in a loose-fitting checked shirt and a crew cut. There's a Bud in his hand.
"Lookin' pretty good, this hog," says NickD, "should be ready in a few hours. Smells nice, doesn't it?"
"Delicious."
"You look like a reasonable man."
"I am."
"Maybe you want to join me in a little song of my own? Been a long time up there with the campfire, and we got to get the barbecue just right, keep it low and slow. Join me now." Without looking to see if the visitor does join, Nick pulls off his shirt to reveal an ample chest with crusty brown streaks pulled across it, obviously painted with his own strong hands. He ties his shirt around his head, and grabs a long fork, and starts waving it enthusiastically around in the air. A reasonable man hightails it before Nick goes all Lord of the Flies on this thing. It's not the faith for him, but he makes a point to check out the buffet table in a couple hours.
Above the edge of the bank, not very far away, the glow of the campfire is still visible. Below, the slope continues for 50 yards or so until it reaches the edge of the stubbled cornfield. The hillside itself is overgrown with briars and sumac, and paths snake away from Nick's small clearing in various directions. The air is too nice to head right back up to the party, and so he chooses a path paralleling the hill. The way path splits and splits again, and he chooses forks at random. Although the muffled din of the bash is never quite out of earshot, and while he's got a general sense of orientation from the hill--even though he's not lost really--a reasonable man begins to worry a little about the exact route he's going to take out of the brush. He moves a little faster.
Just ahead, the scrub rises to a scraggly little stand of trees, and he stumbles into a grove of sorts. Are those voices? He rubs his eyes.
"…with Thought She spurs the swords afield
and with bloody thrusts mere heroes die
for Her mind upon the battlefield.
Possessed of naught but mean ideals
the men war beneath Her grey-flashed eye
and tiny Victory scampers about Her thigh
consummating in Her stead the bloody yield.
With a passing thought for what mortals feel,
she calls Her companion nigh."
A statuesque woman in ivory and silver claps appreciatively at the conclusion of the poem. Our hero has, he realizes, been holding his breath. The speaker has been reciting in front of the tree. Lit by Galatea's flashlight against the black background of shadows, and poised with her right arm upraised, Artemesia like a figure out of a Baroque painting. She breaks the mood by making an annoyed face. "Calls her companion nigh!" she repeats. A reasonable man might, under the conditions, have thought she indicated himself, but as he rises, a dark shape swoops from the trees over his head, and alights on Artemesia's shoulder. No, this isn't the right faith at all. He turns back, moving quickly.
Eager to return to old barn, he takes the first uphill fork, and then the next, and it's with no small measure of relief that he stumbles onto the lawn again, seeing the comforting glow of campfire not far away. So happy is he to be in the open, that he doesn't immediately notice Thomas Paine* and Archaeopteryx, who are pulling on some contraption of ropes and pullies. As if things needed to get any weirder.
"What on earth is this all about?"
"On earth? Careful with that language."
"Why are you two wearing goat leggings?"
"Aren't you in one of the skits too?"
"Nah, I'm walking around looking for a little spiritual enlightenment. Seemed like that sort of night."
"I got just the thing," says TP, and he yanks on the nearest rope. This pulls a catch of some kind, and a large, black-painted wooden clamshell drops forward roughly out of the darkness, brushing some bushes and hitting the ground with a thump. A human figure steps forward, and as the distant firelight frames out a shadow or two, it's obviously a female, smoking a cigarette. The effect is something between Boticelli's Venus and Bonham Carter's Marla Singer.
Arch is giggling uncontrollably, and ThyGoddess smiles patiently at him. "Shut up," she explains. She looks down at our hero. "Who are you, worm?"
"Look, I'm just trying to be a reasonable man here, but this is--"
"Silence! Hmm, come closer."
Now, a reasonable man might very well be tempted to do so, and she seems pretty nice for all the effort to stay in character, but there's something about how hard Arch and TP are trying to hold in their laughter that makes him suspicious. That and the rock with the chains draped over it. He secretly hopes no who wanders over this direction is dumb enough to make a sexist remark.
"Uh, thanks anyway, but I'm really looking for a more personal sort of enlightenment. Er, maybe something less pagan."
"Foolish mortal!" She relaxes her shoulders. "You'll catch the skit, won't you?"
"Yeah, sure."
And so he walks into the yard amongst the groups of spiritualists. He can see Bright's study group still over there by the fire, and by the occasional sounds breaking through. JV-12 is evidently now fighting with Daysman over the theology of lucky pennies. He sees Appolonius again, riffing now about flaming swords, karma, and conspiracies like a beat poet with a dirty mind. Maybe he's doing a skit too? To lend drama to his delivery, Appy has peeled his shirt away, and is pouring Burgundy all over his pale chest. He looks like a primal phoenix in purple and gold, and an older man with black plastic-rimmed glasses and huge arms is listening intently to every word and underlining things in a notebook forcefully enough to tear through the page. A reasonable man keeps going, but he can't keep from peeking over justoffal's shoulder as he slinks by: there's a little pyramid drawn on the page with an eye over it, and around that are crabbed some random notes. "9-11 = shit metaphor! obv!" is circled, and "ZION: THE KEY?!?" is in neat capitals and underlined.
Not far ahead are two large groups arguing another kind of faith entirely. Inexplicably, it's faith in the system. Our hero has to pass between these gangs to get back into the building, but as he gets closer, it's apparent that only one is talking at a time, while most of the others on either side are trying to extract the next round of contradicting factoids. "He's owned by ACORN, letting homeless faggots vote," Jack steps up and says without enthusiasm, as Angelo F. (indignant), Kazillions (puzzled), and Urquhart (smirking, drunk) check their emails for form letters, and a couple of malformed trolls bang their fists on plastic toy keyboards. "He supported 92.4% of Bush's policy initiatives," DallasNE shouts back into the gulf, and tartuffe types furiously, while Michael Ryerson sits on his rock and stares angrily at Demcon and Laurie Ann, who are trying to take up maneuver into the space between the groups in a way that can only be annoying to everyone. A reasonable man ducks his head and runs through this nonsense fast as he can, with his fingers in his ears.
Panting, he finally makes it back to the banquet hall, with only two Canadian men hovering beneath the light keeping him from the relative sanity inside the barn. He can tell that they're Canadian because they're so damn calm and succinct as they study the human condition. A reasonable man finds this sort of thing appealing, but he fears he's learned enough spiritual lessons for one night. If daveto were shorter or Schadenfreude thinner, he couple probably just sneak by, but he dutifully steels himself up for their inevitable parting shots.
Dave takes his mood in stride, and looks pityingly at our man. "Rough night?"
"Spiritual quest. It's been a little strange."
"I can help out," says Schad, grabbing his lapels. "In fact, I am confident of exactly three things. One is that I'm smarter than you. Two, god doesn't exist. There is no three."
And how can a reasonable man argue with that?
###
*Probably this is a neat trick, akin to bumping into Borges. What a fortuitous garden of forking paths that was.
keifus
by Keifus
10/17/2008, 7:48 AM #
There's nothing like a song around the nighttime campfire to attune a person to the sense of earthly friendships and even higher powers. Everyone held hands as Sawbones picked out the first couple chords of Kumbaya and sparks drifted peacefully up into the sky. And when Appolonius flicked on the amp, the crowd swayed gently for all ten minutes of his solo, and distortion echoed through the fields below, drowning out the crickets for a time. Faces dance and blur in the flickering firelight, and shadows loom over everyone's backs. Facing inward there's a deep sense of unity and purpose to the gathering, but the moment can't go on forever, and when the song ends, the huge group breaks back up and spreads out into the night to seek their own answers, or back into the building to grab some more food and drink.
As the night air fills back up with noises and illegal aromas, some even seek to continue that sense of peace and togetherness, and the men and women with higher convictions hope to nab some converts while the spirit is still strong. A few pilgrims tread between the groups of the faithful, exploring their diversity of messages, and we follow one man tonight on such a quest. Like many of us, he may be young or old, we may know him or we may not, and as usual, it's hard identify him for sure, but this evening he is our Everyman, our Christian. He is a reasonable man. Will he find his way?
There are a few people who want to keep the sense of sacred fellowship alive right there by the fireside. Bright Virago soberly announces a prayer meeting for anyone who's interested, and half a dozen partiers choose to linger. A reasonable man is not offended by the idea, and given the company, he hopes for an interesting discussion. He even offers up the first conversation starter.
"So how do Christian ideals bear out at a shindig like this? We seem to have a lot of connection here, but not a lot of explicit Christian practice." He gestures at a basket of paraphernalia sitting on top of a bongo drum. "I feel filled with some manner of spirit, but I'm not sure if it's that Holy Spirit that I always hear about... Does it all work out?"
Demosthenes2 raises his hand. "Well, according to Paul's letter to the Romans, faith is the source of good acts, but, as I've argued, the converse must also be implied in that. Good acts are by their nature a manifestation of faith, even if it's of an unknowing sort. For good deeds, faith is implicit; it's part of the human experience. This is actually confirmed in official Catholic doctrine, that essentially says that holy acts evolve from the essential spirit, and that salvation can be found even without specific knowledge of Christ."
JV-12 interjects. "Your rational view is completely illogical. Paul's conversion was miraculous, and that's what's important. I'm sorry if you can't see the signs. Jesus is going to burn the evil rationalizers, and elevate his truest servants who figure out for themselves what to believe."
Daysman says, "I can see the signs!"
Revrick: "...and that's exactly why abortion is such a conflicting issue. Permitting it is an Antichristian act, but then so is refusing it. It removes the will to act from an individual, which is why the theology around reproduction is so divisive."
Ducadmo: "Actually, it's multiplicative. Times and times again, the squares keep rooting and the population grows quadradically. It's a power law. Ahem. 'All the people on the earth do dwell....'"
JV: "That wine! It was water a minute ago, I'm sure of it!"
"'Him serve with fear...'"
D2: "Uh, in a wine bottle?"
Days: "God knows who reads the signs! Praise Jesus!"
"'and for us His sheep He doth us take...'"
JV: "Praise God!"
Firstphonelicense: "My cat's breath smells like cat food."
Bright is sitting on a lawn chair, holding her face in her hands.
"'And shall from age to age endure...'"
A reasonable man wants to help her out, but even more reasonably, he just wants to get the hell away. So to speak.
Probably going inside would have been wise at this point, but just beyond the fire, over the ridge, there is arising a most enticing aroma. On top of exotic woodsmoke, there's the smell of slow-roasting flesh touched with the mouthwatering scent of bacon, and no reasonable man can pass by without finding out more. Our pilgrim wipes his chin, and heads off down the bank.
A homely scene opens before him. Just below view of the campfire circle is half of a 55-gallon split lengthwise and it's smoking lazily. Over it an enormous hog is spit ass to snout on a steel pole, turning slowly, as sizzling drops of liquid fat fall hissing into the coals. There's a rusty sprocket on the end of the rod, and it's rotated by chain driven by a small electric motor. Overlooking the gadgetry is a lumpy, affable fellow in a loose-fitting checked shirt and a crew cut. There's a Bud in his hand.
"Lookin' pretty good, this hog," says NickD, "should be ready in a few hours. Smells nice, doesn't it?"
"Delicious."
"You look like a reasonable man."
"I am."
"Maybe you want to join me in a little song of my own? Been a long time up there with the campfire, and we got to get the barbecue just right, keep it low and slow. Join me now." Without looking to see if the visitor does join, Nick pulls off his shirt to reveal an ample chest with crusty brown streaks pulled across it, obviously painted with his own strong hands. He ties his shirt around his head, and grabs a long fork, and starts waving it enthusiastically around in the air. A reasonable man hightails it before Nick goes all Lord of the Flies on this thing. It's not the faith for him, but he makes a point to check out the buffet table in a couple hours.
Above the edge of the bank, not very far away, the glow of the campfire is still visible. Below, the slope continues for 50 yards or so until it reaches the edge of the stubbled cornfield. The hillside itself is overgrown with briars and sumac, and paths snake away from Nick's small clearing in various directions. The air is too nice to head right back up to the party, and so he chooses a path paralleling the hill. The way path splits and splits again, and he chooses forks at random. Although the muffled din of the bash is never quite out of earshot, and while he's got a general sense of orientation from the hill--even though he's not lost really--a reasonable man begins to worry a little about the exact route he's going to take out of the brush. He moves a little faster.
Just ahead, the scrub rises to a scraggly little stand of trees, and he stumbles into a grove of sorts. Are those voices? He rubs his eyes.
"…with Thought She spurs the swords afield
and with bloody thrusts mere heroes die
for Her mind upon the battlefield.
Possessed of naught but mean ideals
the men war beneath Her grey-flashed eye
and tiny Victory scampers about Her thigh
consummating in Her stead the bloody yield.
With a passing thought for what mortals feel,
she calls Her companion nigh."
A statuesque woman in ivory and silver claps appreciatively at the conclusion of the poem. Our hero has, he realizes, been holding his breath. The speaker has been reciting in front of the tree. Lit by Galatea's flashlight against the black background of shadows, and poised with her right arm upraised, Artemesia like a figure out of a Baroque painting. She breaks the mood by making an annoyed face. "Calls her companion nigh!" she repeats. A reasonable man might, under the conditions, have thought she indicated himself, but as he rises, a dark shape swoops from the trees over his head, and alights on Artemesia's shoulder. No, this isn't the right faith at all. He turns back, moving quickly.
Eager to return to old barn, he takes the first uphill fork, and then the next, and it's with no small measure of relief that he stumbles onto the lawn again, seeing the comforting glow of campfire not far away. So happy is he to be in the open, that he doesn't immediately notice Thomas Paine* and Archaeopteryx, who are pulling on some contraption of ropes and pullies. As if things needed to get any weirder.
"What on earth is this all about?"
"On earth? Careful with that language."
"Why are you two wearing goat leggings?"
"Aren't you in one of the skits too?"
"Nah, I'm walking around looking for a little spiritual enlightenment. Seemed like that sort of night."
"I got just the thing," says TP, and he yanks on the nearest rope. This pulls a catch of some kind, and a large, black-painted wooden clamshell drops forward roughly out of the darkness, brushing some bushes and hitting the ground with a thump. A human figure steps forward, and as the distant firelight frames out a shadow or two, it's obviously a female, smoking a cigarette. The effect is something between Boticelli's Venus and Bonham Carter's Marla Singer.
Arch is giggling uncontrollably, and ThyGoddess smiles patiently at him. "Shut up," she explains. She looks down at our hero. "Who are you, worm?"
"Look, I'm just trying to be a reasonable man here, but this is--"
"Silence! Hmm, come closer."
Now, a reasonable man might very well be tempted to do so, and she seems pretty nice for all the effort to stay in character, but there's something about how hard Arch and TP are trying to hold in their laughter that makes him suspicious. That and the rock with the chains draped over it. He secretly hopes no who wanders over this direction is dumb enough to make a sexist remark.
"Uh, thanks anyway, but I'm really looking for a more personal sort of enlightenment. Er, maybe something less pagan."
"Foolish mortal!" She relaxes her shoulders. "You'll catch the skit, won't you?"
"Yeah, sure."
And so he walks into the yard amongst the groups of spiritualists. He can see Bright's study group still over there by the fire, and by the occasional sounds breaking through. JV-12 is evidently now fighting with Daysman over the theology of lucky pennies. He sees Appolonius again, riffing now about flaming swords, karma, and conspiracies like a beat poet with a dirty mind. Maybe he's doing a skit too? To lend drama to his delivery, Appy has peeled his shirt away, and is pouring Burgundy all over his pale chest. He looks like a primal phoenix in purple and gold, and an older man with black plastic-rimmed glasses and huge arms is listening intently to every word and underlining things in a notebook forcefully enough to tear through the page. A reasonable man keeps going, but he can't keep from peeking over justoffal's shoulder as he slinks by: there's a little pyramid drawn on the page with an eye over it, and around that are crabbed some random notes. "9-11 = shit metaphor! obv!" is circled, and "ZION: THE KEY?!?" is in neat capitals and underlined.
Not far ahead are two large groups arguing another kind of faith entirely. Inexplicably, it's faith in the system. Our hero has to pass between these gangs to get back into the building, but as he gets closer, it's apparent that only one is talking at a time, while most of the others on either side are trying to extract the next round of contradicting factoids. "He's owned by ACORN, letting homeless faggots vote," Jack steps up and says without enthusiasm, as Angelo F. (indignant), Kazillions (puzzled), and Urquhart (smirking, drunk) check their emails for form letters, and a couple of malformed trolls bang their fists on plastic toy keyboards. "He supported 92.4% of Bush's policy initiatives," DallasNE shouts back into the gulf, and tartuffe types furiously, while Michael Ryerson sits on his rock and stares angrily at Demcon and Laurie Ann, who are trying to take up maneuver into the space between the groups in a way that can only be annoying to everyone. A reasonable man ducks his head and runs through this nonsense fast as he can, with his fingers in his ears.
Panting, he finally makes it back to the banquet hall, with only two Canadian men hovering beneath the light keeping him from the relative sanity inside the barn. He can tell that they're Canadian because they're so damn calm and succinct as they study the human condition. A reasonable man finds this sort of thing appealing, but he fears he's learned enough spiritual lessons for one night. If daveto were shorter or Schadenfreude thinner, he couple probably just sneak by, but he dutifully steels himself up for their inevitable parting shots.
Dave takes his mood in stride, and looks pityingly at our man. "Rough night?"
"Spiritual quest. It's been a little strange."
"I can help out," says Schad, grabbing his lapels. "In fact, I am confident of exactly three things. One is that I'm smarter than you. Two, god doesn't exist. There is no three."
And how can a reasonable man argue with that?
###
*Probably this is a neat trick, akin to bumping into Borges. What a fortuitous garden of forking paths that was.
keifus
03 October 2008
Fray Bash - The Beauty Contest
Fray Bash - The Beauty Contest
by Keifus
10/03/2008, 3:05 PM #
Here we find two of our venerable professors, Archaeopteryx and August, strolling across the room, and now crossing in front of fireplace, engaged in informed conversation. Side by side, they look like imperfect mirror images of one another, one of those spot-the-differences picture games from a kid's magazine: Arch's disheveled hair is white, and August's is brown; Arch looks like he has a joke on his mind and he's looking for someone to tell it to, and August has his brow furrowed at his cup; there's an Obama T-shirt under Arch's tweed coat, and August's jacket sports beige elbow patches with a worried blue button-down beneath.
"…it's like trying to teach creatio--"
"Arrah!"
"--nists to understand history… Uh, what?"
"Have ya ever seen such a pair of doughy sprouts, off to flood their collective gorge with foul an' befuddlin' spirits? We got one flappin' his unsightly gob an' t'other ponderin' whose arsehole'd be best suited for lodging his cavernous cranium, and together they stumble forward awash in their inscrutable addlepated fancies. A sorrier pair of specimens never set foot in this stained an' sainted barn, not even when it was fair teeming to the rafters with bollocks. Would ya not concur, switters m'lad?"
Switters is struggling to stay in his chair, and he scatters the pile of Bud Light cans at his feet as he finally manages to pull himself up. " Now don't get me wrong, I like the ladies (I do) , but what we have here is a twin lump of man-meat hot enough to make mom forget about Dad for a few weeks, if you know what I mean (and I don't [mean it, that is (or do I?)]) . I'll give 'em at least pi over four for the matching tuxedos, with a half point deduction for the cock-curdling disappointment of mustard-free lapels. Expectations people!!! Arch? Augie? 'Sup dawgs."
August has lost his train of thought under the weight of this impromptu judgement, and struggles to respond. "Uh, um… 'sup?" Arch just shrugs, and then suspiciously eyes a jar of mustard sitting on the table beyond. He nudges August's elbow and gestures urgently at the keg. They fill their cups hurriedly and exeunt, barely pursued.
The two judges remain seated in their chairs, waiting for the next contestant. Switters happily pops open another beer, looking for all the world like the last scene in a where-are-they-now montage for that guy who starred in Freaked. Zeus-Boy (for who else could it be?) is leaning forward with an elbow on his knee, dark hair spilling around his handsome face, and tonight, there's a rogue's glint in his eye. On the floor next to him is the Guinness that Schmutzie pushed into his hand on arrival, but it remains untouched. Switters nudges Zeus-Boy's shoulder and gestures to their left.
Biteoftheweek is stalking--that would be the word for it--out of the bathroom area, quite understandably annoyed: those men at the little table really aren't anywhere near cute enough to get away with comments like that. Her back's up, and she moves crisply, deliberately, as if she were trying to spear olives with her heels. Are they looking at her? Good. She crosses onto the "catwalk" between the chairs and the fireplace.
"Jayzus, an' now this one's a looker, swit, a-coming fresh as a flower from the stinkin' jakes. Delicate as a lily's kiss she is. You could spit-shine a tyke's arse on that comely smooth expanse a forehead. Aw, an' now look at the doxie, screwin' that scrawny nape about, what, ya wanna go charmin' the atrophied snakes from the smegmatic baskets held by them half-conscious gorillas in the corner, lady? Goin'ta squeeze some life outta the five wizened gonads they got distributed uncomfortably between the three of 'em? You'll have to get their own paws off'em first. Jayz, best she keeps her trap muzzled, else she might auger a sliver of offence even into the cementitious noggins of yonder trio of eejits."
"Like I was saying, not only did he take the hundred yard stare in Collateral all the way out to 178 yards, he completely carried Battlefield Earth too. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. He wasn't in the credits, but he was clearly the seventeenth klingon on the starship G'kar-bot7. Don't believe me? Look at the hair. And what the fuck was with the slanted cameras? Hey Travolta, Cesar Romero called. He wants his lair back."
"Exactly." Zeus-Boy turns back to Bite. "Now off with ya, ya culchie git, before I tell you what I think."
"Bite m'dear," switters adds. "I give you a twelve, minus a half point for the Hillary. Hint: it's the Jews."
Bite's expression has gone through liquid-eyed charm, to offense, to abject confusion. As the judgement is passed, she decides to play it safe and nurture some indignity for awhile. She glares at each of the men, and then stomps away towards the dance floor. SnollyG, coming the other way with an empty cocktail glass in his hand, bumps into her. "Fucking misogynist," she mutters. Before he can respond, he finds he's backpedaled his way into the gauntlet.
"Now look at this chancer an' tell me he ain't as out of place as a shite on a church pew?"
"Kyu, m'boy."
"Look about, ya silly gobshite, nothing but drooping poxied relics far as you'll see, packed in here dribbling cheek by porcine jowl in this teetering sweat lodge, a veritable orgy of pustulating cottage cheese undulating horrifically this way an' that. And here's yer dear smooth-pressed self, not a hair outta kilter, measured within an inch of yer standard nautical catalogue specifications. Where d'ya think y'are, a bleedin' Yank nightclub? Bollocks! Gotta go with a seven here, switters, lost a couple for showin' up shined like an apple to visit the feckin' raisin box."
"Look, we don't want contestants like kyu, we need contestants like kyu. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll feel slightly disinterested, and then get up to take a leak, pour a glass of milk, and maybe come back again if nothing else is going on. Newsflash! OBAMA IS THE ANTICHRIST burp AND SARAH PALIN HAS BEEN SENT BY GOD TO catch you later DELIVER US ALL UNTO THE HOLY oh, and 7.1325459 CHRISTIAN RAPTURE, NOW WITH EXTRA CHRISTTM this is fun! SO REPENT SINNERS AND DEMOCRATS!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Switters takes a deep breath, and then another pull off his beer. As one, he and Zeus-Boy swivel their heads to face the crowd, ready for the next victim.
DrNo takes a trembling step forward, ready for the worst…
by Keifus
10/03/2008, 3:05 PM #
Here we find two of our venerable professors, Archaeopteryx and August, strolling across the room, and now crossing in front of fireplace, engaged in informed conversation. Side by side, they look like imperfect mirror images of one another, one of those spot-the-differences picture games from a kid's magazine: Arch's disheveled hair is white, and August's is brown; Arch looks like he has a joke on his mind and he's looking for someone to tell it to, and August has his brow furrowed at his cup; there's an Obama T-shirt under Arch's tweed coat, and August's jacket sports beige elbow patches with a worried blue button-down beneath.
"…it's like trying to teach creatio--"
"Arrah!"
"--nists to understand history… Uh, what?"
"Have ya ever seen such a pair of doughy sprouts, off to flood their collective gorge with foul an' befuddlin' spirits? We got one flappin' his unsightly gob an' t'other ponderin' whose arsehole'd be best suited for lodging his cavernous cranium, and together they stumble forward awash in their inscrutable addlepated fancies. A sorrier pair of specimens never set foot in this stained an' sainted barn, not even when it was fair teeming to the rafters with bollocks. Would ya not concur, switters m'lad?"
Switters is struggling to stay in his chair, and he scatters the pile of Bud Light cans at his feet as he finally manages to pull himself up. " Now don't get me wrong, I like the ladies (I do) , but what we have here is a twin lump of man-meat hot enough to make mom forget about Dad for a few weeks, if you know what I mean (and I don't [mean it, that is (or do I?)]) . I'll give 'em at least pi over four for the matching tuxedos, with a half point deduction for the cock-curdling disappointment of mustard-free lapels. Expectations people!!! Arch? Augie? 'Sup dawgs."
August has lost his train of thought under the weight of this impromptu judgement, and struggles to respond. "Uh, um… 'sup?" Arch just shrugs, and then suspiciously eyes a jar of mustard sitting on the table beyond. He nudges August's elbow and gestures urgently at the keg. They fill their cups hurriedly and exeunt, barely pursued.
The two judges remain seated in their chairs, waiting for the next contestant. Switters happily pops open another beer, looking for all the world like the last scene in a where-are-they-now montage for that guy who starred in Freaked. Zeus-Boy (for who else could it be?) is leaning forward with an elbow on his knee, dark hair spilling around his handsome face, and tonight, there's a rogue's glint in his eye. On the floor next to him is the Guinness that Schmutzie pushed into his hand on arrival, but it remains untouched. Switters nudges Zeus-Boy's shoulder and gestures to their left.
Biteoftheweek is stalking--that would be the word for it--out of the bathroom area, quite understandably annoyed: those men at the little table really aren't anywhere near cute enough to get away with comments like that. Her back's up, and she moves crisply, deliberately, as if she were trying to spear olives with her heels. Are they looking at her? Good. She crosses onto the "catwalk" between the chairs and the fireplace.
"Jayzus, an' now this one's a looker, swit, a-coming fresh as a flower from the stinkin' jakes. Delicate as a lily's kiss she is. You could spit-shine a tyke's arse on that comely smooth expanse a forehead. Aw, an' now look at the doxie, screwin' that scrawny nape about, what, ya wanna go charmin' the atrophied snakes from the smegmatic baskets held by them half-conscious gorillas in the corner, lady? Goin'ta squeeze some life outta the five wizened gonads they got distributed uncomfortably between the three of 'em? You'll have to get their own paws off'em first. Jayz, best she keeps her trap muzzled, else she might auger a sliver of offence even into the cementitious noggins of yonder trio of eejits."
"Like I was saying, not only did he take the hundred yard stare in Collateral all the way out to 178 yards, he completely carried Battlefield Earth too. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. He wasn't in the credits, but he was clearly the seventeenth klingon on the starship G'kar-bot7. Don't believe me? Look at the hair. And what the fuck was with the slanted cameras? Hey Travolta, Cesar Romero called. He wants his lair back."
"Exactly." Zeus-Boy turns back to Bite. "Now off with ya, ya culchie git, before I tell you what I think."
"Bite m'dear," switters adds. "I give you a twelve, minus a half point for the Hillary. Hint: it's the Jews."
Bite's expression has gone through liquid-eyed charm, to offense, to abject confusion. As the judgement is passed, she decides to play it safe and nurture some indignity for awhile. She glares at each of the men, and then stomps away towards the dance floor. SnollyG, coming the other way with an empty cocktail glass in his hand, bumps into her. "Fucking misogynist," she mutters. Before he can respond, he finds he's backpedaled his way into the gauntlet.
"Now look at this chancer an' tell me he ain't as out of place as a shite on a church pew?"
"Kyu, m'boy."
"Look about, ya silly gobshite, nothing but drooping poxied relics far as you'll see, packed in here dribbling cheek by porcine jowl in this teetering sweat lodge, a veritable orgy of pustulating cottage cheese undulating horrifically this way an' that. And here's yer dear smooth-pressed self, not a hair outta kilter, measured within an inch of yer standard nautical catalogue specifications. Where d'ya think y'are, a bleedin' Yank nightclub? Bollocks! Gotta go with a seven here, switters, lost a couple for showin' up shined like an apple to visit the feckin' raisin box."
"Look, we don't want contestants like kyu, we need contestants like kyu. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll feel slightly disinterested, and then get up to take a leak, pour a glass of milk, and maybe come back again if nothing else is going on. Newsflash! OBAMA IS THE ANTICHRIST burp AND SARAH PALIN HAS BEEN SENT BY GOD TO catch you later DELIVER US ALL UNTO THE HOLY oh, and 7.1325459 CHRISTIAN RAPTURE, NOW WITH EXTRA CHRISTTM this is fun! SO REPENT SINNERS AND DEMOCRATS!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Switters takes a deep breath, and then another pull off his beer. As one, he and Zeus-Boy swivel their heads to face the crowd, ready for the next victim.
DrNo takes a trembling step forward, ready for the worst…
30 September 2008
Fray Bash - Tongiht's Musical Selection
Fray Bash - Tongiht's Musical Selection
by Keifus
09/30/2008, 6:46 AM #
There hasn't been any music playing for a few minutes now, and since it's almost time for the first champagne toast. Kind of in the mood to dance in the courtyard himself, Lono takes up the cause to discover what's going on. Threading across the dance floor takes no small effort. For one thing, he's still a little loopy from the colita that twiffer had passed him an hour ago, and for another, he has to maneuver around Fritz Gerlich, who is a much bigger man than you might expect, but unfortunately, exactly as good a dancer. With the music off, he's speaking awkward French to a woman with wide hips, a timelessly mom-style haircut, and a prim, pouting mouth. Her nametag has half a dozen crossouts, and all that's still legible is the letter T. She looks like a girl scout leader, but she is giggling like a brownie.
"Coucher avec tois serait Paradis," coos Fritz.
Tempo purses her lips and wags a finger. "Il serait L'enfer, garcon vilain."
Lono's having a hard time registering this unlikely scenario, and tries to shake a little of the heaviness out of his head, a little of the dimness out of his eyes, and does his best to sidle by unnoticed and, please God, untouched. He swerves well clear of Sgt. Rock and Col. McPhee (who are raving incoherently about some booze they drank in the sixties), and smiles briefly at bright_virago, a shimmering light there in her gown, and finally he elbows his way to the dj booth to figure out what the hell is going on.
The booth isn't much, just a crappy squat kind of structure made out of two-by-fours and plywood, with some shelves inside, painted a kind of dingy white, with a bunch of cds stuffed into milk crates. There's an old amplifier with a cd player stacked on top of it, and wires going everywhere, empties piled up on every available surface. It's like some project dreamed up in college--all it needed was a heap of dirty clothes in the corner to bring it to its half-assed apotheosis. It's shadowy in the recesses, and as Lono approaches, he can hear voices inside, as if from far away. As he gets closer, four familiar heads resolve themselves in the light of a candle and the savory haze of a Cuban, and four voices resolve into an argument.
"Look," says thelyamhound, "I think this is really perfect. Orchestral death metal: you either can dance to it or throw some roundhouses. Your choice." The candlelight glistens fitfully off his dome sometimes, when he turns the right way. Sweet summer sweat, perhaps? Lono decides he'd rather not ask.
"Well, the Fischerette made me stop listening to anything orchestral. Too mainstream, she says. Disappointed in me. Maybe there's something Brazilian? They got any Maracas da Morte?"
"And I can't do death metal without the banjo, myself." Skitch's expression looks like what would happen if Doc Savage had stumbled into a secret whoopie cushion factory. "No, I mean it," he says, unconvincingly. Between the three of those guys, there's about a fifth-grade schoolroom's worth of smirk.
But the skinny dude with the shaggy blond hair is different. He has his arms crossed and he's brooding a little. Lono edges up to him. "What did you want to play, Dandelion-man?"
"You hear of 'Pretty, Pretty Boys'?"
"Uh, is that a band?"
"A band? It's the perfect band it you want to have a pink chamagne toast. They dress all in pastels, right? And sing like The Chipmunks."
"Uhh..."
Max shouts from across the booth. "Well, maybe if this thing could hook into your iPod, we could actually play it."
Pissenlit scowls at this, and sinks a little deeper into his funk.
Skitch holds up a cd in front of the candle. "Oh yeah, Tiffany Twisted! I haven't heard them since high school. No one does better grunge fusion."
"Well, they're good," says Max, "but they're no Thelonius Crunk either. I always think it sounds pretty pedestrian without the atonal riffs."
"Nice alibi," says Hound, obviously disagreeing.
Lono utters a long-suffering sigh and promises himself this will be the last time. "How about some Led Zeppelin?" he says. "Everybody loves Zeppelin."
Max looks scandalized, but Lono continues.
"Or how about some classic rock? I mean, doesn't this look like a classic rock crowd to you?"
"Y'know," grins skitch, "I may have just the thing." He mutters something to the other three that's hard to catch.
"Well, only if they have the Gipsy Kings version."
"I vote for William Hung."
"Actually, he was," says skitch. "Er, or so I heard, uh, not that there's anything wrong...damn."
"What about the Wilson Phillips version?"
It's too much, just too damn silly. Lono's had it. "'Night, man," he sighs to pissenlit, who's closest.
"Relax," says Max, "You can't leave yet. I think I got one."
He snaps shut the cd cover, and just like that, ska rhythms start bumping out of the speakers, accompanied by what sounds for all the world like a steel drum. ("Steely knives," says Hound, "A buddy of mine plays a set backstage sometimes.") But the groove is so familiar, it's on the tip of Lono's mind. Desert highway? Something like that, and seems appropriate. Makes him wonder why no one ever seems to leave this lovely place.
Oh well, it's almost time for the feast, and people are starting to gather. Maybe something interesting will happen.
by Keifus
09/30/2008, 6:46 AM #
There hasn't been any music playing for a few minutes now, and since it's almost time for the first champagne toast. Kind of in the mood to dance in the courtyard himself, Lono takes up the cause to discover what's going on. Threading across the dance floor takes no small effort. For one thing, he's still a little loopy from the colita that twiffer had passed him an hour ago, and for another, he has to maneuver around Fritz Gerlich, who is a much bigger man than you might expect, but unfortunately, exactly as good a dancer. With the music off, he's speaking awkward French to a woman with wide hips, a timelessly mom-style haircut, and a prim, pouting mouth. Her nametag has half a dozen crossouts, and all that's still legible is the letter T. She looks like a girl scout leader, but she is giggling like a brownie.
"Coucher avec tois serait Paradis," coos Fritz.
Tempo purses her lips and wags a finger. "Il serait L'enfer, garcon vilain."
Lono's having a hard time registering this unlikely scenario, and tries to shake a little of the heaviness out of his head, a little of the dimness out of his eyes, and does his best to sidle by unnoticed and, please God, untouched. He swerves well clear of Sgt. Rock and Col. McPhee (who are raving incoherently about some booze they drank in the sixties), and smiles briefly at bright_virago, a shimmering light there in her gown, and finally he elbows his way to the dj booth to figure out what the hell is going on.
The booth isn't much, just a crappy squat kind of structure made out of two-by-fours and plywood, with some shelves inside, painted a kind of dingy white, with a bunch of cds stuffed into milk crates. There's an old amplifier with a cd player stacked on top of it, and wires going everywhere, empties piled up on every available surface. It's like some project dreamed up in college--all it needed was a heap of dirty clothes in the corner to bring it to its half-assed apotheosis. It's shadowy in the recesses, and as Lono approaches, he can hear voices inside, as if from far away. As he gets closer, four familiar heads resolve themselves in the light of a candle and the savory haze of a Cuban, and four voices resolve into an argument.
"Look," says thelyamhound, "I think this is really perfect. Orchestral death metal: you either can dance to it or throw some roundhouses. Your choice." The candlelight glistens fitfully off his dome sometimes, when he turns the right way. Sweet summer sweat, perhaps? Lono decides he'd rather not ask.
"Well, the Fischerette made me stop listening to anything orchestral. Too mainstream, she says. Disappointed in me. Maybe there's something Brazilian? They got any Maracas da Morte?"
"And I can't do death metal without the banjo, myself." Skitch's expression looks like what would happen if Doc Savage had stumbled into a secret whoopie cushion factory. "No, I mean it," he says, unconvincingly. Between the three of those guys, there's about a fifth-grade schoolroom's worth of smirk.
But the skinny dude with the shaggy blond hair is different. He has his arms crossed and he's brooding a little. Lono edges up to him. "What did you want to play, Dandelion-man?"
"You hear of 'Pretty, Pretty Boys'?"
"Uh, is that a band?"
"A band? It's the perfect band it you want to have a pink chamagne toast. They dress all in pastels, right? And sing like The Chipmunks."
"Uhh..."
Max shouts from across the booth. "Well, maybe if this thing could hook into your iPod, we could actually play it."
Pissenlit scowls at this, and sinks a little deeper into his funk.
Skitch holds up a cd in front of the candle. "Oh yeah, Tiffany Twisted! I haven't heard them since high school. No one does better grunge fusion."
"Well, they're good," says Max, "but they're no Thelonius Crunk either. I always think it sounds pretty pedestrian without the atonal riffs."
"Nice alibi," says Hound, obviously disagreeing.
Lono utters a long-suffering sigh and promises himself this will be the last time. "How about some Led Zeppelin?" he says. "Everybody loves Zeppelin."
Max looks scandalized, but Lono continues.
"Or how about some classic rock? I mean, doesn't this look like a classic rock crowd to you?"
"Y'know," grins skitch, "I may have just the thing." He mutters something to the other three that's hard to catch.
"Well, only if they have the Gipsy Kings version."
"I vote for William Hung."
"Actually, he was," says skitch. "Er, or so I heard, uh, not that there's anything wrong...damn."
"What about the Wilson Phillips version?"
It's too much, just too damn silly. Lono's had it. "'Night, man," he sighs to pissenlit, who's closest.
"Relax," says Max, "You can't leave yet. I think I got one."
He snaps shut the cd cover, and just like that, ska rhythms start bumping out of the speakers, accompanied by what sounds for all the world like a steel drum. ("Steely knives," says Hound, "A buddy of mine plays a set backstage sometimes.") But the groove is so familiar, it's on the tip of Lono's mind. Desert highway? Something like that, and seems appropriate. Makes him wonder why no one ever seems to leave this lovely place.
Oh well, it's almost time for the feast, and people are starting to gather. Maybe something interesting will happen.
26 September 2008
Fray Bash - Eyes Meet Across the Room
Fray Bash - Eyes Meet Across the Room
by Keifus
09/26/2008, 7:08 AM #
Imagine Gregor Samsa as a 50-year-old engineer. He's got a roundish head, gray and receding hair, and a face that looks like it ought to be serious. When he's at the office, he lolls about his chair like a small-town sheriff, that same combination of relaxation and confrontation, and his bosses and coworkers avoid talking to him because he has a habit of cheerfullly making complex wisecracks, which the others don't often get, and fear are at their expense. (This suits Gregor well enough, and unmolested, he gets on with designing, or reading, or making verbal doodles on the internet).
Let's picture the enigmatic ghost of a-z as a straightbacked, dimunitive, and icy woman, sort of a Lilith Sternan-Crane type, but without all the Hollywood. She dresses nice, and doesn't even crank the hair back in a bun all the time, but that neck is rigid enough, face muscles tight when other people are around. She avoids conversation more actively, would rather get lost in abstract thoughts, but her withdrawal is more frequently interpreted (sometimes rightly) as condescension. At the Fray bash, Gregor and ghost are sitting on opposite sides of the room.
Ghost is sitting upright in her chair, avoiding eye contact, but Gregor's leaning comfortably forward, idly peeling the label off an empty beer. He's looking around the room, and at last his gaze lands on ghost, sitting by herself, and he stops fiddlling around with the bottle and looks right at her. For a second, he catches her eye, but she huffs and turns away. Undaunted, Gregor ambles across the divide, and sits down next to her. As an acknowledgement, ghost stiffens up just a little more. Gregor thumbs his hand at a couple not far from them. It's topazz hitting hopefully on chango, who is not biting but is enjoying the attention. "Check it out, it's reverse Lamarckianism in action. So much for those phenotypes."
Ghost is aghast at both his forwardness and his idiotic comment. Flushed, she turns toward him, her voice trembles with anger. "Moron. It's clearly a selection--" But Gregor is sitting there grinning at her, waving around the beer bottle, which is now stuck on the end of his finger. She glowers. "Leave me alone," she says, but she turns her head away slowly, and at the end, her eyes flick back, and there's a discreet little grin.
A minute or two passes in silence, and ghost spies Dawn Coyote in the crowd. Dawn is already getting bored (having to drive around a bunch of drunks doesn't help, and her foot's sore from kicking people in the groin all night) and to divert herself, she's trying to instigate a fight between FieldingBandolier and The Bell, both of whom are patiently, and at length, reasoning their way through her attempts to rile them up.
Ghost is sick of these people, can't understand why she let's herself be anywhere around them, but still, she can't leave it alone. She speaks to Gregor without looking at him. "Now, provoking him is in her paramorous interest, and, presumably his, but including him as a rhetorical adversary" (she gestures at Bell) "clearly lowers the stakes for all parties. Although there's the patina of rationality, can only conclude they're failing to optimize non-cooperative equilibrium." She grimaces slightly. "Perhaps being unclear."
"Yup, dumb move," Gregor agrees.
Ghost giggles a little. "Ding and Dong" she addends quietly. Gregor smiles and puts a hand on her knee, and she whips around at him, looks him right in the eyes. She expected to berate him again, but finds she's instead at a loss for words. They lean in slightly toward each other. Closer…
keifus
by Keifus
09/26/2008, 7:08 AM #
Imagine Gregor Samsa as a 50-year-old engineer. He's got a roundish head, gray and receding hair, and a face that looks like it ought to be serious. When he's at the office, he lolls about his chair like a small-town sheriff, that same combination of relaxation and confrontation, and his bosses and coworkers avoid talking to him because he has a habit of cheerfullly making complex wisecracks, which the others don't often get, and fear are at their expense. (This suits Gregor well enough, and unmolested, he gets on with designing, or reading, or making verbal doodles on the internet).
Let's picture the enigmatic ghost of a-z as a straightbacked, dimunitive, and icy woman, sort of a Lilith Sternan-Crane type, but without all the Hollywood. She dresses nice, and doesn't even crank the hair back in a bun all the time, but that neck is rigid enough, face muscles tight when other people are around. She avoids conversation more actively, would rather get lost in abstract thoughts, but her withdrawal is more frequently interpreted (sometimes rightly) as condescension. At the Fray bash, Gregor and ghost are sitting on opposite sides of the room.
Ghost is sitting upright in her chair, avoiding eye contact, but Gregor's leaning comfortably forward, idly peeling the label off an empty beer. He's looking around the room, and at last his gaze lands on ghost, sitting by herself, and he stops fiddlling around with the bottle and looks right at her. For a second, he catches her eye, but she huffs and turns away. Undaunted, Gregor ambles across the divide, and sits down next to her. As an acknowledgement, ghost stiffens up just a little more. Gregor thumbs his hand at a couple not far from them. It's topazz hitting hopefully on chango, who is not biting but is enjoying the attention. "Check it out, it's reverse Lamarckianism in action. So much for those phenotypes."
Ghost is aghast at both his forwardness and his idiotic comment. Flushed, she turns toward him, her voice trembles with anger. "Moron. It's clearly a selection--" But Gregor is sitting there grinning at her, waving around the beer bottle, which is now stuck on the end of his finger. She glowers. "Leave me alone," she says, but she turns her head away slowly, and at the end, her eyes flick back, and there's a discreet little grin.
A minute or two passes in silence, and ghost spies Dawn Coyote in the crowd. Dawn is already getting bored (having to drive around a bunch of drunks doesn't help, and her foot's sore from kicking people in the groin all night) and to divert herself, she's trying to instigate a fight between FieldingBandolier and The Bell, both of whom are patiently, and at length, reasoning their way through her attempts to rile them up.
Ghost is sick of these people, can't understand why she let's herself be anywhere around them, but still, she can't leave it alone. She speaks to Gregor without looking at him. "Now, provoking him is in her paramorous interest, and, presumably his, but including him as a rhetorical adversary" (she gestures at Bell) "clearly lowers the stakes for all parties. Although there's the patina of rationality, can only conclude they're failing to optimize non-cooperative equilibrium." She grimaces slightly. "Perhaps being unclear."
"Yup, dumb move," Gregor agrees.
Ghost giggles a little. "Ding and Dong" she addends quietly. Gregor smiles and puts a hand on her knee, and she whips around at him, looks him right in the eyes. She expected to berate him again, but finds she's instead at a loss for words. They lean in slightly toward each other. Closer…
keifus
24 September 2008
Fray Bash - The Grownups Table
Fray Bash - The Grownups Table
by Keifus
09/24/2008, 6:52 AM #
It's in a small corner of the big Fray bash, wedged in between the end of the buffet table and the door to the men's room, that we find Kazillions, Jack Dallas, and Kent Lansville huddled around a small round bar table, trying to balance their drinks and plates on the tiny surface. Jack's plate is right in the middle of the disk, and as he tilts back in his chair, his body appears to tumble forward out of him: a straight back and neck extruding forhead, jowls, and an impressive Texas paunch (that is, in truth, a shadow of its former self). Kaz holds his plate and a cup in either hand, neither eating nor drinking, but he seems content. He's sandy-haired, gray touching the temples, with green eyes looking straight ahead out of a nondescript face slightly doughy with a decade or two of inactivity. Kent's wirier, leaner, taller, and more tightly wound than the other two men. He hunches over the table vying Jack's plate for a spot to set down his beer, which Jack rebuffs with an economy of movement. Periodically the door behind him opens and bumps the back of his chair.
"Goddamn," he says. "They told me this was the grownups table."
"Typical liberals," says Jack.
Kaz turns his head toward Kent and says, "Now, it's true that liberals have frequently tried to bear the mantle of maturity, and I admit that I'm not always satisfied with the bona fides of every Republican out there. But the truth is that the left wing wants its cake and wants to eat it too."
"Ha!" says Kent. "I tried to tell that to artandsoul earlier. We were talking about foreign policy, and how Obama wants to negotiate with Iran, and then tried to take a tough line once he saw McCain doing it. They're floundering out there, no idea how to handle the realities of the world stage."
"It's a typical liberal fault to project their own unseriousness onto Republican candidates. It's why they can't take McCain's sophisticated foreign policy plans and why the depth of Sarah Palin's executive experience bothers them so much. I admit that I feel a certain, how do you say it, humor, at their discomfort."
"Yeah, sure," says Jack. "Liberals suck. Now. Artandsoul... She got big tits or what?"
Kent: "What? Dude, she's nice. We were talking."
Kaz: "It's endlessly interesting to me how liberals are never manly enough to talk to a woman decently. As a parent, and a brother, I can assure you that they're always intimidated, don't treat women like human beings at all."
Jack looks at his plate, and hauls himself to his feet. "You know what, the shrimp's good. I'm gonna go get some more shrimp. You two, uh, you two watch my spot." Jack takes a last look at Kaz and Kent and then totters away in the general direction of the crowd. Kent edges Jack's plate, which is still half full of shrimp, to the edge of the table and finally sets his beer down next to it.
He sighs. "So Kaz, how's the market treating you these-- Goddamn!"
Schmutzie's just slammed the door into the back of Kent's chair. He stands their for a moment, with his Brunello Di Montalcino (which he's drinking straight from the bottle) wavering ever so slightly. "Sorry, man," he finally says, "I was thinking about those crepes. Munchies, you know?" And with an apologetic smile, he takes a swig and walks over to the buffet table.
"Here's how we can tell the economy's doing fine. Liberal doom and gloomers, which I objectively call chicken littles, can still afford fine wine from around the world. The free market continues to work its magic, there's real wealth here, and yet all they can seem to do is blame conservatives, as if this small economic bump had anything to do with real conservative policies."
Kent's normally taught shoulders are starting to slump a little. "Yeah, I guess. This bailout isn't really conservative. Hey, look I'm gonna--"
It's at this point that Urquhart swaggers by, top hat askew and monocle dangling from a ribbon. He's got rundeep on one arm, and topazz on the other, and he's wearing a big shit-eating grin on his face. Topazz whirls around and calls out "conga line!" to anyone who can hear.
Kent scowls at Urq. "Now why the hell didn't he sit with us?"
"Ayn Rand proposed that rational self-interest is the only real source of altruism in a fair society. Of course, Dems and Libs..."
"Will you shut the fuck up, already!"
"...obviously prefer socialist..."
(Thump.) "Goddamn. So where's the end of that line, anyway?"
keifus
by Keifus
09/24/2008, 6:52 AM #
It's in a small corner of the big Fray bash, wedged in between the end of the buffet table and the door to the men's room, that we find Kazillions, Jack Dallas, and Kent Lansville huddled around a small round bar table, trying to balance their drinks and plates on the tiny surface. Jack's plate is right in the middle of the disk, and as he tilts back in his chair, his body appears to tumble forward out of him: a straight back and neck extruding forhead, jowls, and an impressive Texas paunch (that is, in truth, a shadow of its former self). Kaz holds his plate and a cup in either hand, neither eating nor drinking, but he seems content. He's sandy-haired, gray touching the temples, with green eyes looking straight ahead out of a nondescript face slightly doughy with a decade or two of inactivity. Kent's wirier, leaner, taller, and more tightly wound than the other two men. He hunches over the table vying Jack's plate for a spot to set down his beer, which Jack rebuffs with an economy of movement. Periodically the door behind him opens and bumps the back of his chair.
"Goddamn," he says. "They told me this was the grownups table."
"Typical liberals," says Jack.
Kaz turns his head toward Kent and says, "Now, it's true that liberals have frequently tried to bear the mantle of maturity, and I admit that I'm not always satisfied with the bona fides of every Republican out there. But the truth is that the left wing wants its cake and wants to eat it too."
"Ha!" says Kent. "I tried to tell that to artandsoul earlier. We were talking about foreign policy, and how Obama wants to negotiate with Iran, and then tried to take a tough line once he saw McCain doing it. They're floundering out there, no idea how to handle the realities of the world stage."
"It's a typical liberal fault to project their own unseriousness onto Republican candidates. It's why they can't take McCain's sophisticated foreign policy plans and why the depth of Sarah Palin's executive experience bothers them so much. I admit that I feel a certain, how do you say it, humor, at their discomfort."
"Yeah, sure," says Jack. "Liberals suck. Now. Artandsoul... She got big tits or what?"
Kent: "What? Dude, she's nice. We were talking."
Kaz: "It's endlessly interesting to me how liberals are never manly enough to talk to a woman decently. As a parent, and a brother, I can assure you that they're always intimidated, don't treat women like human beings at all."
Jack looks at his plate, and hauls himself to his feet. "You know what, the shrimp's good. I'm gonna go get some more shrimp. You two, uh, you two watch my spot." Jack takes a last look at Kaz and Kent and then totters away in the general direction of the crowd. Kent edges Jack's plate, which is still half full of shrimp, to the edge of the table and finally sets his beer down next to it.
He sighs. "So Kaz, how's the market treating you these-- Goddamn!"
Schmutzie's just slammed the door into the back of Kent's chair. He stands their for a moment, with his Brunello Di Montalcino (which he's drinking straight from the bottle) wavering ever so slightly. "Sorry, man," he finally says, "I was thinking about those crepes. Munchies, you know?" And with an apologetic smile, he takes a swig and walks over to the buffet table.
"Here's how we can tell the economy's doing fine. Liberal doom and gloomers, which I objectively call chicken littles, can still afford fine wine from around the world. The free market continues to work its magic, there's real wealth here, and yet all they can seem to do is blame conservatives, as if this small economic bump had anything to do with real conservative policies."
Kent's normally taught shoulders are starting to slump a little. "Yeah, I guess. This bailout isn't really conservative. Hey, look I'm gonna--"
It's at this point that Urquhart swaggers by, top hat askew and monocle dangling from a ribbon. He's got rundeep on one arm, and topazz on the other, and he's wearing a big shit-eating grin on his face. Topazz whirls around and calls out "conga line!" to anyone who can hear.
Kent scowls at Urq. "Now why the hell didn't he sit with us?"
"Ayn Rand proposed that rational self-interest is the only real source of altruism in a fair society. Of course, Dems and Libs..."
"Will you shut the fuck up, already!"
"...obviously prefer socialist..."
(Thump.) "Goddamn. So where's the end of that line, anyway?"
keifus
23 September 2008
The Giant Fray Bash
The Giant Fray Bash
by Keifus #
09/23/2008, 2:11 PM
It's been a long, slow summer, and we're all looking forward to cooler days, nice sleeping weather, and anticipate with no small dread the return to our serious routines. It doesn't feel the same as other autumns. The economic times are looking pretty grim lately, banking institutions are teetering and no one knows the damage they'll cause; an election is looming that feels it will be monumental however the vote goes, and it's sometimes turned individual bitternesses to something beyond the rational. But still, even though we've been on edge, there's something that draws us all here, some reason we're all invited, a mutual boredom or a kinship of spirit or some pathetic codepedence that we'd probably rather not admit. But at any rate, it's a good excuse for party, it's a beautiful night, and everyone's managed to show up for once. Sometimes we love it, and sometimes we can't be far enough away, but tonight the company feels right. It's as if we're swinging on the last precipice before the unknown, and damned if we're not going to live it up at least once.
Our bash is at an old convention hall, somewhere out in the underpopulated midwest. It's actually an ancient converted barn that sits solidly on the top of a small hill, where it pleasantly overlooks expanses of quiet fields behind. We start to trickle in around dusk, just as the crickets start chirping, and crunch up the gravel walk to the door. It's a beautiful night, the moon's rising, and we can smell the woodsmoke of the campfire that's roaring in back. Some early leaves shift a little about our feet. The light at the door of the hall fills the shadows of the enormous pine beams a deep, rich orange, and there's a faint thumping of bass from behind the door.
We walk in and find that there's already a crowd growing. Directly ahead of us is a dance floor, with a dj booth in the far corner, where a few guests are gesturing about what cds they want to play. A few people are dancing on the big wood floor right now, and a few are sitting or milling about in front of the narrow, uphoulstered institutional chairs that line three walls. The couple of streamers that someone had bothered to hang already dangle tattered from the massive beams. To the left, the hall stretches into a banquet space, and there's a hell of a spread. There are huge iced buckets of bottled beers, a keg with a hand pump, and a long banquet table filled with an endless arrangement of catered goodies, and some favorite dishes that various people have brought, their names Sharpied onto their Tupperware over a strip of masking tape. Everywhere, people are munching, talking, laughing.
There's a huge fieldstone fireplace on the back wall, swept clean, and people have thrown their jackets on the hearth in a big pile. Next to the fireplace is a full bar, with the end of the formica counter hinged up for whoever's interested in tending themselves or others. We thread our way between these fine fixtures and into the narrow paneled hallway that leads to the back door. It's already a little darker, and the glow of the fire pit is starting to fill the sky with shadows. People are walking around and smoking and we hear voices and laughter from unseen places. One group, not far away, is tuning up their guitars and a few people are starting to pick some notes.
We look at each other, and deeply breath in the night air. It's going to be a good night, a long one, with lots of stories.
Someone should tell them.
by Keifus #
09/23/2008, 2:11 PM
It's been a long, slow summer, and we're all looking forward to cooler days, nice sleeping weather, and anticipate with no small dread the return to our serious routines. It doesn't feel the same as other autumns. The economic times are looking pretty grim lately, banking institutions are teetering and no one knows the damage they'll cause; an election is looming that feels it will be monumental however the vote goes, and it's sometimes turned individual bitternesses to something beyond the rational. But still, even though we've been on edge, there's something that draws us all here, some reason we're all invited, a mutual boredom or a kinship of spirit or some pathetic codepedence that we'd probably rather not admit. But at any rate, it's a good excuse for party, it's a beautiful night, and everyone's managed to show up for once. Sometimes we love it, and sometimes we can't be far enough away, but tonight the company feels right. It's as if we're swinging on the last precipice before the unknown, and damned if we're not going to live it up at least once.
Our bash is at an old convention hall, somewhere out in the underpopulated midwest. It's actually an ancient converted barn that sits solidly on the top of a small hill, where it pleasantly overlooks expanses of quiet fields behind. We start to trickle in around dusk, just as the crickets start chirping, and crunch up the gravel walk to the door. It's a beautiful night, the moon's rising, and we can smell the woodsmoke of the campfire that's roaring in back. Some early leaves shift a little about our feet. The light at the door of the hall fills the shadows of the enormous pine beams a deep, rich orange, and there's a faint thumping of bass from behind the door.
We walk in and find that there's already a crowd growing. Directly ahead of us is a dance floor, with a dj booth in the far corner, where a few guests are gesturing about what cds they want to play. A few people are dancing on the big wood floor right now, and a few are sitting or milling about in front of the narrow, uphoulstered institutional chairs that line three walls. The couple of streamers that someone had bothered to hang already dangle tattered from the massive beams. To the left, the hall stretches into a banquet space, and there's a hell of a spread. There are huge iced buckets of bottled beers, a keg with a hand pump, and a long banquet table filled with an endless arrangement of catered goodies, and some favorite dishes that various people have brought, their names Sharpied onto their Tupperware over a strip of masking tape. Everywhere, people are munching, talking, laughing.
There's a huge fieldstone fireplace on the back wall, swept clean, and people have thrown their jackets on the hearth in a big pile. Next to the fireplace is a full bar, with the end of the formica counter hinged up for whoever's interested in tending themselves or others. We thread our way between these fine fixtures and into the narrow paneled hallway that leads to the back door. It's already a little darker, and the glow of the fire pit is starting to fill the sky with shadows. People are walking around and smoking and we hear voices and laughter from unseen places. One group, not far away, is tuning up their guitars and a few people are starting to pick some notes.
We look at each other, and deeply breath in the night air. It's going to be a good night, a long one, with lots of stories.
Someone should tell them.
20 January 2006
Know Your Frayzies
Subject: Know Your Frayzies
From: Keifus
Date: Jan 20 2006 1:19PM
[This goes to some of you with cautious affection. Go ahead and presume I mean you.]
Hey newbies! If you've been trolling around the Best of the Fray recently, you've been perhaps lucky enough to arrive during a slight remission of the gigantic ego quotient. But if you are sharp, you may have noticed that some names are pronounced only in whispers. And you may have been wondering why no one talks to that seemingly rational and eloquent poster over there.
Psssst: it's because they're Frayzy.
Rest assured that they'll return in force and in form come this fall, hearkening to some vestigial September nesting instinct from those primordial days when the internet provided tides of clueless freshman discovering discussion groups for the first time, when angry lizards were required to do battle against the herds of the ignorant. Though we inhabit evolved times, those reptiles haven't gone away, and some still return to stomp around again, all overgrown now, shitting all over the place and complaining about the stink.
The problem with these massive dinosaurs is that most of them are, in parts, eminently readable, some of them even rather likable, but the smart poster should know how to filter for only the sane portions. For better or worse, they can be highly prolific, spewing so much of everything that even if the fraction of madness they produce isn't really that high, the quantity sure can be. A problem is that the nutty portions tend to bring out the worst in their less-motivated groupies and opponents. Relative newbies can become confused when encountering otherwise normal posters reduced to adulation or froth from having had their bullshit filters overloaded by the Frayzies at some point in the past. Don't let that happen to you. Adjust your settings accordingly.
So who are these people and how do you read them? As a service, I've sorted them for you here in order of increasing required filter strength you'll need to use. You're going to have to find the mulitple nicknames yourself, however, and be warned that the number of them increases with madness.
doodahman (30% whacko) The dood is probably the sanest of the big ego bunch. His My Two Cents column, in addition to being fucking hilarious, is filled with genuine heart, and he is actually capable of some minor self-deprecation now and again, always a plus. He gets some additional points for being the only poster of this bunch with whom I'd drink a beer sans safeguards, for the likely pleasure of listening to him talk, although I wouldn't expect him to listen. That doesn't sound crazy enough? Well, if you follow his MTC thing around enough, he'll sooner or later deeply annoy you with a pearls-before-the-swine stance, and if you dare go outside of the innocuous Dear Prudence forum, his anti-Republican ranting just may get under your skin. He's at his most batshit when feeling aggrieved by other posters, however, responding disproportionately with screaming profanity. It can still be funny.
Hauteur (45% cracked) If you like well-crafted intelligent anti-neocon screed, I must suggest you read Sarvis. If, however, you find Sarv's evident underlying sanity and reason too boring, you can switch to this guy. Hauteur is genuinely a skilled writer--an excellent word craftsman, though he's lamentably compared his essays to performance art, an analogy I can't get past now. Sometimes he really nails the posts though, and you can even converse sanely with him, provided you approach courteously and provided you more or less agree with him at the outset. Like the dood, he'll rally tons of righteous fury against those he considers enemies, and Hauteur's most prominent enemy is the Fray editor himself. Hauteur will occasionally castigate with holy outrage any poster who dares to discuss anything less important than (his) politics, and then spend two straight months doing nothing but whining at length over stars and checkmarks, all with no apparent sense of irony.
JudgeBland (just about half-baked) The man goes by many names, most of them hyphenated or compounded. His style these days is usually that of a sniper, but the content is a head-scratcher often enough, a roll-out flag that doesn't even say "bang," but cites some obscure poetry in French ("je sais pourquoi le clown triste pleure"). I'd consider having a beer with this guy too, but I'd keep some safe routes and emergency codes handy. He takes delight in rattling the posters he finds overrated, and he finds touchy-feely stuff especially annoying, especially if it's of a female version. And don't ask him about the Jews.
Tempo (55% nutters) Speaking of righteous outrage, Tempo eats, breathes, and shits the stuff. All over the place. She is actually sort of a nice, caring person, in the way that your overbearing mother is nice and caring. It's really important to Tempo that your point of view is "correct" by her standards, and that she has some ownership of the local drama, and if it isn't or she doesn't, then she'll cry (often to the editor, who despises her). She is tenacious and probably not worth the price of pissing off, and I most regret putting her on the list, but it's something you really need to know.
Ender (65% mad) I don't know if Ender is nuts or Machiavellian, but I assure you newbies that in practice, it doesn't make any difference. Evidence for insanity: his recent Fraywatch blowup; his apparently random swipes at Dawn Coyote, skitch, gary1, or whoever he's been at most recently. Evidence for sanity: he's just too smart to be pulling off this "as a top-tier poster" self-parody and not be aware of it. Evidence for insanity: he's not laughing at it that we can see. Sanity: Ender doesn't believe that the Fray is populated with real people, just a bunch of D&D characters which the owners may invest too much of themselves in. Insanity: but a lot of us are real people. Mostly, Ender reserves his passion for the other Frayzies, which is good for you and me, but the problem is that here at the bottom of the mountain, it doesn't matter whether it's wolf piss or pig piss: it still reeks. He has some practical things to teach, and can knock some posts out of the park with thoughtful sentiment when he feels like it, but you're probably better off ignoring the guy so you he doesn't drag you down when he goes off the deep end again. The nuttiness seems to come from a boredom that leads to detachment, and the scariest part about Ender is that I see a lot of him in me. Where do you think this post came from after all?
Appolonius (70% batshit) Appolonius is a tremendous stylist, and I harbor some affection for the guy for giving me encouragement here and there on these boards. But he's definitely one of the crazier ones, and what's more, he'd probably not deny it. It's just that there's so damned much unfiltered cerebral effluent coming out of him, that that the shit inevitably comes out right along with the rosewater. His posting is probably closer to raw thought than most of us are comfortable admitting, but that doesn't mean I want to read the unrefined product most days, and there can be quite a lot of it to sift through in any case. My biggest problem with Pony-boy is this, however: I served with Jesus Christ. I knew Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ was a friend of mine. Appolonius, you're no Jesus Christ.
ghost (80% insane) Never seen a ghost, you say? You are probably wrong. Our ghost is a multinicknamed beast that speaks in loopy prose and addenda. Most of the commentary is a circuitous analysis of other posters, but ghost also likes logic puzzles, and probably sees the Fray as a great big one. It's hard for me to tell you how much there is actually there (is the writing cryptic or just lazy?) but smarter posters than me have found forays into ghost's archives rewarding. Ghost posts are genuinely interesting—in the way that codependency is genuinely need-fulfilling—and ghost may even deign to respond to if you can pass ghost's test by making a passable theory as to what it is that ghost is on about. There is no poster for whom I more relish the fact that the person behind the keyboard is just some (other) bored and bespectacled nerd who cares way too much about this place. The ghost is easy to miss, but ghost's M.O. is infectious and ghost has affected the styles of many other posters. You'll be reading the ghost's posts too if you get bored enough.
Denny (85% crazy) Another guy I don't love to condemn, but the amazing quantity of spewage outweighs the handful of nice things he's said to me. Denny is a troll's troll. No Fray poster can touch him for sheer volume or for history or for number of nicknames. Denny, to his credit, at least doesn't shy from being a real person, maybe even he was a real poster once, but unfortunately that person is kind of like that crazy nattering uncle you had, who told war stories he couldn't possibly have been there for, that eventually you learned to tune out and avoid at family gatherings. Not that he can't have a point every once in a while—he tries on a new skin suit every now and again and tries to pull this off—but he can't hold a candle to the brilliant Frayzies no matter how hard he tries, and I trust other posters who've caught him shoplifting from the idea store. He swaps nics to avoid the editor's flush and the eyes of people who know him.
Oh, and lest we forget....
Keifus (___% out there)
[P.S. Fuck you topazz, switters, twiffer. I'll probably regret this.]
From: Keifus
Date: Jan 20 2006 1:19PM
[This goes to some of you with cautious affection. Go ahead and presume I mean you.]
Hey newbies! If you've been trolling around the Best of the Fray recently, you've been perhaps lucky enough to arrive during a slight remission of the gigantic ego quotient. But if you are sharp, you may have noticed that some names are pronounced only in whispers. And you may have been wondering why no one talks to that seemingly rational and eloquent poster over there.
Psssst: it's because they're Frayzy.
Rest assured that they'll return in force and in form come this fall, hearkening to some vestigial September nesting instinct from those primordial days when the internet provided tides of clueless freshman discovering discussion groups for the first time, when angry lizards were required to do battle against the herds of the ignorant. Though we inhabit evolved times, those reptiles haven't gone away, and some still return to stomp around again, all overgrown now, shitting all over the place and complaining about the stink.
The problem with these massive dinosaurs is that most of them are, in parts, eminently readable, some of them even rather likable, but the smart poster should know how to filter for only the sane portions. For better or worse, they can be highly prolific, spewing so much of everything that even if the fraction of madness they produce isn't really that high, the quantity sure can be. A problem is that the nutty portions tend to bring out the worst in their less-motivated groupies and opponents. Relative newbies can become confused when encountering otherwise normal posters reduced to adulation or froth from having had their bullshit filters overloaded by the Frayzies at some point in the past. Don't let that happen to you. Adjust your settings accordingly.
So who are these people and how do you read them? As a service, I've sorted them for you here in order of increasing required filter strength you'll need to use. You're going to have to find the mulitple nicknames yourself, however, and be warned that the number of them increases with madness.
doodahman (30% whacko) The dood is probably the sanest of the big ego bunch. His My Two Cents column, in addition to being fucking hilarious, is filled with genuine heart, and he is actually capable of some minor self-deprecation now and again, always a plus. He gets some additional points for being the only poster of this bunch with whom I'd drink a beer sans safeguards, for the likely pleasure of listening to him talk, although I wouldn't expect him to listen. That doesn't sound crazy enough? Well, if you follow his MTC thing around enough, he'll sooner or later deeply annoy you with a pearls-before-the-swine stance, and if you dare go outside of the innocuous Dear Prudence forum, his anti-Republican ranting just may get under your skin. He's at his most batshit when feeling aggrieved by other posters, however, responding disproportionately with screaming profanity. It can still be funny.
Hauteur (45% cracked) If you like well-crafted intelligent anti-neocon screed, I must suggest you read Sarvis. If, however, you find Sarv's evident underlying sanity and reason too boring, you can switch to this guy. Hauteur is genuinely a skilled writer--an excellent word craftsman, though he's lamentably compared his essays to performance art, an analogy I can't get past now. Sometimes he really nails the posts though, and you can even converse sanely with him, provided you approach courteously and provided you more or less agree with him at the outset. Like the dood, he'll rally tons of righteous fury against those he considers enemies, and Hauteur's most prominent enemy is the Fray editor himself. Hauteur will occasionally castigate with holy outrage any poster who dares to discuss anything less important than (his) politics, and then spend two straight months doing nothing but whining at length over stars and checkmarks, all with no apparent sense of irony.
JudgeBland (just about half-baked) The man goes by many names, most of them hyphenated or compounded. His style these days is usually that of a sniper, but the content is a head-scratcher often enough, a roll-out flag that doesn't even say "bang," but cites some obscure poetry in French ("je sais pourquoi le clown triste pleure"). I'd consider having a beer with this guy too, but I'd keep some safe routes and emergency codes handy. He takes delight in rattling the posters he finds overrated, and he finds touchy-feely stuff especially annoying, especially if it's of a female version. And don't ask him about the Jews.
Tempo (55% nutters) Speaking of righteous outrage, Tempo eats, breathes, and shits the stuff. All over the place. She is actually sort of a nice, caring person, in the way that your overbearing mother is nice and caring. It's really important to Tempo that your point of view is "correct" by her standards, and that she has some ownership of the local drama, and if it isn't or she doesn't, then she'll cry (often to the editor, who despises her). She is tenacious and probably not worth the price of pissing off, and I most regret putting her on the list, but it's something you really need to know.
Ender (65% mad) I don't know if Ender is nuts or Machiavellian, but I assure you newbies that in practice, it doesn't make any difference. Evidence for insanity: his recent Fraywatch blowup; his apparently random swipes at Dawn Coyote, skitch, gary1, or whoever he's been at most recently. Evidence for sanity: he's just too smart to be pulling off this "as a top-tier poster" self-parody and not be aware of it. Evidence for insanity: he's not laughing at it that we can see. Sanity: Ender doesn't believe that the Fray is populated with real people, just a bunch of D&D characters which the owners may invest too much of themselves in. Insanity: but a lot of us are real people. Mostly, Ender reserves his passion for the other Frayzies, which is good for you and me, but the problem is that here at the bottom of the mountain, it doesn't matter whether it's wolf piss or pig piss: it still reeks. He has some practical things to teach, and can knock some posts out of the park with thoughtful sentiment when he feels like it, but you're probably better off ignoring the guy so you he doesn't drag you down when he goes off the deep end again. The nuttiness seems to come from a boredom that leads to detachment, and the scariest part about Ender is that I see a lot of him in me. Where do you think this post came from after all?
Appolonius (70% batshit) Appolonius is a tremendous stylist, and I harbor some affection for the guy for giving me encouragement here and there on these boards. But he's definitely one of the crazier ones, and what's more, he'd probably not deny it. It's just that there's so damned much unfiltered cerebral effluent coming out of him, that that the shit inevitably comes out right along with the rosewater. His posting is probably closer to raw thought than most of us are comfortable admitting, but that doesn't mean I want to read the unrefined product most days, and there can be quite a lot of it to sift through in any case. My biggest problem with Pony-boy is this, however: I served with Jesus Christ. I knew Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ was a friend of mine. Appolonius, you're no Jesus Christ.
ghost (80% insane) Never seen a ghost, you say? You are probably wrong. Our ghost is a multinicknamed beast that speaks in loopy prose and addenda. Most of the commentary is a circuitous analysis of other posters, but ghost also likes logic puzzles, and probably sees the Fray as a great big one. It's hard for me to tell you how much there is actually there (is the writing cryptic or just lazy?) but smarter posters than me have found forays into ghost's archives rewarding. Ghost posts are genuinely interesting—in the way that codependency is genuinely need-fulfilling—and ghost may even deign to respond to if you can pass ghost's test by making a passable theory as to what it is that ghost is on about. There is no poster for whom I more relish the fact that the person behind the keyboard is just some (other) bored and bespectacled nerd who cares way too much about this place. The ghost is easy to miss, but ghost's M.O. is infectious and ghost has affected the styles of many other posters. You'll be reading the ghost's posts too if you get bored enough.
Denny (85% crazy) Another guy I don't love to condemn, but the amazing quantity of spewage outweighs the handful of nice things he's said to me. Denny is a troll's troll. No Fray poster can touch him for sheer volume or for history or for number of nicknames. Denny, to his credit, at least doesn't shy from being a real person, maybe even he was a real poster once, but unfortunately that person is kind of like that crazy nattering uncle you had, who told war stories he couldn't possibly have been there for, that eventually you learned to tune out and avoid at family gatherings. Not that he can't have a point every once in a while—he tries on a new skin suit every now and again and tries to pull this off—but he can't hold a candle to the brilliant Frayzies no matter how hard he tries, and I trust other posters who've caught him shoplifting from the idea store. He swaps nics to avoid the editor's flush and the eyes of people who know him.
Oh, and lest we forget....
Keifus (___% out there)
[P.S. Fuck you topazz, switters, twiffer. I'll probably regret this.]
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