Ten minutes

9:50

Our ten-minute free-write is back for another round! Tap away on whatever comes to mind, no filters attached.

Does not seem like a whole lot of time…so I’m guessing we won’t see any epic poems or Declarations of Independence. Hell, we probably won’t see more than the dull echo of no-particular-idea resonating around inside hollow skull. (No, don’t go back to edit, idjit!)

So lets see what pours out of the Freudian twitch factory this morning.

Let’s talk about SMFU’s. Particularly easy to notice, the closer we get to Thanksgiving, is the Slow-Moving Family Unit. You’ll see them, trundling through the grocery, in enormous-large groups, multiple-shopping-cart retail encounters.

The thing is, the SMFU is too large to be efficient. Hell, two shoppers is often inefficient, particularly if they’re the Cellphone Shopper sub-species. But those big family groups…you’re talking hours to work their way through a single grocery trip, and finally wheeze into Checkout like worn-out marathon runners.

No wonder they always seem so crazy grumpy!

No cart can move faster than the slowest-walking individual. The entire group cannot proceed to the next shopping aisle until the all of the bored kids have been re-roped at re-attached to the SMFU. The baby never, ever stops screaming at maximum volume. The Man of the Group (there’s always at least one) cannot stop making useless, distracting suggestions (“did we want any chicken gizzards?”). And the more members you include in the SMFU, the longer it takes this entity to function in any vitally important decision-making capacity (like which lunch meat to purchase).

10:01. Bzzzzzt!

RecDave Seal

Hope I got at least a B.

From the family archives

A snail walked into the Ferrari dealer. After looking over the showroom models, and he selected the biggest, fastest, most expensive sports car on the lot.

Delighted, the salesman began typing up the sales contract, already thinking ahead to his next vacation from the huge sales commission.

“Wait a minute,” said the snail. “I have some special requirements before I sign any contract.”

“Of course, sir, anything. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I need the car repainted.”

The salesman glanced at the car, examining the bright, perfect factory finish. “Repainted, sir?”

“Yes,” said the snail. “I need it painted flashy bright yellow, so that no one could possibly miss it. And I need a bold red ‘S’ painted on each door, and on the hood.”

“Of course, we can do that,” replied the salesman, “But may I ask why?”

“I’ve always been laughed at, for being so slow,” said the snail. “Now I want people to see me going fast fast FAST. They’ll watch and admire as I motor up and down the strip on a crisp, bright morning. They’ll watch me and they’ll exclaim:”

Wow! Look at that S car go!!”


 

One of my uncles (Stanley?) was fond of this and similar groaners. Don’t blame me! It’s still stuck in my head from when I was a kid!

The abusive things children are subjected to. Just shameful!

RecDave Seal

 

Trio no. 4

I am sorry, Ms. Barrich

I treated her abominably, because I was a right arse at the time, and because she blocked me. (Something you should never, ever do to a teenage male bubbling fountain of hormones, take note.)

It was my junior year of high school, so probably 1978 or ’79…and that puts me right around 17, plus or minus. Ms. Barrich was an English teacher, specifically Grammar and Composition, which meant she had the unfortunate luck of teaching one of the Driest of all classes ever conceived by humans.

Chalkboards filled with sentence diagrams, exciting concepts like “predicate” and “gerund” and “infinitive”. The actual theme-writing part wasn’t so bad, at least not for me, but the sheer tedium of the diagramming and analyzing of individual sentences… Worse than a chore–it became a class to dread, and a class to gradually build up a fiery, burning hatey-hate for.

So Ms. Barrich (possibly through no fault of her own) became the object of all that emotion, the focus of my ire. If she could just make this stuff more interesting…lord I am bored.

What’s going on outside the window today?

What happens when your students are not gripped by your thrilling lectures, and don’t much like the subject matter in the first place? The search for somewhere, anywhere else for a young mind to be. In my case, the attractive young lady in the desk next to me.

And we would whisper, and we would pass notes. We began to make fun of Ms. Barrich, behind her back.

Until one day Ms. Barrich caught us doing it.

Her solution was to separate us. For the one (and only, far as I know) time in my high school career, I went ballistic at a teacher. I had an interest in #CuteGirl next to me, how could you do that to me you you you…witch?!

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it could not have been polite, and certainly not deserved. It earned me several days of detention and  a trip to the vice principal’s office. I suppose I got off with a cheap sentence.

I’m sorry, Ms. Barrich. Truly.

I’ve lost even the name of #CuteGirl to the fading memory, so obviously whatever puppy-love triggered the incident could not ultimately have been all that important.

And you know, I’ve even failed to complete this assignment:

Of the people who are close to you, who is the person most unlike you? What makes it possible for you to get along?

Never got past the ‘oil and water’ part, I  guess. This was the story that wanted to be told :shrug:
RecDave Seal

 

Not a Gerund

Alien

The rustle of the door opening downstairs signals its arrival. With that soft noise, the fog rolls slowly up the staircase, cold and heavy and noxious. Engulfing everything, it soon obscures the bottom of the stairs from view.

But from the base of the staircase comes a piercing shriek. Rising like a siren’s wail, it pulses out in all directions, causing the glass to vibrate in the frame. Louder and softer, it ebbs and wanes with an unpredictable pattern. For a moment  it stops–and then, with the penetrating sharp staccato shriek of some small animal being devoured alive, in never-ceasing torment, it returns.

Doors slam and voices ring out, heavy feet pound up the stairs, down in the shrouded grey mist. The voices sound stressed, tense, often angry. You can never quite make out what they are saying, it sounds vaguely oriental (perhaps), but you can’t be sure because the siren cry often drowns out all other sounds. Perhaps they only sound angry because they must yell to be heard.

Like the narrator in a Poe story, I cover my ears, praying that some day soon it will end. But night after night, it continues. And like a Poe character, I fear that it just may be driving me mad.

How much worse for those poor, lost souls at the base of the stairs, so much nearer to the horror, the dreadful baleful inevitability that this evil will return again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next? How can they live with the sheer, inescapable Cthulhuian dread of what awaits them, and me, tomorrow at the same time?

I reach for the remote, increasing the volume, trying to block out the strange and awful cries. But it never does any good. Tomorrow, inevitably, my downstairs neighbors will again return.

It must be an Alien-Demon Spawn, I tell my wife. Nothing human could possibly make cries like that, surely.

RecDave Seal

! Create

Fill in the blank: “Life is too short to _____.” Now, write a post telling us how you’ve come to that conclusion.

I’ll admit, this one did cause me to stop and think a bit.

Life’s too short to…

  • Farm cubicles
  • Regret
  • Throw away (on smoking or drinking or whatever)
  • Waste At Wal-Mart
  • Spend in your car commuting
  • etc.

Lots of catchy t-shirt wisdom is bound to spring from this topic–there’s endless aphorism potential here. Little comics with pithy captions…do we have any comic artists in the house? Internet meme fame awaits you!

But I finally decided to flip the assignment; what is it that I cannot skip and be happy?

If life seems jolly rotten, there’s something you’ve forgotten,
And that’s to laugh and smile and dance and sing.

That’s what that “!” is, in the title–coder-speak for “Not”. Life’s Too Short To Not Create. Isn’t that clever? Hey, stop throwing things!

I draw happiness from creating things. This week, that’s writing. In the past, it’s been hacking code or digital art or sketching or even my “rock star” guitar-god period. Aren’t you glad you missed that one?

Annie digs her quilting and her photography. Everyone has their own ‘thing’, or several things.

I was doing some browsing on etching (stone and glass) yesterday. Seems like something I could quite enjoy (I was a Chemistry major, ya know). Some science, some creative…captured my interest. More research is in order! Is there hobby potential here, or just enormous start-up costs? Thank god for Google.

These are the kind of things that do still engage me; make me smile and even inspire passion.

You’ll see it’s all a show, keep ’em laughing as you go.
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

Thank you, Mr. Idle, for the excellent advice. Life’s too short.

RecDave Seal

Give the audience a grin

This isn’t that post

I woke from a dream, just now. I was having one of those semi-lucid creative moments, when several post ideas were chained together into one delightful mega-post, with perfect segues from each theme to the next, verbal construction that dazzled with humor and interest and pathos and…it was going to be great!

This is not that post.

I got up and went to pee. And (as so often happens), during that few moments, the brilliant plan faded away. I could feel it dispersing…until I lost each and every plank in the platform of the self-evident brilliance was…just gone.

So I’ve gotta stow a notebook and a pen (or something) bedside so that I can scribble on the way to the potty. Try to save something, some core of idea(s)…

Because in the A.M. I will undoubtedly turn on the Idiot Box, watch the re-run of last night’s Walking Dead…and post some kind of drivel instead.

Sorry readers, that I have a bladder. Or else I would be in a furious keyboard-pounding haze of J.D. Salinger, and the next Great American Novel would be taking shape right now!

Damn you, Dr. Pepper company, damn you.  All your fault.

RecDave Seal

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 

Ex-Husband Stew

The years is 5103 (Elanthian, or 2003 for us regular people), and it is night 3 of the House Argent Aspis Annual Bardfest. The game is Gemstone III (pretty sure it hadn’t changed to Gemstone IV yet in 2003?)

This is one of my (five?) Bardfest performances, possibly the last one. I’m not sure, a couple of them were duets. No fear, I was never in any danger of winning the thing (and indeed, for several of them I was ineligible to win, due to being working Simutronics staff).

House Aspis hosted a performance competition, once a year, to which all bards in the game were invited. Of course, not all of them were performers…but (in our opinion), if you didn’t perform, you weren’t a bard–You might play a bard class in a video game, but to BE a Bard–ya gotta sing!

To my knowledge, this the only one of my performances where the text still exists somewhere.

But since Lemmy was my bard and I did write and script the performance, I’m pretty sure I’ve got publishing rights!

Here ’tis (audience fidgeting and such has been edited out, it’s still difficult enough to explain to folks who don’t Grok roleplay, or text-based games like Gemstone). I think this was “recorded” from Dremerie’s point of view, but she may have had a helper doing the text capture:

(Dremerie slips her hand into the hat and quickly draws out a heart_shaped parchment covered in
hand_drawn violets.)
Dremerie recites:
“I should have known!
Lemmie love, come up and show us what ya got!”

<applause applause>

You see Lemandria D’Verethin the Songmistress.
She appears to be a Half_Elf Pariah from Ta’Illistim.
She appears to be old and shorter than average. She has long_lashed sea green eyes and copper
skin. She has very long, glossy black hair worn in a chignon. She has a triangular face, a thin
nose and wide hips.
She has developed slurred speech.
She is holding a bone_hilted knife in her left hand.
She is wearing a pair of wire_framed spectacles, a delicate cream leather collar, a deeply hooded
dark burgundy cloak, a fitted rose silk bodice, a soft cream satin chemise, a stained cotton apron,
a full_length rose silk skirt, some sheer cream silk stockings, and some burgundy velvet dancing
slippers.

(Lemandria strides up to the stage carrying a large glaes pot and sits down on the edge, settling
the pot between her knees. She hikes up her skirt a bit and scratches at her knee, looking out at
the audience dubiously.)
Lemandria drops a red glaes pot.
Lemandria removes a bone_hilted knife from in her dark burgundy cloak.
Lemandria says, “Tonight, ah thought ah’d give you something just a little bit different from the
normal song an dance. A special treat fer all the ladies out there, ahm gonna give ya’ll a little
cookin lesson.”
Lemandria asks, “Sharp things?”
Lemandria grins at Ylena.
Lemandria playfully says, “An no, there hain’t no felines involved in thisun a’tall.”
Lemandria grins.
Lemandria fidgets.
Lemandria worriedly says, “But ya know, witch cookin…”
Lemandria rubs her chin thoughtfully.
Lemandria waves her hand in a dismissive gesture.
(Lemandria pulls a cutting board out of the pot, and sets out a small pile of fresh vegetables. She
picks up a carrot and begins slicing it into the pot. Each slice thunks hollowly on the bottom as it
drops in.)
Lemandria says, “Today we’re gonna make some stew, ladies. Pay attention to the recipe, mind.”
(Lemandria discards the leafy greens as she slices down to the end of the carrot and picks up
another. Cackles quietly to herself and begins to sing in a chanting melody:)

Lemandria sings:

“The first scum ah married was a warrior bold
We’d be as one always, ah was frequently told
But along came a beautiful young sylvan thing
She winked and he followed as if drawn by a string”

Lemandria stares off into space.
(Lemandria shakes her head and slices a bit more carrot before looking up with a wry grin.)

Lemandria sings:

“But ah can’t say ah’m bitter, oh no not a bit
She did me a great favor seducin’ that git
Y’see six months later he’d abandoned her too__
He became the first meat in my ex_husband stew”

Lemandria cackles!
(Lemandria picks up an onion and begins to skin it, hands skillfully shedding the outer layers and
slicing off both ends. “It’s quite tasty, ya know,” she says, “Mah momma taught me ta make it
when Dad lost tha house in a game o’ cards.”)

Lemandria sings:

“My ex_husband stew that I stir in my pot
Warm over the fire til it’s all nice an’ hot.
There’s nothin’ so tasty, if truth be told.
Revenge is a dish that tastes best not served cold!”

(Lemandria quarters the onion and cuts each section into smaller pieces, peeking into the pot as
she drops them in.)

Lemandria sings:

“The next cheeky feller that ah give me heart to
Was a strappin tall giant who was never untrue
He just up and vanished on one cold winter day__
It seems like ah just can’t get a feller to stay”

(Lemandria wipes a tear from the corner of her eye and blinks out at the audience.)
Lemandria sarcastically asks, “What? Ah’m choppin onions, what’d ya expect?”
Lemandria rubs a stained cotton apron.
(Lemandria mutters to herself. “Kin’t unnerstand it, ahm a wunnerful cook,” she says, reaching
down to pick up an escaped onion slice from the floor. She shrugs, saying “It’s a mystery,” as she
brushes the dirt from it and pops it in the pot.)

Lemandria sings:

“But ah can’t say ah’m bitter, oh no not a bit
And ya knows ah was not really ready ta quit
If ah see him again ah’ll just get a sharp knife
An ah’ll mince him up nicely fer ditchin his wife”

Lemandria waves a bone_hilted knife around.
(Lemandria peels the potato in a long, curly sliver, raising the unbroken skin skyward with a
cheerful chuckle. “Is tha some skillful knife work, or hain’t it? One piece!”)

Lemandria sings:

“My ex_husband stew that I stir in my pot
Warm over the fire til it’s all nice an’ hot.
There’s nothin’ so tasty, if truth be told.
Revenge is a dish that tastes best not served cold!”

(Lemandria stares at the potato in her hand for a moment and suddenly breaks into a huge, wicked
grin. She stuffs the potato quickly into the left side of her bodice, then grabs another and stuffs it
in the right side.)
(Lemandria sets down her pot and leaps to her feet, prancing around the stage and tossing her hair
about wildly, thrusting her new tuberous figure outward boldly.)
Lemandria stands up.
Lemandria sashays about in a circle with her head thrown back and arms wide.

Lemandria sings:

“”Yes, ah’m just a misogamist girl!””

Lemandria gulps.
(Lemandria stops suddenly, looking very sheepish, and plops back down on the edge of the stage.
She mutters in a low growl, “Worked for him,” flushing deeply and pulling the potatoes out one
by one, dropping them in the pot whole.)
Lemandria takes a comfortable seat on the pews.
Lemandria coughs.

Lemandria sings:

“So ah gave one more try just fer stubbornness sake
But the last one ah married was tha biggest snake
Seems ah was not tha only lass in his love life__
He neglected ta tell me ’bout his ~other~ wife”

Lemandria scowls.
(Lemandria pulls an aqua wand from her cloak and gives it a casual wave at the pot to fill it with
water. She sticks her hand in the pot and swirls the ingredients around with it, drying it on her
apron before singing again.)

Lemandria sings:

“But ah can’t say ah’m bitter, oh no not a bit
The fellers and I, we just can’t seem to fit.
Ah shouldn’t be angry that this feller just ‘missed’
Tellin me that ah’d married me a bigamist?”

(Lemandria sniffs at her stewpot.)
Lemandria dubiously says, “Ah think it needs somethin. Hmmmm..”

Lemandria sings:

“My ex_husband stew that I stir in my pot
Warm over the fire til it’s all nice an’ hot.
There’s nothin’ so tasty, if truth be told.
Revenge is a dish that tastes best not served cold!”

Lemandria exclaims, “Ah yes!,” as she pulls a rather doubtful_looking slab of meat out of her
cloak and plops it on the cutting board. “Ya know there’s just somethin about tha taste of…er..
pork!”
Lemandria smacks her lips.

Lemandria sings:

“So ah’m finally finished, all my hope is spent
Ah’ve just now decided not ta give my consent
To another grand feller, dun matter how cute__
Retired completely from romantic pursuits”

(Lemandria chops the slab of meat into tiny pieces, hacking away with evident relish.)
Lemandria knowingly says, “You ladies mind, ya get more flavor from yer ingredients if ya chop
him…”
Lemandria quickly says, ” Them, ah means, ya chops THEM up real fine…yer…um, ingredients,
that is..”
Lemandria coughs.

Lemandria sings:

“But ah can’t say ah’m bitter, oh no not a bit
I found them quite tasty, ah just gotta admit
They make a nice gravy, all dark and rich
Just reward for their ditchin this wicked old witch.”

Lemandria stands up.
(Lemandria cackles happily to herself as she adds a dash of salt and pepper, and picks up her pot.)
Lemandria says, “Now ya just hang it over the fireplace and let it simmer fer a day er two. When
it smells better’n the stew from tha week afore, it’s ready.”
Lemandria nods.
Lemandria innocently says, “Oh and…”
Lemandria bats her eyelashes for attention.

Lemandria sings:

“Should one of you fellers ever doubt my tale’s true,
step into my kitchen…”

Lemandria sings:

“There’s a pot fer you too.”

(Lemandria gives Aurien a meaningful stare and then flounces happily back to her seat with her
stewpot.)

<applause applause>

Some odd artifacts in there, probably from game-to-capture-to-text-to-html conversions, extra linefeeds, characters lost…but the basic gist is there,

Bardfest ‘performances’ tended to be poetry + emotes + acting + fidgeting with props + all kinds of other stuff.

Lemmy was (go figure) a great scripter (I’d hit an F-key to start the show, and sit back and sip coffee while it scrolled along). But she was a pretty weak poet (I was, I mean), and only fair at “performance”.

Still, I’m glad someone preserved this sort of thing (Thanks House Aspis Archivist, whoever you are!), because it’s a bit of personal history, too. I’ve lost all the rest of my Gemstone text captures in computer turnover/crashes over the years. :/

Wish I’d saved players encountering the 30-foot Combat Mecha in Elnath’s Office Segment…that was fun.

RecDave Seal

Gemstone III and Gemstone IV are registered trademarks of Simutronics. https://www.play.net/gs4/

It is one of the oldest active games on the internet.

Apologies to Madonna for the Material Girl sequence.
GS4-Elnath and Lemandria are retired 😛

 

 

Uh oh. Who opened up the Reactionary Grape-nuts?

A restaurant that removed your favorite item from the menu, a bad cover of a great song… Write a post about something that should’ve been left untouched, but wasn’t. Why was the original better?

Oh man, the avalanche you’re going to receive from this one. Us old guys, the rotary phone generations…everything was better “back then”, they had radio shows telling them so almost their whole lives. Remember radio shows?  Compare-and-contrast Amos ‘n’ Andy to Rush Limbaugh and ding! There’s your topic.

Wally and the Beav? No, modern television kids can’t stand up to the pure light (heavenly chorus fanfare) that shone from Wally and the Beav at all times. There’s your topic.

Cars–your little efficient four-cylinder, you know, is greatly inferior to my classic Cadillac V-8. Hell, back then we could afford 10 MPG! There’s your topic.

French fries, remember how those highly salted artery-clogging grease sticks tasted? This week’s mmm good(?) mono-unsaturated soybean-oil fries don’t stand a chance!

Education–paying so very much more and receiving so very much less.

Do we really need the lists of things that were better? All of the topics are done to death, and it’s all Old Guy Yelling Get Off My Lawn Damn Kids Cane-waving anyway, isn’t it?

Why encourage living in the past? I can carry my entire (used to be) 600 pound Vinyl record collection in my back pocket! And it’s grown an order of magnitude larger in the process!

Things change, and thank heavens that they do. We all suspect Those Damn Kids™ have our civilization teetering on the brink of collapse, but Socrates and Plato had the same worries (well, sort of, in a paraphrased kind of way).

But maybe we need to worry lot less about what Those Damn Kids™ are up to, and a lot more about what the Old Guy Congresscritturs™ are.

RecDave Seal

Give The Kid A Break