... on the other hand ... I can ignore the music and focus on words (in as many so-called languages as it takes ... <be'reiken> ...) ... a Language is a Dialect with an Army ... some examples follow ... :

"Trying to remember what my Daddy said
Before too much time took away his head ..."
- Neil Young

"I got too much time
Too much time
To be without love."
- Captain Beefheart

"Like that ancient teenage dream
Of soul to poison soul to poison soul."
- John Cale.

"I'm a farmer in the city"
- Scott Walker.

Didn't work. Confusions rains. On my parade. So here, for you, is a truncated proto-list of doomy Euro-femme sub-gothic trance songs:

Nico, I'll Keep it with Mine (Dylan)

Ute Lemper, The Russians are Coming (Engel)

Nico, The End (Morrison)

Nico, Abschied

Joni Mitchell, In France They Kiss on Main Street

[okay, last one's Canadian and so clearly a ringer ... but I give her *some* credit for attempting a Yurpean kiss. It coulda been a whole lot messier ... ]

Be careful "up" there, wontcha? Word has it they breed -- sometimes with bears and seals, sometimes with cockroaches (the dreaded mutant ice roaches), and sometimes with each other.

Brains get deselected inside a couple of generations, but muscle bulk goes exponential. These are dangerous animals. And tomorrow belongs to them.

Ah. So did I.

One of the books I acquired today was a copy of 'Mak-Bet' by Viliyem Shekspir, in Russian. Bee-yootiful, nyet? "Da, Moro, i, da, Moro, i, da, Moro ..."

Now that's a Scotch Gambit...
- The Queen, my lord, is dead.
- She should have died hereafter...

or

- Boss! Your Moll has been iced!
- So? Sure, later woulda been better...

Ouch. [(heh)^(n+1)] = Ouch!

Incidentally, speaking of Blaise "one newton per square metre" Pascal and his famously silly wager ("IF God exists AND is the kind of paranoid vengeful monster described in the prescientific texts AND has prepared infinite punishments for those who deviate trivially from an arbitrary-seeming set of behavioral precepts AND makes no allowance for honest error AND demands unquestioning belief even when peer-reviewable evidence is lacking AND privileges faith above all things AND would probably be locked up for a very long time indeed were it not for his alleged omnipotence, THEN it is logical to follow the orders of the powerful European males who claim privileged access, since an infinite punishment would last forever and warrant only a zero risk in that direction ..." -- which is 'silly' because it overlooks all the alternative scenarios in which, for examples, god is a raging fairy who finds faith distasteful, or, god exists but is actually allergic to prayer, or, gods are strictly local and the solar system just moved into a territory owned by a bug-eyed-monster god who's addicted to neutrino bursts and gamma radiation and wouldn't know a prayer from a black hole in the head ...

Still. In the grand scheme of things, many people have had sillier ideas. Pascal didn't do *too* much harm -- maybe xtianized a few mathematicians, over the centuries, while trying to save them from the illogical consequences of their own imaginations.

But -- different register now -- Pascal was presumably named for 'Saint' Blaise. Blaise, a longtime Vatican stalwart and fulltime saint, is in charge of the heavenly oxyrhyncus & rhinoplasty dept -- ie, he is the Official Patron Saint of Throats.

Some Catholic countries hold annual throat-blessing ceremonies, asking Blaise to intercede with the boss and ensure happy, healthy throats on the side of the prayermaker and catarrh for his enemies.

However. There's a catch. Blaise would also appear to be the Patron of other throat-related activities, including Mongolian throat-singing. And there's the strange case of Gullet the dog. And finally, certain throat-related sexual acts which we can't even allude to here, cos the previous attempt caused the entire forum to be shut down.

Blaise is the Patron Saint of Blow.

Jobs in the Saint Business are hard to come by.

But candles are easier to come by than harsh electric lights.

And they'll never reach the moon ... why? Put it like this.

It's cool, your Deitude, I'm not *really* looking for an explanation. The question is rhetorical. Meaning -- on a good day -- I know the answer already. KK?

I wonder if she really gave head to <Jim Morrison> in an elevator?

Never mind, minor point.

<Woods> NOt to worry, I'm no Lil Red Riding Hoodlum.

My crepuscular walks are in the woods, and despite popular misconception even the "dangerous" animals aren't that dangerous.

Here is a partial list of the animals I have seen on my walks here since last summer:

black bear, coyote, skunk, chipmunk, 8000000 mosquitos, beaver, opossum, birds, steelhead salmon just a few meteres down in a crystal pure eddy, porkypine, coastal blacktail deer (I almost stepped on a fawn while jogging once), vole, cats, dogs, horses, cows, llamas (they farm llamas here believe it or not), wild turkeys, snakes, and

SCADS OF GIANT MULTI COLORED BANANA SLUGS

heh.

The West Coast Rainforest has more slugs, and bigger slugs, than anywhere on earth.

Come up for a visit!!

I have so many books on my "summer reading list" from you guys it's not even funny.

OK it is funny.

My trip "downtown" will have to wait till I finish editing, due date is now Tuesday.

I finished re-writing the "abstract" today.

signed

A. Worried Olde Hen

I'm going to hang out at my place for a bit, i'm going to enter my Correspondence moves now.

Which reminds me -- anyone twisted enough should easily follow the word association football bouncing-ball trail -- here's one of my total all-time fave novel-endings...

The book is Grendel, by John Gardner, telling the Beowulf yarn from the "monster's" point of view. Man-Bee-Wolf gets him in the end, of course. And Grendel winds up proceedings with the exquis line:

"Grendel's had an accident. So may you all."

Wow.

Are you aware that there is a movie (very loosely) based on the book out on rental?

I'm verily jumping in my chair right now because I have just tried to put my money where my mouth is.

I know you cannot comment till the game is over, but I have just offered <Elixir of Life> my bishop, even though I have not thoroughly calculated the move by any means.

The move rather derives from the observations I already posted about when it is <exciting and maybe profitable> to sac a minor piece in the early Middle game.

You will see that in my current position with <Elixir> all three of these positional conditions are in fact present.

So I'm seeing if the sac will work in Correspondence play!!

I feel so swashbuckling at the moment.

Course I'll be "crying in the Beer page" if I get raped for giving up Thomas Beckett.

Or <Popular Fashion Magazine Mother>?

Stupidest or not, they're bound to be better than anything else I've got happening round here just now.

Oldtimer baseball fans may recall the numbers 714 and 715 ... involving Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron. The two numbers also have some strange mathematical properties, which I'd better not try to explain.

Suffice to say that (714 x 715) = 510,510. Which is the product of the first 7 primes:

510510 = 2 x 3 x 5 x 7 x 11 x 13 x 17

Help everyone!! Come quick to distract <Dom> cuz in the absence of posts from us he is calculating again!!!!

Jess of the hope we don't have to arrange another "intervention."

Course the <science fiction> intervention backfired, as I became converted to <sci fi> instead of "curing" <dom>.

Maybe I should stop trying to <cure> <Dom>.

Ou est la Plumbum de ma Dilletante?
= Wa-hey, This farm raises free-range lead pipes!

Moi Aussie, Je crois
= I'm an Australian on the cross

Elle donne les tetements aux vetements
= She gives heady succour to the clergy

Pourquoi Lithuanian gagnent Eurovision?
= Poor quality Lithium gangs have been seen in Yurp.

<Etymologies et al> I see that Ronald McDonald and the Giant Burger Folk are objecting violently to dictionaries which define 'McJob' as 'boring low-paid low-status work'. Everything has changed, they insist, since Doug Coupland popularized the term in Generation X, more than a decade ago. So McBormann's are threatening legal action against The Heirs of Dr Johnson unless they 'soften up' the definition to say something like 'McJob: a much-sought-after golden rung on the great career ladder erected neath the golden arches'. Or something.

This fails on roughly 508 grounds. Among them:

Dictionaries record usage: they do *not* prescribe meaning, or define sense in a compulsory manner. So the meaning of McJob is whatever people say it is.

The prefix 'Mc-' is Scots and Irish Gaelic for 'son of'. So the original McJob isthe son of the biblical Job -- Hezekiah, or Heraclito, or Komforter, or whoever it was. The boiger company does not own the Ulster Scots Language, either: if they argue otherwise, we'll set the Rev Ian Paisley on 'em. He already has strong views about Idolatrous Wafer-worshipping Romish Babylonian Hoors. And plastic church members which are Baal worship in disguise. I'm not making this up. For a change.

Next point: isn't it a bit like a Christian Church trying to reclaim the word 'cretin' on the grounds that it once meant 'Christian'? The change happened like this.

1. He may have no brain at all, but he is a poor Christian soul -- a Chretien -- for whom we should feel compassion and love.

2. He has no brain. Imagine that. A Cretin. Ha ha ha.

(And there are those who say that life isn't getting coarser and more cruel by the day?)

Sacher & Masoch
Pain Consultants (Golden Electrode award at TorturCon '95, '99, '02-'07, left permanently inserted after five straight wins); also responsible for the prizewinning pain euphemism of 2000 ['the irruption of extension into orifice'] and 2004 ['that hurts'].

Spooks in the South Wing of Domdaniel Towers, the old four-poster totally buried in books, the spare bedroom hosting a small colony of recluse spiders and tarabtulas, and the kitchen out of bounds.

I'll have to sleep in my laptop again.

G'night, bon soir, bonne nuit, les enfants, les peuples, les gens, les gentilhommes, les gentilfemmes, les gentiles, et les genitals.

That is *way* too Abftrufe. Time I retired.

"Where the Bee sucks, there suck I..."

Monty's Bedtime Hymn:

"All things dull and ugly
All creatures short and squat
All things vile and nasty
The Lord G-d made the Lot."

[dedicated to Messrs Kurtz & Shortarssian ...]

<Niels> -- <I thought it was in Scotland, but not sure.. >

<Ah. So did I.> I like the sonorous clang of great minds thinking alike - PP

Best,
Bereik(en) (Pas d'apostrophe bitte)

You'll *get there*, in time, for the forthcoming

Gheh