heh-- wonderful posts-- enough to keep me busy (not to mention entertained) all day.

I've put your quote at the top of my Profile-- I appreciated your elaboration on its meaning, but I think it's one of those "quothes" that is cryptic and evocative enough to carry many shades of connotation.

If not con-artist tation as well.

And now a bowlderized version of <Bruce Pandolfini> waxing on <Bobby Fischer>, the object and obsession of his rich chess mind.

"Those who don't speak view language as a game. Those who do view it as a science. It is neither. It is an art.. and <Domdaniel> got underneath it like none other before... I want back what <Domdaniel> took with him when he disappeared.."

(don't be alarmed-- I don't want you to disappear).

OK now the first in a series of responses, as the idea of spending my day off here "conversing" with you is a delightful prospect-- even if I end up not doing it.

<Noun: <<<mott>>>

(slang) A prostitute. (Britain).
(slang) A girlfriend (Dublin) >

Hmmm... revealing?

I don't feel so racist now about typing <Bloody Poms> so often in your forum.

Back in a bit... while you sleep, I think. I suppose you do too.

I can use this idea. You'll get royalties, but they'll have to be some kind of barter as money is about to go belly-up.

A cow, maybe? Can one 'own' cattle without a kulak licence? How about an original work of fiction?

(I was secretly posting while I thought you were asleep)

You write the book and you can keep all the money-- I will buy (and even read!) it when you publish it.

Mrs. Happy You Got a Conan The Barbarian Omnibus on the cheap in a Railway station.

Although-- what are you doing at a Railway station in the middle of the night?

I hope that's not where you're sleeping?

Although some folk would say it all comes down to gender politics and colonial economics. As in ... in a colonized nation a mott always ends up in the marketplace?

I'm too tired for that now. Anyhow, I prefer the nice simple Dublinese version. It's a friendly word, when you get to know it.

<So, you like the kind of chick who keeps a ballistic missile under the pillow.

I've been told that I like "dangerous women" myself, but that's taking it to extremes.>

Not to be confused with: (a) Indian Summer, which sometimes goes before Fall in North America; (b) <one impulse from a vernal wood> which the noted scientist and explorer William Wordsworth (of sheepish fame, for those of you with long and dirty memories) discovered on the *other* side of Summer, thus proving the world was round; or (c) the kind of really crap indie-thrushpunk band whose ambition is to play before the guys who open for Mark E Smith, thus going before The Fall.

<Corrigenda> It says here that Wordsworth was actually a 'poet'. Harumph. Did he write pomes like what Jem Casey the People's Poet did? It is true that he did not.

On the other hand, he wrote <"Newton/ With his prism and silent face/ The marble index of a mind/ Forever voyaging through strange seas of thought/ Alone.">

Which is actually sublime and beautiful and all the stuff pomes are meant to be, except rhyming. Jem Casey did rhymes.

Let's try a Jemmy version:

"Old Newton with his prism and silent face:
Stuck-up, alright, and English - no disgrace.
For as he sailed the seven seas of thinkin'
He had no time for naughty stuff, or drinkin'.
The statue captures Ike with all his marbles;
And Einstein mends the bits that Newton garbles."

There, that's better. A pint of plain doggerel is your only man.

Hey, is Bonn back today?

- The name is Bonn. Drawnik Bonn ...

- Allow me to introduce myself, Mr Bonn. I am Fish-and-a-magic-wand Ampersand, the world's greatest male Indian. Soon the Moghul Empire and the British Raj and the Russian Infiltrators will be sent packing, and India will be free.

- But India is free *already*, Mr Fish. Your Nehru chap, and that odd little Gandhi fellow, didn't Ben Kingsley play him ...?

- Freedom cannot be given away by your British Empire, Mr Bonn. It must be seized, like a pawn on h7, which we of course invented. Tell me, what was Gandhi's first name?

- Er, um, ah. Goosey Goosey Gandhi?

But I jest cain't bring mah self to spell a word C-E-N-T-E-R.

Scout's honor from here to Labor Day, it jest ain't natch'ral.

C-A-N-T-E-R is cool, though. Along with its anagrams: recant, nectar, trance, Cretan, creant (a miscreant who hasn't missed yet) etc etc.

Mebbe you pa was right. There hasn't been a game of mine without a fianchettoed bishop for at least four years now, and as Dom can testify, I'm not exactly the manliest of men.

<Ask <mack>, who watched in horror when I suddenly started to channel William Burroughs ...>

<Domdaniel: <Jess> My posts need *processing*? What am I, spam? Cheese? Silicon wafers cut with splinters of holy ghost? An angelchip? Dashed if I know.> heh - glad I lurked around the Ol' Forum Central, again.

Compelled reading.

Seems you're doing well, <Dom>, as expected with the quality "company" you're in, here ... (Did i just pull a grammatical howler i.e. a germanism, like in the olden days?)

Looking good here, further sharpening my ear for dublinese and a select few other, rather underestimated, means of communifornication.

Parental Advisory: Mind your own business!

heh - good visiting with you again.

As far as I can tell, he doesn't play rugby or beat up foreigners while quaffing steroids and having bulldogs tattooed on his arse.

Con scenting adultery, and all that.

Meanwhile, back at the branch, I may have inadvertently mentioned <rocs>. These are strictly mythical birdies, as in the golfing term <between a roc and a hard cheese>. I shoulda said <Lammergeier>, which is a kind of vulture with a beard.

Hmm. I knew a few of them in my hippie days. But ever since the <Great Hip Replacement> of the late 20th century -- Bob Zimmerframe had a song or three about it, eg *Tangled up in Bluebeard* and *If Not For Glue* -- these *neotenic hepcats* have effectively been extinct.

help I don't understand your list of <redoubtable Russkies> there...

Were they all assassinated over the chessboard or something?

Also, what <were> you doing buying <Conan O'Doyle> at a Train Station in the middle of the night?

Mrs. loves a Mystery....

Heh-- sorry about the "process" nomeclature. I should probably avoid computer lingo when describing your writing.

You <did> see my tribute to your writing that I gave via my parody of <Pandolfini> waxing about <Bobby's> chess?

PLease take that as choice A.

Btw, what's wrong with <processed cheese slices>?

Oh Jesus, it was terrifying.>

Mack;

ta, I almost busted a gut laughing upon reading this gem.

I'd have given anything to see it live.

I think you guys should point your cell phones at each other and upload such moments to <youtube>.

Just a suggestion...

You <talk the Roc>...

But do you <walk the Roc>?

Waiting for that email!!

Well I'd love to read one from you.

I don't mind waiting though.

Best, Penelope

More elegantly, I should say it is luxuriously multivalent in a pointed, if not pointy-hatted, manner.

Guess who's had a pot of coffee in preparation for her chess game today?

GUESS!!

heh

Hunter S Thompson swears he used to start each day with a <pint of aviation fuel>...

-by Stanley Kubrick

<Canadian Sidereals>

Your post of long ago (yesterday) was brewing in my mind, and suddenly exploded in my head a minute ago-- a long, dormant memory.

<Bruce Cockburn's> sublime early song <Silver Wheels>... a Canadian who refused the limelight for years..and fulminated against "pop music" songs before he penned the regrettable <If I had a Rocket Launcher>.

Imagine my indignation on not being able to find the track in question on <youtube>. I think the people stealing media for my personal benefit should work harder.

Here is the last verse--

"Radio speakers gargle top 40 trash
Muzak soundtrack to slow collapse
Planet engines pulsate in sidereal time
If you listen close you can hear the whine"