March 2001

Most of my time in CL has been taken up trying to get trios working. I thought that the trio capability would be an ideal way to get around the almost total lack of synchopation in CLTH, i.e., by writing the parts carefully, a trio could have arbitrary rhythms.

Alas, not so, 'cause they don't work. They don't quite line up correctly, and the beats come out slightly wrong. Maz says he will work on it, but I doubt that a fix will be out any time soon.

So Sleipnir and the Slyphomatics will have to postpone their debut rock concert. Bugger.

I must admit that one of the most annoying (or perhaps amusing; I haven't quite decided yet) things about this whole trio thing is the reaction of other bards. Many do not understand what synchopation is, and a common reaction is to say "Well, it doesn't work because you haven't written the beats out correctly. It all sounds a bit off". Oh dear. Yes, well, that is precisely the point, isn't it? If only the parts could be put together correctly, it would sound OK. Trust me on this. I know what I'm doing. Even Maz said that to me. What do I say to him? I try to point out kindly and gently that he just doesn't get it, and needs to fix his bloody code, but he ain't the best listener in the world. Not to mention seriously lacking in groove. Ah well.

A distinct lack of patience emerges in Sleipy. Now I'm the first to admit that I'm an arrogant SOB, with a quick temper and a foul tongue. You all know that, so do I. But in RL I usually rein it in pretty well. If some teenager came up to me while playing and made stupid remarks, or criticised me, or something like that, I would respond gently. Really, I would. After all, I've been in the business a long time, I know how it works, and the young kid doesn't. That entails a certain responsibility to educate younger musicians in an understanding way, not to just slap them down without reason. (Of course, sometimes there is a reason. When I was younger and much less experienced, but just as arrogant, I was very often told "JAMES, JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP". I got that a *lot*. It does tend to knock out some of the arrogance. Not much in my case, of course).

But in an online game this sense of responsibility is much much less. The temptation is to just tell them to bugger off, quit bothering me, go and learn something before saying dumb things. And yet such online comments can be as hurtful as RL comments to their face. So I feel guilty. I was not kind to Slinky when he said some stupid things. I didn't show the same kind of patience I would have in RL. And that is not acceptable behaviour really, not to me anyway.

To be honest, I also feel somewhat guilty over my behaviour to Madcat. Yeah, I know he's an annoying little twerp, but Sleipy abused the hell out of him. Or rather I did, using Sleipy as a conduit. He didn't deserve that, no matter what he said about Sleipy. After all, it's not exactly a fair contest is it? It just makes me look like a bully when I lose my temper like that. And I'm quite sure that Madcat was bothered by it, as he made an attempt to apologise, although in a very strange, almost offensive, way.

I haven't been going so well recently, have I. Rude to friends, rude to bards, rude to twerps. I shall endeavour to improve.

A hard weekend just over. I thought I had no gigs coming up, but two came in at the last minute. So on Saturday I sat in with a band at Rakino's again and then went drinking with Barry afterwards. Drummer, good guy, excellent musician, great company. We swopped infidelity stories. Yeah, I know, real juvenile male stuff isn't it? But actually, it wasn't like that. He's just recently married (bit younger than me) and has begun to face some of the same problems. What does he do when his wife is away for three weeks, and some cute little blond ditz makes a determined play to get him into bed? Sounds easy in theory, but hard as anything to cope with in practice. Barry, to his credit, got her out of bed before doing anything. The waitress at Rakino's was doing the same thing to him, clearly available and making it very very obvious what she wanted. (Yeah, yeah, I know, Barry has worse problems than me, not suffering from the same kind of personal defects). Anyway, we solved them by just getting drunk together and pretending to ignore the ladies. I mean, *he* had to ignore the ladies, I didn't. They were ignoring me, as usual.

Home really really late. Well, not late by Tove's standards, but late for me. And then another gig the following day. A bit lacking in energy I have to admit. Actually, it was a little amusing at the second gig. Most of us were hung over from the night before and I wasn't feeling the greatest either (see below). But it was a wine festival, and the organisers (knowing perfectly well that bands are degenerate drunks, drug-takers, and womanisers) had provided huge quantities of the appropriate things. But nobody was really in the mood, and we all just sat there drinking water, and tea. The back-stage people kept on trying to persuade us to degeneracy and were clearly put-out by our total lack of interest. A real opportunity wasted I suppose.

All exacerbated by a nasty day sailing before the gigs. Not a big wind, but it had kicked up quite a big sea coming in from the east. I had said I would take some friends out, so I did, but I bet they wish I hadn't. I got tossed right off the boat at one stage, and only just made it back on, clinging for dear life to a line. Just as well, 'cause neither of them could sail, and two of my kids were on board as well. It could have been a disaster. Both friends got badly sea-sick, we caught only one tiny little fish, and by the time we got back I was covered in bruises from head to toe. Ouch. I couldn't even ride my bicycle into work today. Doing two gigs while covered in bruises, and then drinking way too much, is not good for the health.

6th March

It's now official. I have to hit on J'nder. I have been reliably informed (by the Lady herself) that she is lithe, dressed in black, and does *not* use a cane. Or a walking stick one presumes. The only thing I need to know now is how she responds to 87-year-old leering drunken musicians who use lines like "Hey, Baby, can I buy ya a drink?" or "Ooooooorrrrrrrrr, nice arse, Baby".

Unfortunately, I was laughing so hard I forgot to take a sketch. Bugger.

So move over Kira, the new guard is in and you're off the hook.

More talks with Tove. Can't divulge details here, but the Knight is being difficult. Again. But he has to be consistent about certain things, because consistency is all he's got. He's not some super-fighter, or super-healer, or super-anything. All he has is RP consistency, and if he loses that, he's nothing. I would far, far rather kill the Knight off than change certain aspects of him. A noble dramatic death (carefully designed to irritate the adolescents) would be much better than behaviour which destroys his character. He has already played too far on the edge for my liking. In all honesty, he should already have been killed off. And he very nearly was, as you know if you've been reading this diary.

But, unfortunately, this behaviour restricts Tove somewhat. If she does what she wants to do, she kills the Knight, which she doesn't want, so what does she do? It's a puzzle indeed. I feel a bit guilty about this. Even if the Knight is killed off it would not alter our OOC friendship, so I try to persuade Tove not to feel limited. But she insists she has to be. And, to be quite honest, I am not emotionally disinterested when it comes to Tove.

I sent a proposal to Joe two weeks ago. A proposal about Knighthood. I had organised discussions with all the Knights in the game, and we presented a united request to Joe. As yet, he hasn't even bothered to respond, not even with his notorious "Thanks!". I'm not surprised, as Joe and I have never been the best of buddies. I suspect he's yet another person who can't distinguish between an annoying Knight, and the person behind the Knight. However, it is, at the least, very rude.

With all the discussions in the NG about the history project, it just made me (once again) lament the fact that a game with such great promise is run by such a bunch of twits. They gave us a RP game that had no map. No history. Nothing. No background information at all. (Well, very very little). When you think about it, a most unbelievably stupid thing to do. How can anyone RP without any vestige of common background? Without even knowing the names of the places in the world? You can't even interact with anyone. Ridiculous.

So I made the map. Not for Joe's sake, or the sake of the game, but for my own pleasure. So, in my own mind, I could RP and know what I was talking about. I started the history project (and continue to drive it periodically) for the same reasons. Of course there must be different versions of historical events, but how can we operate in a complete absence of information? And throughout I have received little but the strong impression of irritation from Joe. Which (of course) doesn't bother me at all, as no doubt you are all aware. But it is indicative.

And oh, please please please dearest Joe, don't do the old memory-wipe thing on us. Please don't insult our intelligence like that. I"m begging. The game is not just for adolescent morons.

And yeah, yeah, I know what half of you are thinking. Ye Olde Englishe isn't role-playing, it's just bloody annoying, and Joe et al are only interested in *good* RP, not pathetic drivel from some NZ geriatric. Yeah, well if you're thinking that you're a fucking idiot and you can just bugger off.

In many ways, CL is a RP game that pays no attention to RP at all. A RP game, whose makers are totally uninterested in, or sympathetic to, RP.

Weird.

7th March

Interesting gig last night. Rich person's fancy-arse house, entertaining society's elite. By the end of the gig they were smashing all the crockery all over the floor. And all over the band. Trumpet player got a bleeding foot, the double bass got bashed and scratched, and the rest of us had to duck for cover. Fuckwits. They had a bunch of snotty little shit-faced teenage kids too, all trying to be smarmy. Cool thing to do, huh, be mates with the band. Say "funny" things to the musicians. Smaller fuckwits. "What the hell is this", say I, " a fucking inquisition?". (Hope the mother didn't hear me). Giggle, giggle go the teenagers. Along comes mummy. "Oooh.....I've got the band in my bedroom" she shrieks. "How exciting!". In yer dreams, Lady, we all think, and look at each other sidelong. Along comes mummy 2. "My son used to play the violin", she gushes, "he was soooooo talented. Went on a tour when he was just 15! But then he lost interest. I just wonder how he would sound if he were there instead of you now". "Golly gee", say I, "how marvellous!".

You can all guess what I thought.

So Peter and I drank large amounts of their expensive wine to make up for it. I would have drunk more if I could have.

Sleipy is now seeking to join the Pogue Mahones. It's his last chance to get his Lady back again: he has to be a strong brave fighter now to catch her attention and win her love. He needs testimonials from as many exiles as possible, testifying to his extreme fighting skill, his level head, his high intelligence, his ability to work as part of a team, and his very nice nature. Please send all letters to Blitz, or talk to him in Puddleby. Or send them to Sleipy (sleipnir@red-quill.com), and I shall forward them to Blitz.

Please, everybody write one.

And so Sleipy's quest to join the Pogue Mahone continues. Not very successful yet I fear. Cutlas was being so nice about it that I got a little nervous that they actually might let Sleipy in. Until rational thought returned and I realised that they would, of course, rather cut off their own testicles. Just as well.

Many exiles had a surprising (to me) reaction, thinking it was all just an OOC jab at the PM. Well this isn't true, as I've got better things to do than that. It is, of course, because Cutlas is in the PM. If Cutlas was in the Hearts of Tan, Sleipy would be trying to join the Tannies. I'm surprised how few people actually realised that. Ah well. The trouble is that PM is such a perfect target for satire, being so serious about the whole thing. And when they become a target for satire (because of their own silly actions) they get all pissy, which just makes it even funnier. Not to mention that so many exiles detest the PM, and just love to see me making fun of them.

But making fun of someone is not the same as attacking them, as people really should realise. I have spent my entire gaming career making fun of Sleipy for starters, and one could hardly call that malicious. It's a little complicated by the fact that I actually don't particularly like most of the PM members, either OOC or IC. Quite frankly, Sleipy has had nothing from Blitz and Devil, Klur and Baff and Baffette, or Arocet, but abuse that borders on OOC, if not downright OOC at times. They are players that have so little sense of humour they seem to be incapable of dealing with someone like Sleipy, who is essentially poking fun most of the time (mostly at himself of course). And so they abuse him. But life isn't quite so simple. I have grown to like Cutlas, and appreciate his sense of humour. SWC Althea I like to consider a friend, if she will have me. Polychrome's posts to the NG were impressive. And Wisher and Band have always treated Sleipy with respect. So I can hardly dismiss the entire PM as a bunch of wankers.

And they have dealt well with Sleipy so far. Not all that many BK, and far far less than I was expecting. I would say less than 10 even. Amazing. And Blitz even said something to Sleipy that wasn't rude, for the first time ever I think. Klur, Devil, Arocet and the Baffs aren't really capable of coping with the situation it seems, but at least they remain mostly silent. However, until I goad Devil into at least one or two BK (or a few rude comments) I won't feel I've done a proper job. Sleipy's Overall Grade: C+. Must try harder.

I am on the horns of a particularly difficult role-playing dilemma. SWC Babajaga is wanting to push Babajaga in a direction that is just anathema to my view of Sleipy. The obvious solution is just to kill Sleipy off and let Baba go her own way. I, personally, would have no problems with that, but SWC Baba has said that is out of the question. I think she feels a bit nervous that if she pushes Sleipy too far he will just go and do it. And she's right, he would. *I* would. This makes spontaneous RP very very hard. Too much spontaneity could result in the permanent removal of one of the characters. If that must be avoided then some guidelines must be worked out in advance.

But is this fair on Tove? Should I just back down and let Sleipy do this, even though it goes against everything I have ever constructed for him? How much of this is my own feelings getting in the way? Am I just reluctant to lose my priviledged position with Tove? Am I just reluctant to see her character off with someone who isn't *my* character? Is this just pure, irrational, red-blooded masculine jealousy? I don't think so, but how can I be so sure? Am I just being difficult, and wrecking Tove's fun in the game? Do I have any right to restrict the way she wants to play her character? She plays all the time, and needs to progress. I only play a little, so does it really matter for Sleipy at all? Would anybody else even care if Sleipy wasn't really Sleipy any more? Would they even notice? *sigh*. It's really not simple.

What do I do? What do I do?

I discovered again yesterday why I play so much music. It can be a serious thrill. I sat in with a different band yesterday, at a big outdoor concert at one of the local Universities. One of those great big jobs where the sound system had twenty huge speaker boxes on either side, and a million bloody watts of power. I don't do these big jobs so often now, only when I sit in as a guest with other bands.

You play a note........ and BOOOOOOM.... you can *feel* it going for twenty miles. Reverberates around the hills and thumps back at you. Sheer volume can be a real charge. And then it's hard to tell the difference between your heartbeat and the bass drum, except that the bass drum is coming up through your feet and making the hair at the back of your neck rise. You play like that and you can literally feel the hormonal rush. Your toes and fingers tingle.Your hair really does rise.

Playing a solo in a club is one thing. It's a real skill, to construct it as you go along, make it up on the fly, and yet have it all fit together in such a way that it ends up as a unified thing. You can play the audience, you know what works well, you get rewarded by the applause at the end. That's a blast just by itself. But to do the same thing at a volume that pops your eardrums out of your head, and hear that solo sailing across the whole damn city, is another thing entirely.

Of course, most of the listeners are busy ringing the police to complain about the noise. Ah well, nothing's perfect.

As you can tell, I was excited. Barry and I had to wind ourselves down afterwards. Beer time. We mingled with the crowd a bit (me standing out like dog's balls in my orange painted pants), and eyed up every female brave enough to come within range. Made sexist remarks to each other, which we thought very funny, and laughed a lot.

My elder daughter (she's 9 now) once said to me, "Daddy, I know why you wear funny clothes when you play". "Yes, darling child, why?", said Daddy. "Because then the audience will look at the clothes and won't listen so much to what you're playing", says the darling little turd. "Oh", says Daddy. "Go and annoy yer mother, kiddo". But she ain't far wrong you know.

So, if music is such a thrill, why do I have a day job? An excellent question. When I have figured out what to do about Tove and Babajaga, I might even tell you the answer. Might not, too.

Should I tell Sleipy that the author(s) of the anonymous Clan Lord Journal think his
penis is too small for Pogue Mahone entry? (So to speak).
I think not.

And no, I'm not a Jedi Knight, but I wish I'd thought of it :-) Next census perhaps.
Tove says she never clicks on the pictures. After the picture of the male chastity belt, I think I'll follow her example.
I think it was the rose that did for me. That, in conjuction with those padlocks. Oh my god......

But yes, Worf, believe it or not, sex can be just as good when you're not tied up. Not that I ever *have* been tied up quite like you describe, but I've never eaten dog shit either. Some things one just knows instinctively.

15th March

As for you HWC Shepherd, who the fuck are you calling a pasty-faced geek? Huh? Huh? And I might be 87, but at least that's better than being a turd-polishing, sheep-swiving, snot-nosed little gob-spitter, whose only reason he doesn't have kids is because he could never figure our which end to use. But you're right about us breeders. A little piece of snot? Hell, that's nothing. You ever watched a 2 year old eat a turd? Or clean their teeth in the toilet bowl? Or walk down the boarding ramp on to a 14 hour international flight with urine squelching in their shoes? Or walk down that same boarding ramp with their urine squelching in *your* shoes?

I thought not! Hah! And you call yerself a real man?

And you think I'm afraid to use rude words in my diary? Hah!!!!! Golly gee, no, old chap. (But I have back-pedaled once. Who the fuck is Ann Landers anyway?) And you think I've never offended anyone? Damn! Well, to be honest, I'm quite sure I never have offended anyone, because I am essentially a spirit of light and goodness, wafting gently around this planet Earth bestowing cosmic blessings even upon little gob-swallowers like yerself who don't deserve them.

Just go and git yerself some wack-ass (sic) pussy and leave us geriatrics alone. Damn. Da noive o' da guy!

And talking of wack-ass pussy, that brings me to the Clan Lord Journal. A big wave to the anonymous author. And probably to Worf as well, who is probably as ass-wacked as any pussy in the planet. Ouch. I still wince. No offence taken (of course), so your extensive explanations were not necessary to sooth ruffled feeling. Here, I'll make it up to you with a nice big link.

Another busy weekend. Off down to Wellington for two gigs; the second is a large gay ball. Should be at least interesting. We're sleeping at the place where the ball is being held (at least, we will have beds there; I doubt there will be much sleeping done) so I'll have to make sure I lock the door. Ouch. Unless (of course) some of the participants are female, straight, young, lithe, and dressed in black. And interested. A rare combination.

I'll be away all weekend and my wife is NOT happy. Not at all. I could even say she is pissed and chewing nails. I hate that. Marital bliss is not always bliss I fear. No sex for another year I suppose. Ah well, could be worse. She might have deleted my CL accounts.

19th March

An interesting weekend, indeed. Flew down to Wellington on the Friday, got the gear set up, lost my heart to the waitress at an Italian restaurant (but didn't have the courage to ask her out for a date), and then played till about 2 am or so at the club. One of my sisters came along and danced on the tables, taking her clothes off. Truly. I tell you no lies. I managed to stop her before the end fortunately. She then started to throw fruit at me. I love my sister. Mind you, I probably deserved it, just having launched into a monologue about how Aucklanders like me have superior fashion sense to dip-shit Wellingtonians. When I got showered with fruit, the crowd cheered. Hmmmpfh.

A good time was had by all.

Then the self-styled fuckmeister (really, truly, she calls herself that. Truly), Deborah, gave us a ride to where we were "sleeping". We're short of beds, says the fuckmeister, so you're sleeping with me, James. I look blank for a second. (The fuckmeister is *not* my cup of tea. At all. She would take up most of the bed just by herself). Er..... I think I'll be more comfortable on the floor, say I. Please yourself, says the fuckmeister, what about you, Peter? YEAH... says Peter. You go, say I. With my blessings.

A lucky escape, and I get a bed to myself. Bridget comes in half way through the night. Go away, say I. Geffrey comes in half an hour later. Go away, say I. The music finally winds down as the sun comes up, and I get a little rest.

First thing next morning I ring my sister. Please, please, oh please, can I come stay with you?

That night, the gay ball. Drag Queens in full regalia did their own show. The band played on the tennis court outside until about 2 am again. Around 1 am two lesbians started having drunken sex in the middle of the tennis court, but they got stomped on by the dancers, and their bottle of booze got smashed. Glass from arsehole to breakfast time. No blood fortunately. Once the band stops playing the party starts to really heat up. We move inside to the piano to do jazz trio work. An older blond woman drapes herself over Peter. He stands and smiles. Hi, says Bridget to me, I hear we're sleeping in the same bed tonight. And here's X, she's going to be joining us. (Enter a shorter blond woman, equally wide, stage left). James gives a sickly smile. Er... well... I'm sleeping at my sister's tonight, he says. Sorry. Oh dear, says X, an opportunity missed. Yes, says James, always the diplomat.

I make a run for the car, and escape, virgo intacta.

Now, if any of them had been the waitress at the Italian restaurant......... But sadly they were not.

There were a few sickly musicians on the flight home. I'm just too old for this sort of thing.

It be my great pride to announce to all and sundry that the esteemed bard, Coriakin, hath of late decided that the life of a Knight be one for him, and hath thus entered upon his squireship under mine own supervision. I know that ye will all welcome squire Coriakin with open arms and warm hearts, and aid him in performing the required quests and tasks in most noble fashion. Furthermore, I beg ye all to pay little attention to the foul-mouthed and most ungentlemanly discourses of HWC. As I sayeth repeatedly, he be most rude and ungentle personage, fit only for the sewer, and unworthy of serious regard from any who aspireth to gentility.

And while we're on the subject of Knightlyness kinds of things, Goric has done so very well and completed his tasks. I'll have to arrange a Knighting for him very soon. Also redid the TAGK web site, although I have absolutely no sense of nice design. Still, having it working and reasonably functional is more important than having it look like an elegant piece of web art. That's my theory anyway.

It's very very hard to keep something like the Knights up and working. Basically just not enough time.


		The PM admissions committee gave Sleipy the task of finding their secret hut and doing all their dirty laundry. Poor old Knight. Anyway, he looked and looked until finally some kind exile gave him a tip. This exile wants to remain anonymous, to prevent the PM getting pissy at him for disclosing secrets. Of course anonymity is quite unnecessary (because it isn't really a secret at all), but it is revealing that it is thought to be required. Many people really have a very poor view of the Pogue Mahone. They have brought it on themselves and get no sympathy from me.
The pink hair was also required by the PM admissions committee. Ack. Well, at least Cutlas gave Sleipy a choice. Clearly coolness hath its price. Fortunately, the cash was provided by Cutlas. An excellent way to get a cool hairdo and poke the smelly Zo in the eye at the same time. I hope he's not expecting to have the money returned. Or actually, I hope he is. Then Sleipy can annoy him. grin.

	As Sleipy's final bid to join the Pogue Mahone, we have the famous CUKNT (Chum's Universal KNightly Tours) More time needed to arrange this. Oh my god, how will I ever find the energy? HWC Chum is keen to go ahead with it, and I can't wait for the Knight and Chum to lead a totally shambolic expedition resulting in a mass depart for all concerned. Fun fun fun. Especially since some of them will be expecting a nice easy GM-led stroll in the park. Ho Ho Ho. Chum and the Knight will have to think up lots of useful orders to yell. Military formations and haircuts, that sort of thing. RODS TO THE SIDE! RUN AWAY!! WEST.. NO... SOUTH.... ER..... I MEAN EAST! EVERYBODY IN A STRAIGHT LINE.......CHARGE IN FORMATION. ABOUT FACE... AND STAND EASY!! CHOP WITH SWORDS NOW! Just getting a little practice.


				The Knight is currently lying dead on Tenebrion's Isle. He helped to kill the Captain, and picked up the crystal shard, but it has since vanished (as you can see). Mass departs from the isle last night as the shit hit the fan in a big way. I have never seen so many high level creatures at once as I saw there. Fire Myrms, Lava beetles, Banshees, rats, Firewalkers, little vermin thingies etc. Individually beatable, but not in those numbers. Sleipy is waiting for the update to restore him. Not very IC is it? But it is some nice quiet time for him where he doesn't have to think about all his personal worries. It'll do him good.


	To the right we see how Sleipy died. The beasties just went on and on and on and on and on....... there was hardly a beastie-free inch of ground to stand on. The update fixed him up I'm pleased to say.

A rather dull weekend compared to last. One gig only (I cancelled the Friday and Sunday ones for "personal" reasons, i.e., remaining married). Down in Taupo. Ugh. So a four hour drive, play to a bunch of oncologists, grab some sleep in a sleazy hotel, then a four hour drive back home. Not the most exciting gig I have ever done. Used a new bass player. Young fellow, but pretty good. It's a lot more stress though, playing with others who don't know the material at all.

Beautiful sailing weather, but I couldn't get out. Bugger. Just had to sit on the beach looking at all the other yachts, and wishing I was out there too.

I hear the foothills have been found. One presumes we will now see an orgy of foothill expeditions, bickering over who did what and who didn't, juvenile posturing about relative strengths, and egos running rampant.

One feels a certain remoteness from such events, and a marked lack of enthusiasm. Mostly due to the fact that the Knight can't go there anyway. I hope though that I do get to see these places at least once. Mind you, there are still numerous places the Knight has never been. All a matter of lack of time, really, and a lack of patience with idiots.

Still training with Troilus. Got to get over 200 before I stop, maybe 250. Then Detha I suppose for ever and ever. I'm sick of seeing Sleipy torn apart by rats.

Golly gee, I do love Shepherd's Diary, and the anonymous CL journal. Two of the best around. Given the current discussion in the anonymous journal I think I had better quickly publish a clarification of my position on Shepherd's morals. I'm sure he realises that it has nothing whatsoever to do with his somewhat Catholic sexual preferences. But others might not realise that, and take offence for him. Please don't. I was of course referring to the LOW MORALS of someone who says Hooty Hoo. Ugh. I can hardly imagine anything worse. Where he chooses to poke parts of his anatomy is not really my concern. Or interest even, to be perfectly honest.

Shepherd's anti-children diatribe was (and is) very well spoken. I can't imagine how anyone could take offence at being called a breeder, but I guess some people did. Weird. And he listed very good reasons not to have children. But, really, who gives a shit about logical reasons like that? Kids are just fantastic to have. Irritating, yes, but I just can't imagine not having them. So, Shepherd, your reasons are fine and dandy, logically clear and devastatingly correct. But, as a breeder, I gotta feel sorry for people without kids. You just don't know what yer missing.

It's a bit like those acquaintances of mine in New York who said to me once (really, truly, they did) "Who needs to go to the country? New York city has plenty of nature in it. I mean... it's got all of Central Park...". A total, unbridgeable, gap in their understanding. It's the same with breeders and nonbreeders.

I love that chat feature of those blog thingies. I can read all the comments by other people. Shame I'm not doing that here, except that it might be a blow to my ego. You know, I say all kinds of penetrating and insightful things, and not a single person actually reads it, far less bothers to comment. I'm probably safer sticking to my low-tech version and just pretending to myself that anybody actually gives a fuck what I write.

Althea and Slyph. Bah. Gotta feel sorry for the Knight in that marriage. And you know, it never occured to me that they would be the subject of snertish harassment. Really, it didn't. Just never crossed my mind. Or that Papa plays a gay Thoom. Or Sausage. (Or that HWC Shepherd was bi, come to that). I must live my life in a total vague blank.

Have I said how I hate lazy, stupid, students? I hate having my precious time wasted by fuckwits, who just don't care. Why can't they just pay their fees, and get their F grade on the same day? Quick, efficient, painless. I know already that half the class will get an F. Why must they bother me any more? It's this great big pathetic pretense that they are actually being educated, not just failed. In reality they don't give a shit, I fail them, and everybody's time is wasted.

End of March

My job is currently depressing. As a university professor I have one of the best possible jobs in the world. Pay is adequate, I can take time off any time I like, nobody cares if I'm there or not, I have complete personal freedom, nobody telling me what to do. And I can do my research, which isn't really a job at all, it's like being paid to play.

But I have to teach also. And therein lies the rub. Up until a year ago I was working at some of the best math departments in the U.S.; Michigan, NYU, UCLA. All in the top ten in the U.S., which, in mathematics, means the top ten in the world. I taught really bright kids. They worked hard, they listened, they laughed at my stupid jokes, they enjoyed class (or said they did, at least). I worked with some exceptionally clever students. But then I gave it all up and returned home to New Zealand. End of career, of course, I knew that. But I wasn't quite expecting the students.

They are, almost without exception, lazy and stupid. They don't listen to me, they don't do the work, they just don't care. It is so very very frustrating to work desperately to get a spark out of them, and fail completely. I tell them of the ancient Greeks, the Romans, I throw things around the classroom, I do demonstrations, I jump up and down, and tell stupid jokes, I talk of the mathematical relationships in music, of Zeno's paradox, of Herodotus, of latitude and longitude, of cannons, of computer games, of genetic diseases, of old English derivations, of the etymology of mathematical notation, of correct grammar, etc etc etc etc.

Do they give a fuck? Hell no. They just sit there. Saying nothing. Not looking at me. If I write something on the board they copy it down. When I stop writing on the board, they stop writing. No reaction. No comments. Nothing. They are brain-dead automatons. And then most of them fail.

It makes me want to weep.

Oooohhh, and after reading Shepherd's breeder blog, I now see why Conny got her knickers in such a terrible twist. Quite frankly, Conny, it serves you right. You told us about men getting needles jammed into their penises. In reply we tell you that you gotta breed to be a real person. Sounds like a fair exchange to me. Maybe we can compromise. You keep taking your little pills, and remain a real person, and in return let's have no more needles and electric currents up urethras. Deal?

I tell ya. If I ever meet you in person, I'm gonna be real real real careful.

Of course, all the correspondents are missing the whole point, which is that there *isn't* any point to life. Nope. None at all. We are here just by a great cosmic practical joke, an amusing accident. Then we die. There isn't any point to it, and there never will be. Not in kids, or in intellectual creations. The only reason we breed is because we are hard-wired to do so. 'Cause if we weren't hard-wired that way we wouldn't be here, would we?

But you go, all you knicker-twisting bloggers. Let all that passion of youth hang out. Then geriatrics like me can shake their heads and laugh quietly to ourselves about the single-minded idealism of youth.

Things looks different at night. You'll all be surprised to hear this is so, but it is. Took the kids (+ one neighbour's kid) down to the boat after dark last night. (Had to scrape bird shit off the cabin roof). Rowing out in the moonlight was rather a neat experience. It all feels very different from rowing out during the day. Funny that. The water was warm as a bath, flat calm (no sharks, which disappointed the children). Nobody else around. Quite lovely it was. More than lovely, really, but I'm not facile enough with words to describe it properly.

I live in the north of New Zealand, along the east coastline where there is beach after beach after beach, all strung out like beads on a wire. Whiteish sand mostly, lots of surrounding bush. By U.S. standards a very small population. I was brought up in the south, where the gales howl in off the southern ocean, and kick up big seas. But here in the north the weather is always warm, always wet, sometimes windy. People have thin blood up north.

To buy a sailboat has been a dream of mine for years. Could never do it in the U.S. of course. Not rich enough. At least, not for the places I've lived there. So upon returning to NZ one of the first things I did was buy a yacht. A 25 foot keeler, old and shabby but much loved. I have the boat moored just off the beach three bays north of the bay where we live. About 5 minutes in the car I guess, and then a five minute row in the dinghy. A beautiful little bay with a tor to the north and a curve of white sand. Bush and houses on the hills around. Reef just offshore. Often get little penguins in the bay.

A big wave to Conny. Pills or not (and I don't need to know the details), nobody could ever call you normal. After all, you get up close and personal with Worf's genitalia. Trust me, this ain't normal.



	A Knight's gotta do what a Knight's gotta do.



						A good testimonial from Veer. Hooray.


						In the nasty new area in the NE, getting his parts chomped. Not nice.





	Curses and a courtcase. Good old Sephorus. What a gentleman!. And a big thank you to Paramedic also. Huzzah!