May 2001

Haven't been clanning a great deal, although Sleipy finally has his GS! Pictures to follow, but they're on my home machine, not at work so I can't put them up. Thanks to Lunaria, who donated 400. I would never have let Sleipy accept it (not that he would have anyway) but I didn't notice at the time. So she caught me, and got away with it. I couldn't figure where the hell the extra coins had some from until a GM told me to search old logs. So I did, and finally found the dastardly deed. New sword in hand, Sleipy promptly went off to the Dark Chamber, fell and departed. Ho Hum. But at least Sleipy can hit the blue cloaky thingies now. Or some of them.

Took the lovely Shepherd off to Tenebrion's Island and found him some sheep (acting on an anonymous tip). He seemed quite happy dancing around the paddock rogering ovines. I think it was the same day that there were lots of nasty dead thingies in E. Field. The foolish Knight got trapped (see left). There were so many of the damn things I got that flickering business because there were too many for something or other to display on the screen. He eventually got white again (still surrounded) and was saved at last.

Time for serious observation. Babajaga noted in her diary that other exiles (mostly young males of course) are rude to her, and then surprised when she hits the roof. What do they expect from a super-duper gung-ho fighter grrrrl? You'd have to be pretty fucking stupid to expect anything else. But Sleipy gets the same sort of thing. People saying things to him that are really rude, and then getting huffy because he takes offence. Tarf in the NG made fun of Sleipy. I wrote a nice rude reply, and then got a terribly ingenuous private email from Tarf. "Why are you taking offence?" "It was just a joke, jeez." Raldin the same. Makes fun of Sleipy, and then acts surprised when Sleipy calls him on it. Lunaria walks on thin ice. Sadraz too. Quite a few others. I think the trouble is that they know I don't treat Sleipy seriously and so they feel able to poke fun at him to his face. But Sleipy himself wouldn't tolerate that, and he doesn't. Not usually anyway. Unless it's Sadraz, and then he grins and bears it. Not much else to do in that case. In other words, many people expect to get an OOC response from me when they make fun of the Knight, not an IC response from the Knight.

I observe with interest.

I have a very specific musical dream (no, not just to get more gigs damn your eyes to hell you whoring seal poker). With a lot of effort I suppose I could accomplish it. But I probably won't. It just happens to be something I've thought about a lot recently, what with lack of other work. It would involve getting a group of other musicians together, and rehearsing stuff. Never easy for a start, especially because I'd need the best. And then finding a place to play. Even more difficult usually. And the kind of music it would be (which I'm not telling you here in case you all laugh) is rather unusual. But it could be highly successful. Ah well. It'll roll around my mind a bit more I suppose.

Mind you, it's one of my last musical dreams that I haven't already done :-) I'm not complaining.

And I've been thinking a lot about something else that I would dearly love to attempt. A work that would take a number of years. Big effort. Not musical. Will I ever do it? Actually, I think I probably will. I like big projects like that. And I would love to find out if I could do it.

But it will have to wait until I have finished writing my current books. A year or two at the very least.

Damn. Almost there. Just got to get the boss to fix the permissions and then we are away. Huzzah! And yes, I'm perfectly well aware that it is a very clunky way of giving you all a chance to comment, but at least I wrote it myself. In PHP. Turns out to be very easy after all. This morning I had no idea that you could use a scripting language to embed html code and get a dynamic web page. No idea at all. And this evening it's working. Kludgy yes, but working. Well, working on my own machine where I can set permissions properly. Huzzah again! Phorum looked way too complicated to install and use, and did much more than I really want.

All ideas for improvement gratefully received, unless they involve a lot of work on my part in which case I'll tell you to get lost. This includes threaded discussions, use of MySQL to track messages more elegantly, use of Perl, or anything else that I think sounds difficult.

And a big smile and thank you to Mary, who bugged me enough to make me learn this stuff. Yet another thing I've learned from playing Clan Lord. Add it to the list.

Those comments I made above about dreams etc. Worth further thought. One of the results of getting old (and 87 is pretty damn old) is that you gradually come to realise that there are things in life that you'll never do. Ever. The whole world looks possible when you're 25. When you're my age you realise that it isn't. Maybe this is a definition of getting old?

But (and this is the good thing) this doesn't bother you, because you understand much better how the world works. I have come to the good understanding of all those preachy homilies you hear from do-gooders and your parents. "Everything is possible, you just have to follow your dream". Blah Blah Blah. And I know just how true it is. Because I have had a number of dreams, and I've followed them, and I've done them. If there has been something that I have really wanted to do, by and large I've done it. But one's dreams get prioritised. If I pursue one of my remaining musical ambitions I won't have any time to pursue other things I'd like to try. I know that there is not unlimited time and energy. And so, quite content, I choose. Life is a mirror of CL really, isn't it?

Being older, one can operate from the security of knowing already that you can accomplish things if you set your mind to it. One can operate from the security of knowing that you have already accomplished much, left a legacy, influenced things in some small way. And so the urgency and uncertainty of youth fades away.

May 7th

Finally, some work. A gig for geriatrics down in Thames. Actually the band was geriatric also (I was just sitting in with them as a guest). Drummer's the youngster at only 20 years older than me. The guitarist at least 30, and the bass player at least 40 years older. Woo Hoo. Almost makes me feel young again. Good to play with them though, 'cause they represent the old guard of NZ jazz. Been doing it all their lives around town, know everybody, know everything, know every place. Lot of experience. Actually, I often play with the old guard. Society Jazzmen, the Vintage Jazz Quartet, etc. They can be a real blast; nothing fazes them, they've seen it all before. The crowd was a scream, though. All pretty old, and getting pretty sozzled. On a Sunday afternoon, no less. Ouch. More than a few looked to be in danger of their lives. Hearts, you know.

I hate doing geriatric gigs. The band I played for in Ann Arbor did lots of them for some reason, dunno why. That was a folk band. I grew to dislike that kind of gig intensely. Still do.

It was a nice drive down to Thames. From my kitchen window I look down a valley, over some trees, to the Hauraki Gulf. I do this many times every day, just to check on the sea conditions, just for fun, just because it's a restful view. In the distance there are the islands; Rangitoto, Motuihe, Mototapu, Rakino, The Noises, Tiritiri Matangi, all good to visit on the boat. And beyond them I look across the Firth of Thames right across to the Coromandel Peninsular. And that's where Thames is, on the Coromandel. So I had to drive south round the bottom of the firth, and then across. Takes a couple of hours or so.

Driving back, one goes through what is locally known as Spaghetti Junction. Ha, what a joke. There must be all of three crisscrossing motorways, not more. A "big thing" for New Zealanders. But every time I drive through this little piece of NZ high-tech fancy-ass traffic control system, I am reminded of Paradise Valley. What is that, you say? Well....

When you drive north from Santa Monica you go up over the hills (past the new Getty Museum, perched like a huge lump of bird shit on the hills to your left), and over the ridge, down to the San FernandoValley. As you go down you can feel the temperature in the car rising, and the sweat starting to break out. Literally. We, of course, never had a car with air conditioning. Anyway, continuing on north you drive across that whole flat baking valley, covered in suburbia and shopping malls, gas stations and grey hot asphalt. Sad looking palm trees, and even sadder looking people. Just as grey as the pavement, most of them. And at the far end of the valley, as the road goes through a ridge of hills that stands between the San Fernando Valley and the next one (whose name I forget), there lies the most dramatic, impressive, grand and beautiful sight ever to grace mortal eye. Paradise Valley we named it. I have no idea of its real name. It is a little cleft in the hills, like a small bowl, a cute dimple, and through it cross this freeway, and that one, and that other one, and another one, until all you can see, all around, are little grey stripy things with cars attached. And just in case anybody were to get the incorrect impression of the might of the Californian transport system, the hills around have been thoroughly and systematically denuded of any living thing. Nothing green, although one never sees green in Southern California anyway. But no plants, no grass, no trees. Nothing. Bare earth. Quarried rock. Earth moving machines. Truly, this is my own personal vision of hell. And I am lucky to have passed through it, and survived to tell the tale.

Today I have nothing whatsoever to say about Clan Lord. I haven't had time to play it at all, not even when I might be able to see Babajaga again. I have been working! Huzzah! And successfully so, too.

Now that I know people actually look at this from time to time I become self-conscious about what I write. Am I being too narcissistic? Too self-involved? Should I say that rude thing? Or will the person under consideration be hurt? Or offended? This is not a good thing, and I shall struggle against it.

But, I just cannot resist a comment or two about Rob Adams (as in Shepherd's diary). I have no idea who he is, and so I am pretty sure he doesn't read this, but you never know. It's just that his spiel in Shep's comments was one of the funniest things, and yet one of the saddest that I've seen for a while. Here is some person, so totally involved in how good-looking he thinks he is that he makes a web page to show it off (with his chest muscles carefully outlined to attract maximum attention). And when called on it, when criticised, what does he say? "It earned me lots of money", says he.

How much money is one's personal dignity worth?

In addition, I am going to dispense with my worries about being too self-involved, and discuss the books I have been reading. Boring for all readers I'm sure, so if you don't like it, don't read it. It's for my benefit, not yours. To remind me in later years what I was doing. I have just finished reading the Icelandic sagas (the new Folio edition, with new translations by Magnus Magnussen I think). Egil's Saga, Njal's Saga, Hrafnkel's Saga, Greenland Sagas, etc etc. Of course, I've read them all many times, but they bear multiple readings well. The strongest impression to get from the sagas is the incredible level of violence that was accepted as the norm in Scandinavia at that time (and elsewhere also, of course). And they have a rather stilted style of language all their own. I particularly love the sagas of Egil and Njal. Always have. Two characters of opposite type. Egil, the rather nasty piece of work, and Njal, the perfect gentleman.

Bocaccio's The Decameron. I only read about half of this before stopping. An Italianate version of the Thousand and One Nights, but not nearly as good. (By the way, some years ago I found a copy of the entire, unabridged, Thousand and One Nights, trans. by Mardrus and Mathers, and it is one of my most prized possessions). I find Bocaccio rather pretentious, forced, and somewhat dull. Partly a style of the times, of course, but makes it difficult now. Virtuous (or not so virtuous) maidens, their adventures and amours, begin to pall slightly after the 20th almost identical story.

Joseph Andrews, by Henry Fielding. Only just begun, but it promises much.

8 May

Love the comments, peoples. But I won't usually reply to them because I get to have my say here. I read 'em and laugh though. Those limericks especially! Woo Hoo. Gorjus.

Full moon last night. Our house faces due east, over the gulf, and when there is a full moon it shines down across the islands, across the water, a wide band of silver. It struck me again last night just how beautiful it is. My sister comes to visit tonight. She's a racing sailor, every weekend, sailing handicaps in a 30 footer. (Buggered her back last weekend hauling on the spinnaker sheet without a winch, stupid turd that she is). We'll try and get time to go out and have a wee sail. I might learn something.

And, of course, I meant the San Fernando Valley, not the Sacramento Valley. Silly me. Not that I was meaning to make fun of So. Ca. (well, maybe a wee bit). It has lots of nice things. I think. But I was very very glad to leave it. Our eldest child was born there. By the time she was two years old she had never seen rain. Really truly. Never seen it. I remember clearly the first time it rained for those two years. Sarah went outside, gazed up at the water coming down from the sky, and was clearly completely bewildered. Water from the sky? What the fuck is this? You could hear her thinking.

And our landlord. "What, no clothes dryer?" he says. "No", say we. "Er...... well.... how do you dry your clothes?", says he. "We hang them outside in the sun to dry", say we. (Pregnant Pause) "Oh! I suppose you could do that", says he, in great surprise. Monique and I exchange significant looks.

Or the real estate agent in Ann Arbor. Say I to him, while driving around looking at houses,
"People don't seem to have gardens here, they just tend to have acres of lawn with few other plants".
"Yes, that's right", says the agent, "we can buy all the food we need from supermarkets. They have vegetables there all year round".

Holy Fuck.

Time for a rant:

Lots of griping on the NG about scripting and how it ruins the game, and the change in Dal'Noth and how it ... blah blah blah. But one person said it all, in my opinion, can't remember who it was. Maybe it was Worf.

It's not scripting that ruins the game. Not at all. It's the rank whores who do that. (Well, not ruin, that's much too strong a word.) Those who clan all the time and push the envelope. I've said it before in these pages of wisdom and I'll say it again. The game is diminished by the response of DT to the ultra strong characters. Other games do it differently with a rank cap. Very sensible, and entirely avoids this problem. But not in CL. There, players can just keep on getting stronger and stronger and stronger and..... well, you get the picture. (And don't even bother thinking about whining about how rank gain is too slow. You'll be wasting your breath.) So in response to these 24/7 clanners DT progressively makes the game more and more difficult. Ramps up monster stats. Ramps down training effectiveness (or so we assume).

Now this is all very well. DT is looking after their major market I suppose. And the 24/7 clanners love it. New challenges, new places to go, new things to do. "Refreshing" was the word used by Tove in the NG I believe. And it is, for them. But the rest of us, who would also like to be able to visit places, do things, see new islands etc, we see nothing but a hill in front, getting steeper and steeper. Because I didn't clan all that much just after the Ripture War, and never have, Sleipy is now unable ever to catch up. The goalposts have been moved. And there are lots of Sleipys about, lots of part-time clanners, mostly all stronger than Sleipy but not by a whole lot.

Does this bother me? Well, actually, no it doesn't. It's the only way I can play CL at all ( I certainly will never be able to devote time to it like others can) and being able to play at all is better than not. So Sleipy made his choices, or I made them for him, and we muddle along quite happily. And of course Sleipy derives much benefit from the sooper dooper dudes in indirect ways. They're mostly his good friends, after all. But it amuses me then to read the NG discussion. You see, the whole point is that the changes to Noth are good for Althea, fun for Babajaga, nice for Gurgi for all I know. And you could maybe even wriggle a little and argue they are good for the game (which I would dispute). But you cannot possibly argue that they are good for Tessa, good for Sleipy, good for the vast majority of middle to low ranked players. Because they are not. To listen to high-rankers argue this is rather surrealistic for they are trying to argue a point of view completely outside their experience. And no, just because you were *once* weak gives you very little understanding of what it is like to be weak *and* faced with an impossibly steep hill. It's a different ball game, so don't try it.

Scripting, on the other hand, doesn't bother me at all. Couldn't care less. Players can script away to their hearts' content, until their hair falls out. It's not cheating in my book, it's just another way to play the game. What's the difference between a mindless rank whore standing in Dal'Noth town for hour after hour, chatting to their mates about OOC stuff, and a mindless robot standing in Dal'Noth town for hour after hour not saying anything. Hell, at least the robot is IC. Michael might even be tolerable if he *was* just a script. At least he'd shut the fuck up.

And I always thought Koric was a script anyway. It's his sense of humour, his spontaneous sense of fun, that gives it away.

Bloody Tove, dumped me right in the poo. Yeah, yeah, all right, I give up. I certainly don't want to make such a big issue of it 'cause I don't feel all that strongly about it. I'll grab some little things from old CDs and put them up on the web for any interested parties to download. Sometime.

But, you know, my reluctance sure as hell isn't vulnerability. Oh no, not at all. You know I'm an arrogant SOB. It's something much sillier than that. It's because once you've listened to it what do you say? Well, it's easy if you like it, you just say so. But what about if you DON'T like it? What do you say then? Hate your music, James. Really sucks. You know, I have *never* had anyone actually say that to me, although it's a sure bet that some people think it. So I never know whether or not people are being honest. And that makes me uncomfortable. It would be SO much better if those who don't like it just came out and said "I can't stand your music, you stupid dipshit". Or something.

But people never do. Hence my reluctance to parade.

Worf worries about his clothes. Comfort or looks? Comfort or looks? Some of us have no real problem here. The looks we have never had, and so we go for comfort all the time. What's the point in struggling against genes and inclination?

I am reminded of this because I was berated yesterday by my wife. "Your shirt has a great big hole in it. Two holes", she says. "Yup", say I. "But you were teaching today". "Yup". "So all the students saw you wearing a shirt with holes in it?" "Guess so". "Why, oh why? How can you be so disgusting?", she cries. "It was on the top of the pile, dear", I say reasonably. Sometimes the most logical arguments are unavailing.

I interviewed at the University of Michigan with my shirt and jersey inside out. Tags sticking out the back. All day. And never noticed until I took them off again.

I wear odd socks if they happen to be the closest. Which they often are.

When I left NZ all those years ago my parents burned my remaining clothes. Made them feel better I guess.

I forget to shave for weeks at a time. And don't get my hair cut until I look like a Ye Olde Englishe Sheepe Dogge. Then I cut it all off and start again.

Am I proud of looking like a scarecrow? (An ugly scarecrow.) No, can't say as how I am. But I don't give a fuck either. My wife has learned and struggled to come to terms with this. She buys clothes for me, I wear them. Every so often she throws some old favourites out and I scream and rant and make a fuss. Much fun is had by all.

May 14

Back to work for a rest. Damn, weekends are busy. Birthday party this time. Treasure Hunt, among other things. But all the clues had to be written in rhyming riddles. Oh dear. And still lovely sailing weather, just a little rain here and there.

"Dad, what does lust mean?" (she's 10, but loves to read adult literature).
(Dad explains)
"Dad, what does virgin mean?". (1 minute later).
(Dad explains).
Ten seconds later, in chimes the 6 year old. "Dad, have *you* ever had sex with a vermin?"
"Virgin", says Dad. "Virgin. Not vermin".
(Dad didn't answer the question).

Clan Lord yapping is forbidden. From all children. At all times. They can play once a week now. For a short time. Maybe.

I gave up, and finally put Sleipy to bed in the cheapo library. Saves me always having to take him out to hunt for coins to keep him alive. This way, when I take him out I'm not forced to zoom around collecting. Every so often I pop on to see if Baba is there, but she isn't so I pop off again. Motivation for doing anything else wanes. Nothing much that Sleipy *can* do: the game has moved to where I am unable to follow. But he did get to open Wisher's Gate finally, which was nice. And got a good curse in at Baffette, who pulled Sleipy without asking. He *hates* that. Always nice to fling a little bad temper around, especially when it's justified. And particularly good to fling it Pogue Mahone's way. It's a bit like unexpectedly getting a good parking spot. Just adds that extra little bit of pleasure to your day. For some strange reason, dear little Baffette didn't seem to appreciate it. I believe she called Sleipy a sh*t! I can't repeat the word here, in case I offend the gentle ears of my readers. But it was pretty fucking rude, I can tell you.

Alias sent more map information. Always nice to get. I'm trying to get the newer exiles to come up with names, places, events, etc. They don't seem all that interested. No surprise there I suppose. Very few people ever have been at all interested in such RP things.

If Maz can get the band stuff working then maybe we can get our group going. Slyph is keen to front it, and I'm sure Coriakin will be interested. Just need one other. Won't be hard to find, I'm sure. Just to see Slyph in her chain-mail bikini would be incentive enough. Woo Hoo. Can't wait. We'll have to hire security guards to keep troublemakers (like Pogue Mahone) out of the concerts. Maybe Gurgi would oblige....?

The possibilities are most amusing.

Utah. May 22nd

The conference so far is boring, but in a tense sort of way. Nerves prey on
me somewhat, but not too badly. I find it somewhat difficult to relax. Lunches
and dinners with publishers mostly, picking my brains on who should be writing
books, and what I intend to write next. Well, at least it's a free meal, but
I'm a bit woozy to really help them much. Mind on other things. Not always
mathematics. Going away like this always reminds me of things that have
happened other times I have gone away, both the good and the bad.

This is the first big conference that I've been one of the plenary speakers and
it's an unusual feeling. Unusual obviously, as it's the first time. Twit.
But more than just that. It's mostly a feeling that I've reached a place
that most of my contemporaries won't ever reach, that it is, almost
certainly, as far as my career will ever go (because careers don't progress
well from NZ), but it still feels exactly the same as when I would go to
conferences as a student. I still wander around, somewhat bored, finding few
people to talk to, feeling a little uncomfortable, not at ease with myself
or with my surroundings. Nothing really has changed, either in me or in
others.

At times like these I feel like a fraud. I'm speaking to collection of
big-shots, really clever people, frighteningly clever people, Academy
members, Field medallists, etc etc. What the fuck do I know? Compared to
them, nothing. And maybe they'll find out just how little I actually do know
when I open my big stupid mouth in front of them. How I'm all froth and no
substance. That the Emperor has no clothes so to speak and I have even fewer.
Heh. Obviously it's nerves speaking here a little bit. But not entirely. I
usually give good talks, which is why I was asked of course, and even
mathematicians need entertainment every so often. So I'm relatively
confident of that. But I don't really want to be thought an idiot once I'm
done.

I've been very good at this conference so far, and have no intention of
being anything else. Just don't have the energy. But I can't help thinking
of times I haven't been. Often a conference is an opportunity to let my hair
down with friends, more than to do work. Hell, everybody knows that. But I
tend to be a bit worse than most, and have got into trouble more than once
that way. Conference organisers don't always appreciate it, and they have
complained to me about leading students astray, setting a bad example. Really,
seriously, I have been chastised for this. Fucking idiots. As often as not
it's the students leading me astray. Who am I to refuse?

And there was the one conference of which we know, do we not gentle reader,
where I could think of nothing but what I shouldn't be thinking of at all, a
fact for which I have T*** to thank.

Getting here was the trip from hell. Took 48 hours instead of the usual 24 or
so. Two flights cancelled, one accident where the plane crashed into the
airport, a snowstorm, and a looooooooooooooooog immigration queue. Fuck.

Dinner tonight with the Germany crowd. Another grant application to submit
with them and arrangements to be made for some formal regular trips to Berlin.
Hope it works out. It'll be nice to get to Europe on a regular basis. And I
do enjoy Martin's company. Interesting person. Ex-East German political
radical, did time in prison and those kinds of nasty things.

Still in the hotel in Utah. May 23rd.

Quite predictably my nerves went all for nothing. All over and done with now.
I did my thing, jumped up and down a bit, waved my arms around, said silly
things. And nobody called me an idiot. Of course, they wouldn't would they?
They would just think it. Still, as long as they don't say anything they can
think what they like. It took me about two hours (or more) finally to get
away after the talk. A long line of people wanting to talk about stuff. Now
I'm exhausted. Squeezed dry.

I always feel that if you can get the crowd laughing you have won half the
battle. Hence the flippant remark, the silly self-deprecation, the arm-waving,
the amusing stories. But today some person in the audience called me on it.

(Person stands, raises his hand)
"Professor *** when you said that having dead cells is bad, I don't agree
that this is strictly accurate, because blah blah blah blah blah blah. Blah
blah, blah. Blah. Blah blah."
(Professor *** replies)
"Yeah well, it was a flippant remark. And you are quite
correct. Great point, very insightful, lots of nice things. Etc etc. But I make
flippant remarks. It's just me. I shouldn't, but I do. You lot just have to
live with it."
(Audience laughs. Man sits down. Professor *** feels like he won that
exchange).

It's awfully fun to write a diary like this. To remind yourself of the silly
things you do. To keep yourself humble. But it turned into more of a
performance than a diary, which is why I stopped it for a while. However, I
can't resist putting it back up, mostly because I like to read it myself,
after the fact. And I write it for T*** also. It's a way of communicating
while pretending I'm not. I can pretend to be oh so mature, so grown-up, so
cynical, while secretly feeling quite the opposite. So I'll put this back on
the web, and only tell T*** it's back up. Others will come and read it I
imagine, and you are all welcome. But I write it for myself only. And as long
as that remains clear, I shall remain content.

Hotels at conferences are very lonely places. I'm sitting beside the phone
waiting, waiting for Monique to call me. She must be busy with the kids right
now, getting them fed. I left a couple of messages on her answering machine
but I guess she hasn't got them yet. Perhaps I'll try calling her again. I'm
probably feeling rather pathetic at the minute, and I imagine this entry is
one that I'll regret by tomorrow. What the hell. I miss them all. I'm quite
sure that many readers of this believe that I'm a lousy husband, unfaithful,
unreliable. I'm not so bad. Really, I'm not. But, to quote Oscar Wilde, I can
resist everything except temptation. (That was a joke, a joke, OK? Not meant
to be taken seriously. Jeez.) I well remember telling this to T*** some time
ago, a long time ago, as we were first trying to work out the S/B thing. She
promised never to tempt me and has kept her promise. No hardship for her
I'm quite sure. *chuckle* . A big smile and a wave. As she puts it so
succintly, we never stay around to watch.

The new trio facility in CL has made such a huge difference to song-writing
in the game. So so so much easier now. You could almost say it has inspired
me somewhat. I've had a tune running round inside my head, sparked off by the
theme tune in the film Chocolat which I saw on the plane coming over. I'm
actually looking forward to getting home and writing it down. Not to mention
writing down the other ones chasing it. And now, instead of having to battle
with the most pathetic music-writing system in the whole fucking universe, I
can write it properly, part by part.

Back in NZ. May 28.

Naughty Shepherd. Naughty, naughty boy. Either he was joking with his whole diatribe on Slyph (in which case the joke wasn't so very clear) or he wasn't, in which case..... well....... Slyph probably doesn't really mind, but it wasn't kind to Althea who is really just an innocent bystander. There is a fine line between honesty and unkindness, and I think that Shepherd crossed that line.

I will go to meet him with all defenses up and ready, with great thought before I say anything at all. And when I go to meet Slyph (assuming that Slyph and Shepherd will ever speak to each other again) I will take care to wear my slobbiest clothes, I will try to be as unshaven and disgusting as possible, I will not comb my hair for a month beforehand (I don't usually anyway of course), I will wear odd socks and clothes with holes, I will put a pen behind my ear and carry a math book, I will wear short trousers that don't go all the way down, I will make my ears stick out even more than they do now, I will ensure my nose is at its largest and ugliest. I will make my buck teeth protrude, and wear additional braces. I will peer shortsightedly at her, and dribble, while wiping my nose on the back of my hand.

And then I will thrust myself upon Slyph's attention, making sure that *everyone* in the room knows that I'm her very good friend. We're buddies. Mates. Yeah. The Nerd and the Stunner. Big HUGS for Slyph.

But, you know, I was *positive* that PWC Slyph was someone completely different. I even talked OOC to this person quite a long time ago. And it sure as hell wasn't the person Shep describes. Is this all an elaborate con? Or am I going crazy? Or has PWC Slyph changed?

Bugger me if I know.

31st May

Not great sailing weather, as it's a little cold. Don't get me wrong, we don't get anything as uncivilised as a frost, but the water and wind are just that little bit chillier. And someone broke into the boat, smashing the door and breaking the tiller. Bloody nuisance. I'll have to tie it together with string and limp up to the club to pull it out of the water and pay someone to fix it. I have no idea how to fix that kind of thing myself. When it comes to building things, constructing things, I am a total idiot. Well, not just when it comes to that, of course, but those things in particular.

Booking tickets for the next US trip now. August. Through Chicago on the way to Ann Arbor, and through San Francisco on the return. Hope to meet some CL dudes, and shock Shepherd and Slyph. But before then the whole famn damily and I are off to Rarotonga for a couple weeks. Very nice snorkelling there. It's in the Cook Islands, in the middle of the Pacific which means in the middle of absolutely nowhere. A loooooong way from the rest of the universe.

Preparations for the Chain Mail Bikini Puddleby Tour, by The Slyphonics, are hotting up. Hope that Vagile will accept the position as band drug dealer, or maybe even manager. And I finished my second new trio, called For T. No prizes for guessing what the T stands for. I think I'll convert some of my solo pieces to trio format also. Quick and easy to do, although not as effective as writing a trio from scratch. I have another trio running through my head; they take so much time just to write down, even when I know exactly what I want. Coriakin and Forey (and, of course, Slyph) are the other band members. I'm impressed with progress on all fronts so far.

We have to make a band video before the first concert. All suggestions welcomed. And we need volunteers to help organise stuff. Make announcements. Do security. Sell T-shirts. Do the catering. Promote the video. Get Koppi-time.

HWC's Diary. Read it at your peril.

May 1 2001

May 3rd