Christmas music started right on schedule, on November 1st. I now have to use the drive-through at Walgreen's to get my horrible pills, because not even benzos can stop the utter ragetastic fits that Dolly Parton throws me into when she sings "normal" shit, let alone some saccharine shit about the holidays.
On the other hand, we get to listen to Bill O'Rielly whine about the war on Christmas...Again, just like clockwork. That florid-faced bastard has been mailing it in for almost a decade now. It's like he doesn't care, anymore.
Oh, and good luck getting anywhere in Tucson for the next 5 weeks. The fucking snowbirds are shopping, and the traffic congestion combined with their lack of driving skills means that it's currently more dangerous out there than it is on Goddamn New Year's Eve.
But I have all my gift purchasing done. Something for the wife, something for each kid, something for the parents, and a horrible letter ending "AND FUCK YOU" to every other relation I have. Nigel and I will be writing a Christmas story this year, with some help from TGG and Sister Gothique, and that will be included in the letters to the particularly Christmas-y relatives. Just a little something to put things in perspective, when they go blubbering about how Santa brings toys to all the good little girls and boys. Fuck them, anyway.
And then there's Christmas dinner. I really can't complain about Christmas dinner too much on one hand, because my folks, my family, and I typically lay out a spread that's just like the one presented by popular culture...Which is to say, TOO MUCH FUCKING FOOD. I swear, it would feed a village in Africa for a month. On the other hand, I fucking HATE dinners like that, even with my family. It's not the food, it's the sitting down for 2 hours and making small talk.
Last thing for now: Tucson. Yep, Tis the season for Baba Yaga, so everyone hold onto your skin. You might need it later.
More later.
Bill is a coin-operated boy. Stick a rating in and see what you get.
I think Baba Yaga is one of my favorite PD images.
Quote from: Secret Agent GARBO on November 26, 2012, 06:55:30 PM
Bill is a coin-operated boy. Stick a rating in and see what you get.
I think Baba Yaga is one of my favorite PD images.
She's like a nice old Grandma. :)
I mean, if nice old granny was cooking something different for Christmas dinner this year, and when you tried to peek into the cauldron to see what it is, she gave you a depressed skull fracture with her ladel.
So, not unlike my actual granny, God rest her angry, angry soul.
I mostly get to avoid Christmas, up until the middle of December. Someone tried to put up a fake cardboard Christmas Tree in our office, but a, uh, tragic accident occured and it had to be thrown in the bin.
Part of the benefit of working from home, in an environment with lots of people from a non-Christian background is that there is no real pressure to put up decorations, no endless and tiresome Christmas songs during the daily commute, and no office party I'm expected to attend. Instead, by this time next week 90% of my shopping will be done, and a few days before Xmas, I will head to my parents place, eat too much, drink too much, exchange gifts and get a couple of weeks of good sleep without any disturbances.
You see, the thing is, I don't necessarily dislike Christmas. I'm not even adverse to the tiresome "commercialization of Christmas" crap of the wannabe Naomi Kleins of postmodernity. I just want to like it on my own terms, my usually cool and understated fashion, instead of having it shoved down my throat and forced to wear a stupid grin while I warble on about how "this is the most wonderful time of year". The social expectations, the baggage, is what bores me. As with most things, now I come to consider it.
But anyway. The point is, I'm going to avoid it for as long as seems necessary, and then engage in it entirely on my own terms. And I will enjoy it. And I might just have a small, mocking laugh for those who pontificate about the consumer frenzy of Xmas (because, you know, Christmas is special) or those who stress themselves to the point of nervous collapse over the whole thing.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 26, 2012, 07:06:37 PM
I mean, if nice old granny was cooking something different for Christmas dinner this year, and when you tried to peek into the cauldron to see what it is, she gave you a depressed skull fracture with her ladel.
So, not unlike my actual granny, God rest her angry, angry soul.
:lulz: Good old Baba Yaga. Cousin Gregor is the one she trusts to do her Christmas dinner shopping.
Quote from: Cain on November 26, 2012, 07:09:46 PM
I mostly get to avoid Christmas, up until the middle of December. Someone tried to put up a fake cardboard Christmas Tree in our office, but a, uh, tragic accident occured and it had to be thrown in the bin.
Part of the benefit of working from home, in an environment with lots of people from a non-Christian background is that there is no real pressure to put up decorations, no endless and tiresome Christmas songs during the daily commute, and no office party I'm expected to attend. Instead, by this time next week 90% of my shopping will be done, and a few days before Xmas, I will head to my parents place, eat too much, drink too much, exchange gifts and get a couple of weeks of good sleep without any disturbances.
You see, the thing is, I don't necessarily dislike Christmas. I'm not even adverse to the tiresome "commercialization of Christmas" crap of the wannabe Naomi Kleins of postmodernity. I just want to like it on my own terms, my usually cool and understated fashion, instead of having it shoved down my throat and forced to wear a stupid grin while I warble on about how "this is the most wonderful time of year". The social expectations, the baggage, is what bores me. As with most things, now I come to consider it.
But anyway. The point is, I'm going to avoid it for as long as seems necessary, and then engage in it entirely on my own terms. And I will enjoy it. And I might just have a small, mocking laugh for those who pontificate about the consumer frenzy of Xmas (because, you know, Christmas is special) or those who stress themselves to the point of nervous collapse over the whole thing.
I wouldn't object to it if my Christmases were more like that. I'm down with putting up lights (Shoe Ears and Chicken Quesadilla put them up yesterday, actually) but that's really about as far as I'm willing to go. Alas, I have to play along with the religious part and grin-n-bear the rest of the shit.
Quote from: Cain on November 26, 2012, 07:09:46 PM
I mostly get to avoid Christmas, up until the middle of December. Someone tried to put up a fake cardboard Christmas Tree in our office, but a, uh, tragic accident occured and it had to be thrown in the bin.
Part of the benefit of working from home, in an environment with lots of people from a non-Christian background is that there is no real pressure to put up decorations, no endless and tiresome Christmas songs during the daily commute, and no office party I'm expected to attend. Instead, by this time next week 90% of my shopping will be done, and a few days before Xmas, I will head to my parents place, eat too much, drink too much, exchange gifts and get a couple of weeks of good sleep without any disturbances.
You see, the thing is, I don't necessarily dislike Christmas. I'm not even adverse to the tiresome "commercialization of Christmas" crap of the wannabe Naomi Kleins of postmodernity. I just want to like it on my own terms, my usually cool and understated fashion, instead of having it shoved down my throat and forced to wear a stupid grin while I warble on about how "this is the most wonderful time of year". The social expectations, the baggage, is what bores me. As with most things, now I come to consider it.
But anyway. The point is, I'm going to avoid it for as long as seems necessary, and then engage in it entirely on my own terms. And I will enjoy it. And I might just have a small, mocking laugh for those who pontificate about the consumer frenzy of Xmas (because, you know, Christmas is special) or those who stress themselves to the point of nervous collapse over the whole thing.
Problem: Americans are very, very
aggressive with their "good cheer" and all that shit.
It's very hard to enjoy the season without committing actual mayhem.
Fortunately, I deal mostly with Chinese and Iranians, who are not so keen on Christmas, as a rule. Oh, and Russians, but Russians don't do "cheer" of any sort. When they try, it looks like a pain induced grimace.
Quote from: Cain on November 26, 2012, 07:34:13 PM
Fortunately, I deal mostly with Chinese and Iranians, who are not so keen on Christmas, as a rule. Oh, and Russians, but Russians don't do "cheer" of any sort. When they try, it looks like a pain induced grimace.
This is why I've always had a soft spot for Russians, warts and all.
Hell, one of them wrote
The Bronze Horseman, which was basically the story of my life from 1993-2003 or so.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 26, 2012, 07:16:49 PM
Quote from: Cain on November 26, 2012, 07:09:46 PM
I mostly get to avoid Christmas, up until the middle of December. Someone tried to put up a fake cardboard Christmas Tree in our office, but a, uh, tragic accident occured and it had to be thrown in the bin.
Part of the benefit of working from home, in an environment with lots of people from a non-Christian background is that there is no real pressure to put up decorations, no endless and tiresome Christmas songs during the daily commute, and no office party I'm expected to attend. Instead, by this time next week 90% of my shopping will be done, and a few days before Xmas, I will head to my parents place, eat too much, drink too much, exchange gifts and get a couple of weeks of good sleep without any disturbances.
You see, the thing is, I don't necessarily dislike Christmas. I'm not even adverse to the tiresome "commercialization of Christmas" crap of the wannabe Naomi Kleins of postmodernity. I just want to like it on my own terms, my usually cool and understated fashion, instead of having it shoved down my throat and forced to wear a stupid grin while I warble on about how "this is the most wonderful time of year". The social expectations, the baggage, is what bores me. As with most things, now I come to consider it.
But anyway. The point is, I'm going to avoid it for as long as seems necessary, and then engage in it entirely on my own terms. And I will enjoy it. And I might just have a small, mocking laugh for those who pontificate about the consumer frenzy of Xmas (because, you know, Christmas is special) or those who stress themselves to the point of nervous collapse over the whole thing.
Problem: Americans are very, very aggressive with their "good cheer" and all that shit.
It's very hard to enjoy the season without committing actual mayhem.
The problem with what happened to Christmas is that we no longer have a proper Halloween. See, one of the things that those headhunting Celts that gave us that was a good idea was the idea of a holiday completely devoted to horrible shit, and celebrating that which dark in our nature. A cutting loose if you will, at the end of the harvest. But we commercialized both Halloween and Christmas. Commercializing a holiday seems like a natural thing in a capitalist society, and indeed, it's usually not a harmless thing. The commercialization of Christmas should be expected.
But the commercialization of Halloween had an unintended effect. We cut its balls off and made it about kids getting candy and women dressing up as "slutty [insert any occupation in here, including celibate clergy]" and men as some sort of walking pun and/or douchebag. No. Halloween is no longer a holiday for the Things
TM. Whether the SpiritWorld
TM actually exists or not is irrelevant. The Things
TM are very very real. And we gave them a holiday where we gave them their due. And then we took it away from them. So now the Things
TM show up on the doorstep, looking for their own brand of Tricks and Treats that don't involve cute little children sifting through to get a peanut butter cup instead of one of those weird candies that always populate the bowl at the end of the night. And they don't get them. The Things
TM get restless, and need more for propitiation.
They see us glut ourselves on turkey and cold mashed potatoes, and they can smell the tension mounting in us, too. For we need to appease the Things
TM as much as they need us to. They lurk just behind the doors of the Walmart, taunting us, daring us to come in, to smash down the door. They entrance us with their promises of sales.
They cackle, and ride the waves of insanity flooding out of you when you hear that Paul McCartney song play for the first time in 11 months, because you know, hate it as much as you want, it will be stuck in your head for the next month.
Christmas time is no longer a season to celebrate peace and goodwill. No. The Things
TM need their blood orgy, and they will take it in any form they can trick out of us.
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 26, 2012, 07:41:52 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 26, 2012, 07:16:49 PM
Quote from: Cain on November 26, 2012, 07:09:46 PM
I mostly get to avoid Christmas, up until the middle of December. Someone tried to put up a fake cardboard Christmas Tree in our office, but a, uh, tragic accident occured and it had to be thrown in the bin.
Part of the benefit of working from home, in an environment with lots of people from a non-Christian background is that there is no real pressure to put up decorations, no endless and tiresome Christmas songs during the daily commute, and no office party I'm expected to attend. Instead, by this time next week 90% of my shopping will be done, and a few days before Xmas, I will head to my parents place, eat too much, drink too much, exchange gifts and get a couple of weeks of good sleep without any disturbances.
You see, the thing is, I don't necessarily dislike Christmas. I'm not even adverse to the tiresome "commercialization of Christmas" crap of the wannabe Naomi Kleins of postmodernity. I just want to like it on my own terms, my usually cool and understated fashion, instead of having it shoved down my throat and forced to wear a stupid grin while I warble on about how "this is the most wonderful time of year". The social expectations, the baggage, is what bores me. As with most things, now I come to consider it.
But anyway. The point is, I'm going to avoid it for as long as seems necessary, and then engage in it entirely on my own terms. And I will enjoy it. And I might just have a small, mocking laugh for those who pontificate about the consumer frenzy of Xmas (because, you know, Christmas is special) or those who stress themselves to the point of nervous collapse over the whole thing.
Problem: Americans are very, very aggressive with their "good cheer" and all that shit.
It's very hard to enjoy the season without committing actual mayhem.
The problem with what happened to Christmas is that we no longer have a proper Halloween. See, one of the things that those headhunting Celts that gave us that was a good idea was the idea of a holiday completely devoted to horrible shit, and celebrating that which dark in our nature. A cutting loose if you will, at the end of the harvest. But we commercialized both Halloween and Christmas. Commercializing a holiday seems like a natural thing in a capitalist society, and indeed, it's usually not a harmless thing. The commercialization of Christmas should be expected.
But the commercialization of Halloween had an unintended effect. We cut its balls off and made it about kids getting candy and women dressing up as "slutty [insert any occupation in here, including celibate clergy]" and men as some sort of walking pun and/or douchebag. No. Halloween is no longer a holiday for the ThingsTM. Whether the SpiritWorldTM actually exists or not is irrelevant. The ThingsTM are very very real. And we gave them a holiday where we gave them their due. And then we took it away from them. So now the ThingsTM show up on the doorstep, looking for their own brand of Tricks and Treats that don't involve cute little children sifting through to get a peanut butter cup instead of one of those weird candies that always populate the bowl at the end of the night. And they don't get them. The ThingsTM get restless, and need more for propitiation.
They see us glut ourselves on turkey and cold mashed potatoes, and they can smell the tension mounting in us, too. For we need to appease the ThingsTM as much as they need us to. They lurk just behind the doors of the Walmart, taunting us, daring us to come in, to smash down the door. They entrance us with their promises of sales.
They cackle, and ride the waves of insanity flooding out of you when you hear that Paul McCartney song play for the first time in 11 months, because you know, hate it as much as you want, it will be stuck in your head for the next month.
Christmas time is no longer a season to celebrate peace and goodwill. No. The ThingsTM need their blood orgy, and they will take it in any form they can trick out of us.
Two things:
1. WOW.
2. I support this sort of thing.
Sometimes I don't know how to respond to a post.
This is not one of those times. :)
You'd think the inevitable slaughter on Black Friday(Thursday) of those trapped under the thundering stampede of Mammon would appease them, but mere blood and snapped spines isn't good enough for the Things™. They thrive on Despair, and Frustration, on Horror and Spite, so an evening of rampaging consumerism won't do it. They™ live under cloverleaf overpasses, delighting in the sounds of holiday gridlock, they stalk the queues at the post office as you try to mail packages, they lurk in the supply closet during your mandatory "non-denominational holiday party" where the Atheists, Jews, and Muslims are forced to sing Christmas Carols. And when the morning comes, where millions of dysfunctional families gather together in resentment, depression, and passive-aggresive bitterness, THEY FEAST.
This thread = The True Meaning Of Christmas.
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on November 26, 2012, 07:50:15 PM
You'd think the inevitable slaughter on Black Friday(Thursday) of those trapped under the thundering stampede of Mammon would appease them, but mere blood and snapped spines isn't good enough for the Things™. They thrive on Despair, and Frustration, on Horror and Spite, so an evening of rampaging consumerism won't do it. They™ live under cloverleaf overpasses, delighting in the sounds of holiday gridlock, they stalk the queues at the post office as you try to mail packages, they lurk in the supply closet during your mandatory "non-denominational holiday party" where the Atheists, Jews, and Muslims are forced to sing Christmas Carols. And when the morning comes, where millions of dysfunctional families gather together in resentment, depression, and passive-aggresive bitterness, THEY FEAST.
This explains "Post-holiday" depression. And they FUCK WITH YOUR HEAD for 2 months ahead of time. Just try turning on the TV. I went looking for more GOP tears, and Good Lord, I saw an Immodium commercial which infers that Santa Claus has diarrhea and that he is likely to have a violent gastro-intestinal accident in my chimney. Well isn't that just a GREAT ENDING to the year! How is that supposed to entice me to buy this product? And what about that little terrier pulling on Saint Nick's pants cuff? What happens to HIM if Santa lets go suddenly? Why, he runs straight to YOUR BED and rolls around, trying to get it off, of course. Its a dog thing. Bad scene all the way around.
Besides, the old man is eating the whole night long; he's bound to run across some tainted eggnog or a spackling-based cookie and have some sort of bowel discomfort. I saw him do a spot on some channel where he just SLURPED down a half gallon of milk and then jammed a buncha cookies in his mouth like some snorting hog, while a horrified mother & daughter looked on. It was all so degrading. I think he has an eating disorder and some sort of repression going on.
And what's he doing out there in sub-zero temperatures, anyway? Its time for a younger man to take over. Santa is a worn old knob and it just won't do for him to stroke out and crash that rig into an elementary school or a car dealership. Give him a decent pension, but for God's sake get him out of the air. He's going to blink at the wrong moment, get those reindeer sucked into an Airbus and hundreds will die. Hark the herald lawsuits sing.
And gee, if he's crapping in chimneys, are we going to take the hint in time or what? I appreciate the giant robot he brought me back in 1975, which is why I feel compelled to look out for him now. Let's not be selfish about the season of giving; let's provide Santa with the rest he so richly deserves. Besides, I want that sleigh so I can get to Amsterdam more easily. Yes, its beginning to look a lot like Hash for Christmas, ho ho HO! But mainly I just don't wanna have to shinny up my chimney with a gas mask, a wire brush and a bottle of Clorox. Bleach on Earth and good pills to men, amen.
Talk about pursuits that make even God scratch His head...A big old Heinz-y dog used to chase our ancient Volvo every time we left the house, so one day my Luciferian mother screeches to a halt, leans out the window and yells at the dog, "WELL, YA CAUGHT IT, YA STUPID SON OF A BITCH! NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH IT?" The dog, of course, just sits there and cocks his head at the yowling of the insane woman. The pre-Christmas vapor lock can leave you in the same position as this dog. At least the dog knew when he'd been had and didn't try to gnaw on the bumper. That made him smarter than some of the people I have known, including myself. Sometimes you want what you want with such feriocity that by the time you get it, your Wanter is burned to a crisp and all you can do is stare at the object of your former desire. I don't always love having perspective, but that which allows you to apply better focus to the latest jihad of trumped-up have-tos is a beautiful thing.
Don't assume that Christmas is the only time people prove that they're thinking with their assholes, either. I scanned past Nickelodeon and there I saw a kid grinning widely while smashing eggs on his head, one after another. And people say *I* have some sort of mental disorder. Fuckers. I'm not the guy mashing eggs onto my head.
I feel especially vulnerable during the holiday Tourette's-go-round. I actually laughed at Adam Sandler. Something about making an Oscar into a bong and DEAR GOD, I LAUGHED AT IT, AAAIEEEE! *shakes head*. I knew I was messed up, but geez...I'm losing any sense of standards whatsoever.
If I laugh at Will Ferrell, kill me. Kill me dead. There's still some hope for me because I'd like to see that quacky twit's butchered thighs hanging from a hook in some fly-ridden Somalian market stall. Remember how much you wanted to kill those ultra-happy, grinning & religious optimists in high school? I'd like to kill one right now. Let off a little tension. Anyway, I guess almost any laugh you get should be appreciated, but to laugh at Adam Sandler...Man, I just feel all
dirty.
Pre-holiday angst, my entire ass. You all are terminal fools, which you have proven by dashing through the SNOW, leaving the poor horse trapped in the wreckage of the sleigh to slowly freeze to death, just so you can slurp from a bleeping GRAVY boat, which has already developed a skin on top, guaranteeing that you will clumsily decorate your Hamtaro action vest and Ma's nice linen tablecloth with the aftermath of your ill-bred doofishness. What a jerk! You're taking that damned horse in your lunch until every tendon is GONE. Do you think my brain is made of some super-high-tech heat shielding, a pure carbon frontspiece capable of shrugging off 4000 degrees C of B.S. like it was just some bayou gnat? You guys really press me to the wall with that eye-popping wankery, but it does serve a useful purpose; it makes me feel better about my own failings. I would have just made burgers from the horse up front and stayed home where it was warm. Besides, Ma's cooking tastes like anthrax pudding.
Precious moments, wasted hours: yeah, whatever, fuck off. Don't get me started. I didn't WILLFULLY waste most of them. I mailed out my gifts, fought the crowds a little and said the Right Things to some folks who deserved to hear it, so let me the fuck ALONE; I'm square with the house. I FIST your narrow views and distant judgements. Then I end it with a really great "hide the engineer boot". Truly, I am the Henry Rollins of gift-giving. But don't worry about ME; some folks are so far gone, they'll dance on your ribs in the mall to save 20% on a Wii. Not me, though, I'm a civilized man. No, really.
I don't always practice what I preach because I'm not the kind of person I'm preaching TO, but I also know the power and the pleasure of being validated to hell and gone because I broke the Loop when I was finally seen as not TRYING to preach, but simply to Get Across. When you have no agenda and are able to get someone to see it, that's when you move to the next level, where the real rewards begin to take shape. Post-storm air always seems to be the cleanest, because the chaff and crap have been washed away, so to speak.
What does this insane jabber have to do with Christmas, or anything else? Not all that much. It's just time for my pills. Hey, it has an internal logic you can crack, but you'll have to take your OWN pills to manage it. Now I lay me down to sleep, thank God for pills so I don't freak. So stuff yer holly bush, resin-cast reindeer and mall psychosis. I care little for the traditional holidays; I can make my own anytime. Merry Whatever-Ya-Got, that's the ticket. Gimme another one o' them Christmas bacon-burgers, there, baby.
Now, fuck off. TGRR needs his alone time.
Whoa. That's a lot of headmeat.
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on November 26, 2012, 08:11:17 PM
Whoa. That's a lot of headmeat.
I had to take extra sleep medication last night.
And I'm bored.
And now I have to go to a 2 hour meeting. I hate you all.
The ThingsTM know, and prey upon your own personal weaknesses. The ThingsTM have been with us since the beginning of time. They know the dark corners of the mind that we thought we surrendered through the process of evolution. They know the areas we choose to ignore, because we're better than that.
Observe, one man named Scott in the suburbs puts up his modest display of Christmas lights and a wreath on his house. The neighbor, Jim, across the street does the same, plus a manger scene. The ThingsTM whisper to Scott. They tell him that Jim is trying to outdo him. That Jim thinks he's a hot shit. Scott adds a manger scene and more lights.
The ThingsTM go to Jim, and tell him, "look, Scott is trying to outdo you. He added to his display after you put up yours!" And Jim gets annoyed and says, "That arrogant prick thinks he's better than everyone! Fuck him!" and matches Scott's display, and adds a large star.
The ThingsTM rub their hands together in delight, as they watch the situation escalate. Scott and Jim compete to see who can make a tackier Temple of LightsTM, because whoever manages to do that is the Alpha Dog. Before you know it, you have this bizarre scene where Santa Claus and the Three Wise Men are chasing the Grinch away from the Manger while Frosty is curb stomping Scrooge.
The ThingsTM love Christmas decorations. And they remind you to put them up one day earlier each year. You wouldn't want the neighbor to put them up before you.
Holy shit Roger!
THAT'S A FUCK LOT OF HOLY
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 26, 2012, 09:13:35 PM
THAT'S A FUCK LOT OF HOLY
Christmas is a fuck of a lot of HOLY INSPIRATION.
I choose not to participate. For which I will be viewed as a horrible person or pathetic charity case.
I prefer "horrible person".
The thing that people don't know about Santa Claus is that he's an actual guy, and he really does live up at the North Pole. There's a very good reason for that.
Wait a minute, Twid, you may be saying to yourself, there's no such thing as Santa Claus, just like there's no such thing as the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, a God who's both omnipotent and all-loving, or democracy. Well, yes and no. All of those things do exist, but not as they are portrayed by their representatives (you don't want to run into the Tooth Fairy. She's got large, well-dressed men named Salvatore working for her, and she'll come for your adult teeth too if you remind her that you exist.)
Santa Claus, like any good CEO has a good PR campaign, run through his subsidiaries, like Coca-Cola. Santa incidentally is one of the two guys who knows the secret formula btw, which is why he prefers an offering of milk. Really he'd like some bourbon, but he's gotta drive all night long and again, getting pulled over by the authorities for drunk sleighing would be bad publicity. But I digress. See, the Santa that we've all come to think of as a jolly, fat, grandfatherly type of man is not exactly who he says he is.
You see, Santa doesn't get paid for all of the free gifts he gives you if you've been good. Granted, the materials are provided for through various budgets throughout his vast empire, and it's not like Santa's in pauper country either. On the contrary, he's a multibillionaire. But we all know how billionaires like to cut costs wherever they can except for their income. Well, that's where the North Pole comes in. Slavery isn't exactly legal in most developed nations.
Have you ever seen a Norwegian midget? There's this stereotype that the Norse are all tall. That's not exactly so. Ever wonder why Scandinavia's suicide rate is abnormally high? What actually happens is that during adolescence, if it looks like a Scandinavian is not going to be very tall, they "commit suicide." This suicide is accomplished by a bit of chloroform, an abnormally light coffin at a funeral, an His Majesty turning a blind eye, thus holding up his end of the bargain. You'd think you'd be able to tell that there was something wrong with the elves. Well, they call it Stockholm Syndrome for a reason.
Now, you may be wondering what I meant about the various monarchs up North turning a blind eye.
Well, have you ever wondered just how Santa knows if you've been bad or good? I'm sure you've told yourself that that bit was only thrown in by parents to ensure proper behavior from you while you were growing up or otherwise no toys, or as is more likely slightly less toys than you would have gotten anyway. And while this is true to a degree, Santa does know if you've been bad or good. He's seen to it that not only are his own cameras all over the place, but that cameras are a cool gift to have. Everyone wants a camera, and he'll make sure that there's one under your tree at some point, so you can take all the pictures of you having a good old time that you ever want. But remember they're his cameras, and you don't even have to upload them. He's got his own software built into the thing. Santa knows if you've been bad or good, but the reason you always get presents regardless of how much of an awful shit you've been throughout the year is because he doesn't particularly care. Your bad or good is a potential source of income, to the right bidder or the right government.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 26, 2012, 07:06:37 PM
I mean, if nice old granny was cooking something different for Christmas dinner this year, and when you tried to peek into the cauldron to see what it is, she gave you a depressed skull fracture with her ladel.
So, not unlike my actual granny, God rest her angry, angry soul.
Kesselhobogooking, old gramma used to call that. Poking around the pot too see if it was done when you weren't doing any other cooking. Grandad was hte only who could be a kesselhobogooker and live to tell. We all knew why. Granny chose him because she like him. The rest of us were just fallout from that.
She never decorated either. Well, never more than was practical.
There was a wreath. The smell of the conifer, the holy, and the herbs kept the wargs away. Sure, they'd smell it all in the forests ANYWAYS, but something about the arrangement they couldn't cotton,
There would be mistletoe. "remember, it stalks us all." Granny said. "Stand still too long, and it might take a liking to you. Tarry under it with your love, and you may get up with a bush rooted in your bung. Now, what does that make you call to mind?"
There would be gifts too. Not things you wanted, always. Things you needed. OR wished you didn't
"Here's the socks to keep your feet warm. Of course dear, they ARE warm now, you're right. These are for feet running in terror through the night and the damp. You're no sport if your feet fall of. That's a bad end to a hunt."
"Such a nice red coat. It suits the little one. So easy to spot..."
"I do hope you enjoy digging with that shovel. Dig nice enough, and we'll have space to put the whole family!"
So mom and dad would sit on the couch and drink and drink, for granny kept nog, and toddies, and mullings poured out. They never seemed worse for it though. Maybe she never mixed it strong. Maybe, despite the dedicated pulls at their mugs, they could never down enough to blunt the horror.
The worst thing about Christmas is that I'm in Tucson. I mean, in Chicago, there was snow. It looked like Christmas, so you could almost fool yourself into going along with it to some degree. It was wearing the uniform, so to speak, it LOOKED right, so your brain was more inclined to take a vacation.
Not so, here. Here it is just another grey and babyshit yellow day in the desert. It looks like a toxic waste dump, not some winter wonderland. Your brain isn't ready for Christmas. Problem is, the snowbirds can't adjust to this fact, so they spin in circles. Their diurnal (sp?) cycles are out of kilter. This makes them crazy. They are in fact so crazy that they occasionally insist that other people (ie, me) MUST be cheerful WITH them.
This typically doesn't end well. Yeah, I'll show you holiday cheer, you wizened up pay'bucker. I'll show you good will toward man until you SHIT YOUR PANTS. Santa isn't bringing me coal this year, he's bringing me a fucking RESTRAINING ORDER. And I shall walk right through it and give you a little something for your Goddamn stocking.
See ya in Disneyland, assholes.
Winter in Vermont looked like Christmas. Trees, and snow. That antiseptic smell of a nice winter morning, the low sifting sound as the snow came down, or the exciting blue pale of the moonlight.
Winter in Boston looked like Christmas. Newbury Street or Downtown Crossing with the lights up, clean white snow before it went February dirty gray, and the music making you feel like it was the NICE part of the 1950's again, not the sort of city Art sang about in "The Boxer"
In Providence the wind howls through the buildings like the dry wind through dead ziggurats. It comes war now and again like the shoggoth rolled over in the canal and cut a fart. There is no place for the clean New England winter here. There is no grand thoroughfare for the lights and cheer like in Boston. There is only the cyclopean twisting of the odd city plan. Hell, maybe if I can get up hill without busting my ass I can get to one of the College hill bars, warm and welcoming, bereft of the usual younguns, finally properly partway deserted for a quiet drink, or a random chat if I feel like that. Then it is back out into the desserted night. Once again alone in the unoccupied ruins under the pale diffusion of cold stars.
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 26, 2012, 07:41:52 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 26, 2012, 07:16:49 PM
Quote from: Cain on November 26, 2012, 07:09:46 PM
I mostly get to avoid Christmas, up until the middle of December. Someone tried to put up a fake cardboard Christmas Tree in our office, but a, uh, tragic accident occured and it had to be thrown in the bin.
Part of the benefit of working from home, in an environment with lots of people from a non-Christian background is that there is no real pressure to put up decorations, no endless and tiresome Christmas songs during the daily commute, and no office party I'm expected to attend. Instead, by this time next week 90% of my shopping will be done, and a few days before Xmas, I will head to my parents place, eat too much, drink too much, exchange gifts and get a couple of weeks of good sleep without any disturbances.
You see, the thing is, I don't necessarily dislike Christmas. I'm not even adverse to the tiresome "commercialization of Christmas" crap of the wannabe Naomi Kleins of postmodernity. I just want to like it on my own terms, my usually cool and understated fashion, instead of having it shoved down my throat and forced to wear a stupid grin while I warble on about how "this is the most wonderful time of year". The social expectations, the baggage, is what bores me. As with most things, now I come to consider it.
But anyway. The point is, I'm going to avoid it for as long as seems necessary, and then engage in it entirely on my own terms. And I will enjoy it. And I might just have a small, mocking laugh for those who pontificate about the consumer frenzy of Xmas (because, you know, Christmas is special) or those who stress themselves to the point of nervous collapse over the whole thing.
Problem: Americans are very, very aggressive with their "good cheer" and all that shit.
It's very hard to enjoy the season without committing actual mayhem.
The problem with what happened to Christmas is that we no longer have a proper Halloween. See, one of the things that those headhunting Celts that gave us that was a good idea was the idea of a holiday completely devoted to horrible shit, and celebrating that which dark in our nature. A cutting loose if you will, at the end of the harvest. But we commercialized both Halloween and Christmas. Commercializing a holiday seems like a natural thing in a capitalist society, and indeed, it's usually not a harmless thing. The commercialization of Christmas should be expected.
But the commercialization of Halloween had an unintended effect. We cut its balls off and made it about kids getting candy and women dressing up as "slutty [insert any occupation in here, including celibate clergy]" and men as some sort of walking pun and/or douchebag. No. Halloween is no longer a holiday for the ThingsTM. Whether the SpiritWorldTM actually exists or not is irrelevant. The ThingsTM are very very real. And we gave them a holiday where we gave them their due. And then we took it away from them. So now the ThingsTM show up on the doorstep, looking for their own brand of Tricks and Treats that don't involve cute little children sifting through to get a peanut butter cup instead of one of those weird candies that always populate the bowl at the end of the night. And they don't get them. The ThingsTM get restless, and need more for propitiation.
They see us glut ourselves on turkey and cold mashed potatoes, and they can smell the tension mounting in us, too. For we need to appease the ThingsTM as much as they need us to. They lurk just behind the doors of the Walmart, taunting us, daring us to come in, to smash down the door. They entrance us with their promises of sales.
They cackle, and ride the waves of insanity flooding out of you when you hear that Paul McCartney song play for the first time in 11 months, because you know, hate it as much as you want, it will be stuck in your head for the next month.
Christmas time is no longer a season to celebrate peace and goodwill. No. The ThingsTM need their blood orgy, and they will take it in any form they can trick out of us.
OOOOOOOH
Quote from: Richter on November 27, 2012, 01:03:01 AM
Winter in Vermont looked like Christmas. Trees, and snow. That antiseptic smell of a nice winter morning, the low sifting sound as the snow came down, or the exciting blue pale of the moonlight.
Winter in Boston looked like Christmas. Newbury Street or Downtown Crossing with the lights up, clean white snow before it went February dirty gray, and the music making you feel like it was the NICE part of the 1950's again, not the sort of city Art sang about in "The Boxer"
In Providence the wind howls through the buildings like the dry wind through dead ziggurats. It comes war now and again like the shoggoth rolled over in the canal and cut a fart. There is no place for the clean New England winter here. There is no grand thoroughfare for the lights and cheer like in Boston. There is only the cyclopean twisting of the odd city plan. Hell, maybe if I can get up hill without busting my ass I can get to one of the College hill bars, warm and welcoming, bereft of the usual younguns, finally properly partway deserted for a quiet drink, or a random chat if I feel like that. Then it is back out into the desserted night. Once again alone in the unoccupied ruins under the pale diffusion of cold stars.
Balls. I've seen Providence, and it's EXACTLY how everyone sees Christmas when they close their eyes. A smallish city in rolling hills. Snow. A fucking weirdass bronze pineapple for no fucking reason on Federal Hill. Angry Italians. Grey slush. Bad drivers. Rage. Hate. Hipsters singing Christmas Carols in shitty lava lamp bars. Senseless violence. The world's worst Cornish pasty.
Ah, the holidays.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 26, 2012, 08:02:07 PM
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on November 26, 2012, 07:50:15 PM
You'd think the inevitable slaughter on Black Friday(Thursday) of those trapped under the thundering stampede of Mammon would appease them, but mere blood and snapped spines isn't good enough for the Things™. They thrive on Despair, and Frustration, on Horror and Spite, so an evening of rampaging consumerism won't do it. They™ live under cloverleaf overpasses, delighting in the sounds of holiday gridlock, they stalk the queues at the post office as you try to mail packages, they lurk in the supply closet during your mandatory "non-denominational holiday party" where the Atheists, Jews, and Muslims are forced to sing Christmas Carols. And when the morning comes, where millions of dysfunctional families gather together in resentment, depression, and passive-aggresive bitterness, THEY FEAST.
This explains "Post-holiday" depression. And they FUCK WITH YOUR HEAD for 2 months ahead of time. Just try turning on the TV. I went looking for more GOP tears, and Good Lord, I saw an Immodium commercial which infers that Santa Claus has diarrhea and that he is likely to have a violent gastro-intestinal accident in my chimney. Well isn't that just a GREAT ENDING to the year! How is that supposed to entice me to buy this product? And what about that little terrier pulling on Saint Nick's pants cuff? What happens to HIM if Santa lets go suddenly? Why, he runs straight to YOUR BED and rolls around, trying to get it off, of course. Its a dog thing. Bad scene all the way around.
Besides, the old man is eating the whole night long; he's bound to run across some tainted eggnog or a spackling-based cookie and have some sort of bowel discomfort. I saw him do a spot on some channel where he just SLURPED down a half gallon of milk and then jammed a buncha cookies in his mouth like some snorting hog, while a horrified mother & daughter looked on. It was all so degrading. I think he has an eating disorder and some sort of repression going on.
And what's he doing out there in sub-zero temperatures, anyway? Its time for a younger man to take over. Santa is a worn old knob and it just won't do for him to stroke out and crash that rig into an elementary school or a car dealership. Give him a decent pension, but for God's sake get him out of the air. He's going to blink at the wrong moment, get those reindeer sucked into an Airbus and hundreds will die. Hark the herald lawsuits sing.
And gee, if he's crapping in chimneys, are we going to take the hint in time or what? I appreciate the giant robot he brought me back in 1975, which is why I feel compelled to look out for him now. Let's not be selfish about the season of giving; let's provide Santa with the rest he so richly deserves. Besides, I want that sleigh so I can get to Amsterdam more easily. Yes, its beginning to look a lot like Hash for Christmas, ho ho HO! But mainly I just don't wanna have to shinny up my chimney with a gas mask, a wire brush and a bottle of Clorox. Bleach on Earth and good pills to men, amen.
Talk about pursuits that make even God scratch His head...A big old Heinz-y dog used to chase our ancient Volvo every time we left the house, so one day my Luciferian mother screeches to a halt, leans out the window and yells at the dog, "WELL, YA CAUGHT IT, YA STUPID SON OF A BITCH! NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH IT?" The dog, of course, just sits there and cocks his head at the yowling of the insane woman. The pre-Christmas vapor lock can leave you in the same position as this dog. At least the dog knew when he'd been had and didn't try to gnaw on the bumper. That made him smarter than some of the people I have known, including myself. Sometimes you want what you want with such feriocity that by the time you get it, your Wanter is burned to a crisp and all you can do is stare at the object of your former desire. I don't always love having perspective, but that which allows you to apply better focus to the latest jihad of trumped-up have-tos is a beautiful thing.
Don't assume that Christmas is the only time people prove that they're thinking with their assholes, either. I scanned past Nickelodeon and there I saw a kid grinning widely while smashing eggs on his head, one after another. And people say *I* have some sort of mental disorder. Fuckers. I'm not the guy mashing eggs onto my head.
I feel especially vulnerable during the holiday Tourette's-go-round. I actually laughed at Adam Sandler. Something about making an Oscar into a bong and DEAR GOD, I LAUGHED AT IT, AAAIEEEE! *shakes head*. I knew I was messed up, but geez...I'm losing any sense of standards whatsoever.
If I laugh at Will Ferrell, kill me. Kill me dead. There's still some hope for me because I'd like to see that quacky twit's butchered thighs hanging from a hook in some fly-ridden Somalian market stall. Remember how much you wanted to kill those ultra-happy, grinning & religious optimists in high school? I'd like to kill one right now. Let off a little tension. Anyway, I guess almost any laugh you get should be appreciated, but to laugh at Adam Sandler...Man, I just feel all dirty.
Pre-holiday angst, my entire ass. You all are terminal fools, which you have proven by dashing through the SNOW, leaving the poor horse trapped in the wreckage of the sleigh to slowly freeze to death, just so you can slurp from a bleeping GRAVY boat, which has already developed a skin on top, guaranteeing that you will clumsily decorate your Hamtaro action vest and Ma's nice linen tablecloth with the aftermath of your ill-bred doofishness. What a jerk! You're taking that damned horse in your lunch until every tendon is GONE. Do you think my brain is made of some super-high-tech heat shielding, a pure carbon frontspiece capable of shrugging off 4000 degrees C of B.S. like it was just some bayou gnat? You guys really press me to the wall with that eye-popping wankery, but it does serve a useful purpose; it makes me feel better about my own failings. I would have just made burgers from the horse up front and stayed home where it was warm. Besides, Ma's cooking tastes like anthrax pudding.
Precious moments, wasted hours: yeah, whatever, fuck off. Don't get me started. I didn't WILLFULLY waste most of them. I mailed out my gifts, fought the crowds a little and said the Right Things to some folks who deserved to hear it, so let me the fuck ALONE; I'm square with the house. I FIST your narrow views and distant judgements. Then I end it with a really great "hide the engineer boot". Truly, I am the Henry Rollins of gift-giving. But don't worry about ME; some folks are so far gone, they'll dance on your ribs in the mall to save 20% on a Wii. Not me, though, I'm a civilized man. No, really.
I don't always practice what I preach because I'm not the kind of person I'm preaching TO, but I also know the power and the pleasure of being validated to hell and gone because I broke the Loop when I was finally seen as not TRYING to preach, but simply to Get Across. When you have no agenda and are able to get someone to see it, that's when you move to the next level, where the real rewards begin to take shape. Post-storm air always seems to be the cleanest, because the chaff and crap have been washed away, so to speak.
What does this insane jabber have to do with Christmas, or anything else? Not all that much. It's just time for my pills. Hey, it has an internal logic you can crack, but you'll have to take your OWN pills to manage it. Now I lay me down to sleep, thank God for pills so I don't freak. So stuff yer holly bush, resin-cast reindeer and mall psychosis. I care little for the traditional holidays; I can make my own anytime. Merry Whatever-Ya-Got, that's the ticket. Gimme another one o' them Christmas bacon-burgers, there, baby.
Now, fuck off. TGRR needs his alone time.
THIS
IS LIKE A CHRISTMAS MAGNUM OPUS OF LIQUID BITTERNESS
GREAT AS A DIGESTIVE APERITIF.
Oh wait, that's "bitters"
whatever, squeeze a few more drops in my whiskey so that I can STAND TO BE ALIVE for the rest of this fucking jolly season.
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:11:44 AM
Oh wait, that's "bitters"
whatever, squeeze a few more drops in my whiskey so that I can STAND TO BE ALIVE for the rest of this fucking jolly season.
I am surviving by means of making everyone else as hideously angry as I am.
It works!
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:12:47 AM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:11:44 AM
Oh wait, that's "bitters"
whatever, squeeze a few more drops in my whiskey so that I can STAND TO BE ALIVE for the rest of this fucking jolly season.
I am surviving by means of making everyone else as hideously angry as I am.
It works!
A Christmas message you can count on!
Tensions are mounting, here in the pretty little city of bridges. So far, I have seen one car attempt to drive up someone's front steps, one restaurant arson, one cheer-related Facebook altercation between a local gallery owner and an artist, and one friend's father-in-law served divorce papers on Thanksgiving to his 70-year-old wife while she was in jail for stalking one of the local firemen.
That's just since Wednesday, and the season has hardly begun!
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:21:35 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:12:47 AM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:11:44 AM
Oh wait, that's "bitters"
whatever, squeeze a few more drops in my whiskey so that I can STAND TO BE ALIVE for the rest of this fucking jolly season.
I am surviving by means of making everyone else as hideously angry as I am.
It works!
A Christmas message you can count on!
Tensions are mounting, here in the pretty little city of bridges. So far, I have seen one car attempt to drive up someone's front steps, one restaurant arson, one cheer-related Facebook altercation between a local gallery owner and an artist, and one friend's father-in-law served divorce papers on Thanksgiving to his 70-year-old wife while she was in jail for stalking one of the local firemen.
That's just since Wednesday, and the season has hardly begun!
I saw a Santa being arrested at Walgreens on Sunday.
No idea what for, but his salvation army collection thingie was knocked over.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:24:03 AM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:21:35 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:12:47 AM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:11:44 AM
Oh wait, that's "bitters"
whatever, squeeze a few more drops in my whiskey so that I can STAND TO BE ALIVE for the rest of this fucking jolly season.
I am surviving by means of making everyone else as hideously angry as I am.
It works!
A Christmas message you can count on!
Tensions are mounting, here in the pretty little city of bridges. So far, I have seen one car attempt to drive up someone's front steps, one restaurant arson, one cheer-related Facebook altercation between a local gallery owner and an artist, and one friend's father-in-law served divorce papers on Thanksgiving to his 70-year-old wife while she was in jail for stalking one of the local firemen.
That's just since Wednesday, and the season has hardly begun!
I saw a Santa being arrested at Walgreens on Sunday.
No idea what for, but his salvation army collection thingie was knocked over.
HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:27:48 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:24:03 AM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:21:35 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:12:47 AM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:11:44 AM
Oh wait, that's "bitters"
whatever, squeeze a few more drops in my whiskey so that I can STAND TO BE ALIVE for the rest of this fucking jolly season.
I am surviving by means of making everyone else as hideously angry as I am.
It works!
A Christmas message you can count on!
Tensions are mounting, here in the pretty little city of bridges. So far, I have seen one car attempt to drive up someone's front steps, one restaurant arson, one cheer-related Facebook altercation between a local gallery owner and an artist, and one friend's father-in-law served divorce papers on Thanksgiving to his 70-year-old wife while she was in jail for stalking one of the local firemen.
That's just since Wednesday, and the season has hardly begun!
I saw a Santa being arrested at Walgreens on Sunday.
No idea what for, but his salvation army collection thingie was knocked over.
HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!
http://www.mysanantonio.com/news/local_news/article/Shopper-who-pulled-gun-at-San-Antonio-mall-within-4060598.php
HO HO HO!
Quote from: Richter on November 27, 2012, 12:38:43 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 26, 2012, 07:06:37 PM
I mean, if nice old granny was cooking something different for Christmas dinner this year, and when you tried to peek into the cauldron to see what it is, she gave you a depressed skull fracture with her ladel.
So, not unlike my actual granny, God rest her angry, angry soul.
Kesselhobogooking, old gramma used to call that. Poking around the pot too see if it was done when you weren't doing any other cooking. Grandad was hte only who could be a kesselhobogooker and live to tell. We all knew why. Granny chose him because she like him. The rest of us were just fallout from that.
She never decorated either. Well, never more than was practical.
There was a wreath. The smell of the conifer, the holy, and the herbs kept the wargs away. Sure, they'd smell it all in the forests ANYWAYS, but something about the arrangement they couldn't cotton,
There would be mistletoe. "remember, it stalks us all." Granny said. "Stand still too long, and it might take a liking to you. Tarry under it with your love, and you may get up with a bush rooted in your bung. Now, what does that make you call to mind?"
There would be gifts too. Not things you wanted, always. Things you needed. OR wished you didn't
"Here's the socks to keep your feet warm. Of course dear, they ARE warm now, you're right. These are for feet running in terror through the night and the damp. You're no sport if your feet fall of. That's a bad end to a hunt."
"Such a nice red coat. It suits the little one. So easy to spot..."
"I do hope you enjoy digging with that shovel. Dig nice enough, and we'll have space to put the whole family!"
So mom and dad would sit on the couch and drink and drink, for granny kept nog, and toddies, and mullings poured out. They never seemed worse for it though. Maybe she never mixed it strong. Maybe, despite the dedicated pulls at their mugs, they could never down enough to blunt the horror.
Dear god, Richter.
I actually took my hat off to that. It was unconscious, but it happened.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:07:28 AM
Quote from: Richter on November 27, 2012, 01:03:01 AM
Winter in Vermont looked like Christmas. Trees, and snow. That antiseptic smell of a nice winter morning, the low sifting sound as the snow came down, or the exciting blue pale of the moonlight.
Winter in Boston looked like Christmas. Newbury Street or Downtown Crossing with the lights up, clean white snow before it went February dirty gray, and the music making you feel like it was the NICE part of the 1950's again, not the sort of city Art sang about in "The Boxer"
In Providence the wind howls through the buildings like the dry wind through dead ziggurats. It comes war now and again like the shoggoth rolled over in the canal and cut a fart. There is no place for the clean New England winter here. There is no grand thoroughfare for the lights and cheer like in Boston. There is only the cyclopean twisting of the odd city plan. Hell, maybe if I can get up hill without busting my ass I can get to one of the College hill bars, warm and welcoming, bereft of the usual younguns, finally properly partway deserted for a quiet drink, or a random chat if I feel like that. Then it is back out into the desserted night. Once again alone in the unoccupied ruins under the pale diffusion of cold stars.
Balls. I've seen Providence, and it's EXACTLY how everyone sees Christmas when they close their eyes. A smallish city in rolling hills. Snow. A fucking weirdass bronze pineapple for no fucking reason on Federal Hill. Angry Italians. Grey slush. Bad drivers. Rage. Hate. Hipsters singing Christmas Carols in shitty lava lamp bars. Senseless violence. The world's worst Cornish pasty.
Ah, the holidays.
No, Roger... We haven't had a decent SNOW around here for Christmas for YEARS. A dusting, an inch or two before Christmas, but it melts off before the day.
Mother Nature does it just to spite me, the hateful bitch.
See, I could handle just about anything at Christmas, if there was snow on the ground. I'm talking about real snow, enough to go out in the yard or a park and build a snowman. You know the kind, the kind that piles up on rooftops and hides the worst parts of the city for a few months. Instead, we get "New England Winter Mix." They actually call it that. What they mean is fucking sleet and snow, which comes down, coats everything in sheets of ice, then fucks off. Make a snowball out of that shit, fling it at somebody, and half of it will knock a tooth out of their head, and the other half will run down the front of their coat straight down to their underpants. This, while entertaining, still doesn't help.
God and his whole fucking fan club can go piss up a rope, I never cared much about it being Jesus's birthday party. (What kind of birthday party is it when everybody ELSE gets presents, anyway? I always figured that, if I ever had kids of my own, I'd teach 'em that, for Christmas, you wrapped up half of your toys (not the busted shit, the stuff somebody else might enjoy) and took 'em down to an orphanage or some shit. GIVE, instead of gimme. Ah, well, that's not happening, I guess.) But, damn it, the lights, the Christmas trees, the snow... It was PRETTY.
For a little while, people are supposed to care about each other, or at least pretend. You're supposed to sit down in the same room with your cousins (you know, the ones you'd rather shoot with your brother's BB gun than have an actual conversation with), be nice to each other, open presents wrapped up in pretty paper, maybe stick a pretty ribbon on your head (yeah, I can actually get girly, sometimes, a statement which probably caused at least one person who knows me to burst out laughing), laugh, and just have FUN.
It's supposed to be a day you BELIEVE in something.
What is it now?
Sleet. Slush. It's all gray and dirty around the edges, and downright treacherous in the middle.
The season starts off with Black Friday, where people are encouraged to try to kill each other for ten bucks off a prepaid cell phone. Assualt and battery over cheap, sleazy underwear. It's all about "what did you buy me," not "what can I give?" It's all "Mommy doesn't LOVE me, she didn't buy me the new iPad I wanted." It's all "fuck my life, nobody bought me a car."
Fucking monkeys took the holiday I loved most as a kid and shat all over it.
Fuck Christmas, anyway.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:07:28 AM
Quote from: Richter on November 27, 2012, 01:03:01 AM
Winter in Vermont looked like Christmas. Trees, and snow. That antiseptic smell of a nice winter morning, the low sifting sound as the snow came down, or the exciting blue pale of the moonlight.
Winter in Boston looked like Christmas. Newbury Street or Downtown Crossing with the lights up, clean white snow before it went February dirty gray, and the music making you feel like it was the NICE part of the 1950's again, not the sort of city Art sang about in "The Boxer"
In Providence the wind howls through the buildings like the dry wind through dead ziggurats. It comes war now and again like the shoggoth rolled over in the canal and cut a fart. There is no place for the clean New England winter here. There is no grand thoroughfare for the lights and cheer like in Boston. There is only the cyclopean twisting of the odd city plan. Hell, maybe if I can get up hill without busting my ass I can get to one of the College hill bars, warm and welcoming, bereft of the usual younguns, finally properly partway deserted for a quiet drink, or a random chat if I feel like that. Then it is back out into the desserted night. Once again alone in the unoccupied ruins under the pale diffusion of cold stars.
Balls. I've seen Providence, and it's EXACTLY how everyone sees Christmas when they close their eyes. A smallish city in rolling hills. Snow. A fucking weirdass bronze pineapple for no fucking reason on Federal Hill. Angry Italians. Grey slush. Bad drivers. Rage. Hate. Hipsters singing Christmas Carols in shitty lava lamp bars. Senseless violence. The world's worst Cornish pasty.
Ah, the holidays.
As a citizen of the next state over, I'm not exactly sure about those pineapples either. I thought them confined to Newport and therefore some sort of harmless Naval tradition. At first. Remember though, that the first PDer I mailed was Nigel, and I mailed her from Newport. But now I discover that l'anana is all over Providence Plantations. Those pineapples are fucking evil. They promise "Welcome!" just as iron gates promise "Arbeit macht frei" over a German work camp.
That... went somewhere I had no idea it was going to go.
I think I need to get some sleep.
Or something.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:07:28 AM
Quote from: Richter on November 27, 2012, 01:03:01 AM
Winter in Vermont looked like Christmas. Trees, and snow. That antiseptic smell of a nice winter morning, the low sifting sound as the snow came down, or the exciting blue pale of the moonlight.
Winter in Boston looked like Christmas. Newbury Street or Downtown Crossing with the lights up, clean white snow before it went February dirty gray, and the music making you feel like it was the NICE part of the 1950's again, not the sort of city Art sang about in "The Boxer"
In Providence the wind howls through the buildings like the dry wind through dead ziggurats. It comes war now and again like the shoggoth rolled over in the canal and cut a fart. There is no place for the clean New England winter here. There is no grand thoroughfare for the lights and cheer like in Boston. There is only the cyclopean twisting of the odd city plan. Hell, maybe if I can get up hill without busting my ass I can get to one of the College hill bars, warm and welcoming, bereft of the usual younguns, finally properly partway deserted for a quiet drink, or a random chat if I feel like that. Then it is back out into the desserted night. Once again alone in the unoccupied ruins under the pale diffusion of cold stars.
Balls. I've seen Providence, and it's EXACTLY how everyone sees Christmas when they close their eyes. A smallish city in rolling hills. Snow. A fucking weirdass bronze pineapple for no fucking reason on Federal Hill. Angry Italians. Grey slush. Bad drivers. Rage. Hate. Hipsters singing Christmas Carols in shitty lava lamp bars. Senseless violence. The world's worst Cornish pasty.
Ah, the holidays.
Ethnicities you've never heard of, pissed that the white minority is acting weirder than usual. Throwing cash around too. Not at the usual things though, but at each OTHER. Getting "Just the right" ham, tree, cake, garland, schnitzel, tuber.... No one wants to go through the "Dominic the Donkey: carwash ride that enterprising Joe put together in a hurry and he can't figure out why.
Th parents drag the lilly white spawn around a little harder, and scream at them a little louder.
Some people are walking in a cloud. Traipsing through the necessary buyings, for once ennobled by doing it out of LOVE for the people they buy for. The others, who have no one to buy for, or who are too damaged or jaded to feel it are practically on a different planet. Some fucked up socilogical expression of quantum physics. In one world Schrodinger is on his way home to toss the cat a kipper, in another fluffy is DEAD, and he's goign to pull a bottle from that bag and drink until he can cry again.
Snow loosens feet from ground, wheels from road, and tempers from reality. You think the tossers could driver in good weather, sober, with proper lighting. Remove all three. Exchangin insurance information amounts to admitting you need a stomping, or admitting you have a lead deficiency. Even the most level headed Two-bit Tony will brandish a bat before the soccer mom starts her finger wagging tirade. IT expedited the process to getting off the road and figuring out the paperwork later.
Then it stops.
The day happens, it's over, and we wait a week for a good bender. After that? Well THEN the snow seems a bit more gray. The lights come down. The spirits fade. This is the cull, where we see whose wallet, patience, and will can cling to life through another hard freeze.
Quote from: Luna on November 27, 2012, 02:08:45 AM
That... went somewhere I had no idea it was going to go.
I think I need to get some sleep.
Or something.
sometime in the year 3461, a strangely preserved letter was found in the ruins of Providence, Rhode Island, in the immediate post-classical dialect of the English language.
Dear Luna,
I saw you the other day talking about the wintery New England mix. Well, here's the thing. We didn't always get WNEM. No, I remember a time when we called it snow. When we called it a blizzard. When a Nor'Easter meant "holy shit, we can't do a fucking thing!" instead of "dood, it fahkin sucks outside kehd, lets go to the packie and get some beeahz! Wull get wet but fahk it dood. Beeahz!"
I know that I am fairly notorious foe being of the Pagan persuasion, and more specifically, of the Alexandrianesque sort of background. Well, They say that the Oak King and the Holly King ever fight at the change of the season for dominance of the hemisphere. Except now, I think that the oil companies have put their money behind the Oak King.
Everyone likes warmth and good weather of course, but, they're expecting to check out before the Oak King lobs that nuke at the Holly King. Yeah, they'll have kids and junk but they don't care. They never did.
No.
The Oak King is the clear winner. He was as soon as they decided to throw a little money his way. They were considering the Holly King for quite a bit after WWII, but they decided that an all out nuclear exchange was not very profitable. You see the WNEM now, only in New England. But it won't be too long now before WNEM becomes merely Wintery Mix, and strangely it's raining warmly in Boston and Providence.
I honestly don't look forward to what that day and age's WNEM will be. I envy the South even less.
Hugs and Kisses Your Favorite Nephew,
-Twiddleton
Quote from: Luna on November 27, 2012, 02:00:31 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:07:28 AM
Quote from: Richter on November 27, 2012, 01:03:01 AM
Winter in Vermont looked like Christmas. Trees, and snow. That antiseptic smell of a nice winter morning, the low sifting sound as the snow came down, or the exciting blue pale of the moonlight.
Winter in Boston looked like Christmas. Newbury Street or Downtown Crossing with the lights up, clean white snow before it went February dirty gray, and the music making you feel like it was the NICE part of the 1950's again, not the sort of city Art sang about in "The Boxer"
In Providence the wind howls through the buildings like the dry wind through dead ziggurats. It comes war now and again like the shoggoth rolled over in the canal and cut a fart. There is no place for the clean New England winter here. There is no grand thoroughfare for the lights and cheer like in Boston. There is only the cyclopean twisting of the odd city plan. Hell, maybe if I can get up hill without busting my ass I can get to one of the College hill bars, warm and welcoming, bereft of the usual younguns, finally properly partway deserted for a quiet drink, or a random chat if I feel like that. Then it is back out into the desserted night. Once again alone in the unoccupied ruins under the pale diffusion of cold stars.
Balls. I've seen Providence, and it's EXACTLY how everyone sees Christmas when they close their eyes. A smallish city in rolling hills. Snow. A fucking weirdass bronze pineapple for no fucking reason on Federal Hill. Angry Italians. Grey slush. Bad drivers. Rage. Hate. Hipsters singing Christmas Carols in shitty lava lamp bars. Senseless violence. The world's worst Cornish pasty.
Ah, the holidays.
No, Roger... We haven't had a decent SNOW around here for Christmas for YEARS. A dusting, an inch or two before Christmas, but it melts off before the day.
Mother Nature does it just to spite me, the hateful bitch.
See, I could handle just about anything at Christmas, if there was snow on the ground. I'm talking about real snow, enough to go out in the yard or a park and build a snowman. You know the kind, the kind that piles up on rooftops and hides the worst parts of the city for a few months. Instead, we get "New England Winter Mix." They actually call it that. What they mean is fucking sleet and snow, which comes down, coats everything in sheets of ice, then fucks off. Make a snowball out of that shit, fling it at somebody, and half of it will knock a tooth out of their head, and the other half will run down the front of their coat straight down to their underpants. This, while entertaining, still doesn't help.
God and his whole fucking fan club can go piss up a rope, I never cared much about it being Jesus's birthday party. (What kind of birthday party is it when everybody ELSE gets presents, anyway? I always figured that, if I ever had kids of my own, I'd teach 'em that, for Christmas, you wrapped up half of your toys (not the busted shit, the stuff somebody else might enjoy) and took 'em down to an orphanage or some shit. GIVE, instead of gimme. Ah, well, that's not happening, I guess.) But, damn it, the lights, the Christmas trees, the snow... It was PRETTY.
For a little while, people are supposed to care about each other, or at least pretend. You're supposed to sit down in the same room with your cousins (you know, the ones you'd rather shoot with your brother's BB gun than have an actual conversation with), be nice to each other, open presents wrapped up in pretty paper, maybe stick a pretty ribbon on your head (yeah, I can actually get girly, sometimes, a statement which probably caused at least one person who knows me to burst out laughing), laugh, and just have FUN.
It's supposed to be a day you BELIEVE in something.
What is it now?
Sleet. Slush. It's all gray and dirty around the edges, and downright treacherous in the middle.
The season starts off with Black Friday, where people are encouraged to try to kill each other for ten bucks off a prepaid cell phone. Assualt and battery over cheap, sleazy underwear. It's all about "what did you buy me," not "what can I give?" It's all "Mommy doesn't LOVE me, she didn't buy me the new iPad I wanted." It's all "fuck my life, nobody bought me a car."
Fucking monkeys took the holiday I loved most as a kid and shat all over it.
Fuck Christmas, anyway.
The expectation of the day irks me as much as the monkies you mention. Not for myself, or for my own wants anymore. The best gift I ever got is being able to take care of myself. Anyways both my sister and I are not too keen on surprises. It's the noise and the anticipation and all the other such. The pressure of a "special" day, as if any other turning of the planet could be more important than any other. It focuses us on what we have, and what we don't. Makes us stare at our trouble, as Syrio Forrell might say.
Got your swords? Come out and fence tomorrow if you can. If not then, no worries, there are times on the weekend too, and swordplay is a great way to remember how to be in the moment.
Thanks, guys.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:29:59 AM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:27:48 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:24:03 AM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:21:35 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 27, 2012, 01:12:47 AM
Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 01:11:44 AM
Oh wait, that's "bitters"
whatever, squeeze a few more drops in my whiskey so that I can STAND TO BE ALIVE for the rest of this fucking jolly season.
I am surviving by means of making everyone else as hideously angry as I am.
It works!
A Christmas message you can count on!
Tensions are mounting, here in the pretty little city of bridges. So far, I have seen one car attempt to drive up someone's front steps, one restaurant arson, one cheer-related Facebook altercation between a local gallery owner and an artist, and one friend's father-in-law served divorce papers on Thanksgiving to his 70-year-old wife while she was in jail for stalking one of the local firemen.
That's just since Wednesday, and the season has hardly begun!
I saw a Santa being arrested at Walgreens on Sunday.
No idea what for, but his salvation army collection thingie was knocked over.
HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!
http://www.mysanantonio.com/news/local_news/article/Shopper-who-pulled-gun-at-San-Antonio-mall-within-4060598.php
HO HO HO!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
I look at Christmas differently then you guys do. Instead of loathing its commercialism (which I do, oh trust me I do.) I look at Christmas in it's ancient tradition: returning to the holidays of light in darkness.
Christmas for me is not snow, it's not material goods... It's how many lights we could fit on the palm tree out front, it's the absolute insanity that my family exhibits for the 2 weeks every year when I get to actually see them. Sure, sometimes I go to Florida in the spring or summer, but Christmas is my really only chance. Two weeks out of 52. Something that up until 2009 was denied to me by my ex-husband once they moved back south.
Fuck your snow. I fucking hate it. I hate the way the sun hangs so slow in the sky as the days grow shorter.
I fucking HATE how early the sun sets, and how the cold sets into your goddamn soul and starts permeating everything so it can make itself right at home in my toes and knees, making me creak like an old lady. I hate the wind that catches the inside of your hoodie and shoots straight down your neck on days you think you can get by without a scarf. I hate natural gas heat.
The physical seasons mean nothing to me. Nothing more than the opportunity for a few pictures and even more opportunity to complain. Sure, fall is pretty. I like it for the whole 3 days it lasts. Then you remember it's just the beginning of decay and death until you want to kiss the ground at the sight of the first crocus in March. I was raised without seasons, which makes you wonder if snow really sparkles like it does on Christmas cards, or what the smell of fallen leaves is like. Garbage, and mold. Wet mold. Spring brought me a selection of new allergies I had never knew I had before, and a regular dependence on pharmaceuticals to combat it on a daily basis so I can survive. Summer is the same, if not hotter, maybe. I chalk that up to the fact that central air conditioning has not been invented north of the Mason-Dixon. Give me a strong thunderstorm that shakes the house down any day over a Nor'Easter. Though thundersnow is something that everyone should experience at least once. Watching the lightning dance on falling snowflakes is spectacular...then you remember you have to go out into that shit when it's done.
So does snow sparkle? Yes, and your happy sparkly experience ends quickly the minute the shovels is put in your hands. I still can't use one properly. Ten years of New England and I have no clue how to shovel snow. Fuck that shit, this is why I live in apartments.
Christmas, for me, is the chance to escape the dull, and I forgot how much I actually *liked* it, (or rather, the ridiculous way my family does it - Jesus not included.) until my divorce.
In regards to the thundersnow- I've experienced it twice. The first time everyone thought to remark on it, like we just arrived on an alien planet.
The second time was the year after and we all just nodded at each other with a smile and a "dood, wicked fahkin pissah" sort of glance.
:lol: Your accent.
Quote from: Freeky Queen of DERP on November 27, 2012, 05:57:46 AM
:lol: Your accent.
I mock it a lot, but the funny thing is, Bostonians just don't sound like they're supposed to. Unless they're....
Hmm... I'm not sure how to put this. Very blue collar and very ethnically Irish/Italian/Greek. And even then it's not a guarantee. My friends and I used to consider a Boston accent a shibboleth, and an indication that someone with said accent would automatically declare themselves our enemy, unless they approached us.
It is true that I say wicked in place of very, and I pronounce aunt as ont. But otherwise, I just sound like indistinct American, with some weirdly out of place Hibernicisms and Anglicisms. I do come from a blue collar Irish-American background, but, my dad is not actually from Boston so it provided a counter example and made me aware of accents at an early age.
Funny enough, Midsister has the accent (Twidsister does not).
And I remember that one time when I was about 14 my cousin John, who was also dual-citizen and originally from NYC but raised there, really really made Midsister mad by talking about "oosters", and how annoying they are crowing in the morning.
/threadjack
I remember Christmas. When I was little it was all sparkly lights and obnoxiously well-padded snowsuits and a tree full of fun things to pull off and smash. When I got older it was about laying in the bed shivering, hoping 'Santa' went downstairs with his bottle of booze instead of coming into my room to tell stories. At the ripe age of six until I left home, it was snow. Bloody snow.
When it gets cold, farmers hunt. When they hunt, my family slaughters. Up at the crack of dawn, tend the livestock, off to school. After school it's straight to the butcher shop behind Uncle's house. It's loud in there, and so cold. Hunters stand around the front door, boasting about their big kills and placing their orders for chops, steak, bologna, and sausage. Big laughs, big guns, big smiles. It takes a lot of skill to to hunt down those wily ol' critters with their ten-twenty-thirty-point racks. With their huge bodies. Or their tiny bodies still covered in spots.
The deer don't come through the front. They come in the back, gutted, tongues lolling and eyes glazed in shock. Their legs are cut off at the knees and they are hung from hooks, head down. They are stripped naked, hides ripped off in one great pull, sending ticks and fur flying. Then comes the chainsaw.
It's a loud and gristly mess. But in no time, the animal becomes just parts. The parts become tidy white packages, stamped and arranged in a tidy box. Ready for the freezer. Ready for dinners and smiles all around. For other families.
For mine, once the tidy, pretty packages go out the front door, we go out the back. The mountain of heads and legs watch as we check each other for ticks. As the elders beat whoever misbehaved that night and throw them in the pile of waste parts. As the various cousins and aunts and uncles pile into their cars to go home.
Living closest, my brothers and I would ride in the back of someone's truck or walk. At midnight the sky is so crystal clear it looks like the stars are cutting their way through, piercing the darkness. Bone shards puncturing slumbering, slack organs. Steel hooks punching through hide. Bullets making something that was whole . . . something vibrant . . . a dead thing, black inside, full of holes that let in the light. Some light.
Once home, we pick a side of the garage, boys on one, me as the only girl on the other, and we strip down as far as we can go and scrub off the blood and bits with snow because in winter we don't have water when the pump freezes over. But you can't go to school covered in pieces of dead things. So scrub with the snow, race into the house on blue feet. Up the stairs and under the covers that are pulled up so tight, over our heads.
And lay awake; shivering and haunted; until the sunlight comes through the holes in the blankets, looking like stars in a tattered sky.
ETA: Edited for a closer approximation to accuracy.
This is the first year that I totally am not into the whole Christmas thing.
What makes it worse is that my parents are apparently on the bandwagon of starting the season before Thanksgiving. When they asked if I had been watching any Christmas shows or movies yet, I said 'Of course not, it's not even December yet.' This had my mom in disbelief, because apparently you can't be in the proper mood for the holiday if you don't start it a month early.
For the last few years I've gradually become indifferent to the holiday. Perhaps it's because I haven't been able to decorate, or maybe I'm just more jaded as I get older. I just wish all the constant music and pressure to be happy and get the perfect gift would already be over with.
We aren't gifting much this year, even though my family is present crazy. Note: by "presents" we mean cleverly wrapped puns from the dollar store and flea market that take all morning to open while we start on the Irish coffee and amaretto and orange juice to somehow nurse our hangover from the party the night before.
I'm fucking broke. My business took a nosedive because of my schoolwork load this year (I'm calling this entrepreneurship thing a "bad idea" right now.) If it wasn't for the fact Navyguy is a twisted bastard like myself and decided that driving to Florida sounded like the ticket, I would probably spend my holiday crying in my bedroom like I did the morning of Thanksgiving before I smacked myself out of it. We're bringing with us a selection of handmade booze and as much holiday cheer as we can scrape together, and stopping at South of the Border on the way. He's never seen that horrid place, so I need to make sure he gets his full Roadside America ExperienceTM.
Navyguy didn't have a Christmas last year as he was in Kuwait, so I promised him something unlike he has ever seen before, which is a holiday insanity that I've come to accept as "Christmas:"
- The plastic tree, because real trees in Florida are expensive, this one is okay though, it didn't melt in the shed like the last one.
- The well-lit sable palm in the front lawn. It may not look like much, but it takes my brother hours of work. He will remind you of that every time we plug the fucker in. It's the state tree, you know.
- The ancient and horrible photos of Christmas Past decorating my parents' already picture-plastered walls. Most of them avant-garde.
- The lovingly handcrafted wooden toys and wall decorations my grandfather made before he passed away. He used to sell them at craft shows and flea markets in Alabama.
- The tiki hut. Every spend Christmas Eve in a tiki hut with a fully stocked bar, a TV, and a 125lb German Shepherd snoring at your feet surrounded by about 20 people you don't know and plates of food everywhere?
You see, my parents have this rule. If you have no place to spend the holiday, you spend it with them. The tradition of picking up strays goes back for as long as I remember. Sometimes it's family members, sometimes it was my school friends who for whatever reason, couldn't stand to be home with their own families, or even the lonely neighbor who maybe lost her husband some time ago. You'll be given a cup of whatever you want to drink, a warm meal, and a place to sleep if you need it. Stay for Christmas morning and more than likely Santa will have left a gift for you. Him and my parents go way back, they don't mind asking him the favor. Legend has it that his last stop was at my Grandmother's house every year, where he could sit and have a cup of Bailey's and unwind. I remember seeing him as a little girl back when I still lived in New York. He always had a present for every child. Every year. When I was old enough to "know better" I asked my dad who he really was, figuring it was a family friend that would do the honor of dressing up every year. He would just shrug, and go, "It was Santa. You know the rules, if you don't believe, you don't receive."
I don't want to say that my family does the best Christmas, but I feel like they've perfected it, and do it right.
Suu, that sounds wonderful. It reminds me of how my dad would host Thanksgiving, in spirit if not in practice (in practice, it was a lot more "smart people talking about smart things" driven). That all-inclusive, strays welcome, tonight-all-is-family vibe. I've tried to carry it on.
Fuck, I miss him.
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on November 27, 2012, 06:06:03 AM
Quote from: Freeky Queen of DERP on November 27, 2012, 05:57:46 AM
:lol: Your accent.
I mock it a lot, but the funny thing is, Bostonians just don't sound like they're supposed to. Unless they're....
Hmm... I'm not sure how to put this. Very blue collar and very ethnically Irish/Italian/Greek. And even then it's not a guarantee. My friends and I used to consider a Boston accent a shibboleth, and an indication that someone with said accent would automatically declare themselves our enemy, unless they approached us.
It is true that I say wicked in place of very, and I pronounce aunt as ont. But otherwise, I just sound like indistinct American, with some weirdly out of place Hibernicisms and Anglicisms. I do come from a blue collar Irish-American background, but, my dad is not actually from Boston so it provided a counter example and made me aware of accents at an early age.
I don't have an accent either...until I get up there and they pick it right out.
Go south...or west... :P
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on November 27, 2012, 05:33:49 PM
Suu, that sounds wonderful. It reminds me of how my dad would host Thanksgiving, in spirit if not in practice (in practice, it was a lot more "smart people talking about smart things" driven). That all-inclusive, strays welcome, tonight-all-is-family vibe. I've tried to carry it on.
Fuck, I miss him.
You're going to miss him forever, but it's the little parts of his legacy, such as Thanksgiving dinner that you're carrying on that are far more meaningful than any of his books, and I'm sure he's proud wherever he is.
If you're ever in Clearwater on Christmas Eve, give me a call. I've been trying to get Squid over for years, but she was usually stuck working.
Nigel,
Go ahead and start "the letter" without me. TGG and SG will still want a bite out of it, I think. I am abstaining until I can think my way through whether or not it is an exploitation of child labor. Plus I don't feel up to the funny.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 30, 2012, 07:09:38 PM
Nigel,
Go ahead and start "the letter" without me. TGG and SG will still want a bite out of it, I think. I am abstaining until I can think my way through whether or not it is an exploitation of child labor. Plus I don't feel up to the funny.
Forget it.