Meta -- Has It Gone Too Far?

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Oh God Kill Me Now.
-- NRQ (miltonpinsk...), February 13th, 2004.

Answers
(bang)
-- Pashmina (pashmin...), February 13th, 2004.

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seriously, what is the point?
-- stevem (bluesk...), February 13th, 2004.

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haha
-- Ronan (ronan.fitzgerald...), February 13th, 2004.

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This thread has been punched in the nuts by a moderator.
-- Dan Perry (djperr...), February 13th, 2004.

ilXor.com ilXor.com ?

*thunk*

*thunk*

*thunk*

... seven...

like, from what? the cliffs of dover? in front of a bus?

Hapworth 16, 1924, or quite
in the lap of the
gods!!
Dear Bessie, Les, Beatrice, Walter, and Waker:
I WILL write for us both, I believe, as Buddy is engaged
elsewhere for an indefinite period of time. Surely sixty to eighty per
cent of the time, to my eternal amusement and sorrow, that
magnificent, elusive comical lad is engaged elsewhere! As you must
know in your hearts and bowels, we miss you all like sheer hell.
Unfortunately, I am far from above hoping the case is vice versa. This
is a matter of quite a little humorous despair to me, though not so
humorous. It is entirely disgusting to be forever achieving little
actions of the heart or body and then taking recourse to reaction. I
am utterly convinced that if A's hat blows of while he is sauntering
down the street, it is the charming duty of B to pick it up and hand
it to A without examining A's face or combing it for gratitude! My
God, let me achiever missing my beloved family without yearning that
they miss me in return! It requires a less wishy-washy character than
the one available to me. My God, however, on the other side of the
ledger, it is a pure fact that you are utterly haunting persons in
simple retrospect! How we miss every excitable, emotional face among
you! I was born without any great support in the event of continued
absence of loved ones. It is a simple, nagging, humorous fact that my
independence is skin deep, unlike that of my elusive, younger brother
and fellow camper.
While bearing in mind that my loss of you is very acute today,
hardly bearable in the last analysis, I am also snatching this
stunning opportunity to use my new and entirely trivial mastery of
written construction and decent sentence formation as explained and
slightly enriched upon in that small book, alternately priceless and
sheer crap, which you saw me poring over to excess during the
difficult days prior to our departure for this place. Though this is
quite a terrible bore for you, dear Bessie and Les, superb or suitable
construction of sentences holds some passing, amusing importance for a
young fool like myself! It would be quite a relief to rid my system of
fustian this year. It is in danger of destroying my possible future as
a young poet, private scholar, and unaffected person. I beg you both,
and perhaps Miss Overman, should you drop by at the library or run
into her at your leisure, to please run a cold eye over all that
follows and then notify me immediately if you uncover any glaring or
merely sloppy errors in fundamental construction, grammar,
punctuation, or excellent taste. Should you indeed run into Miss
Overman quite by accident or design, please ask her to be merciless an
deadly toward me in this little matter, assuring her amiably that I am
sick to death of the wide gap of embarrassing differences, among other
things, between my writing and speaking voices! It is rotten and
worrisome to have two voices Also please extend to that gracious,
unsung woman my everlasting love and respect. Would to God that you,
my acknowledged loved ones, would cease and cut out thinking of her in
your minds as a fuddy duddy. She is far from a duffy duddy. In her
disarming, modest way, that little bit of a woman has quite a lot of
the simplicity and dear fortitude of an unrecorded heroine of the
Civil or Crimean War, perhaps the most moving wars of the last few
centuries. My God, please take the slight trouble to remember that
this worthy woman and spinster has no comfortable home in the present
century! The current century, unfortunately, is a vulgar embarrassment
to her from the word go! In her heart of hearts, she would zestfully
live out her remaining years as a charming, intimate neighbor of
Elizabeth and Jane Bennet, continually being approached by those
unequally delicious heroines of "Pride and Prejudice" for sensible and
worldly advice. She is not even a librarian at heart, unfortunately.
At all events, please offer her any generous specimen of this letter
that does not look too personal or vulgar to you, prevailing upon her
at the same time not to pass too heavy judgment on my penmanship
again. Frankly, my penmanship is not worth the wear and tear on her
patience, dwindling energies, and very shaky sense of reality. Also
frankly, while my penmanship will improve a little as I grow older,
looking less and less like the expression of a demented person, it is
mostly beyond redemption. My personal instability and too much emotion
will ever be plainly marked in every stroke of the pen, quite
unfortunately.
Bessie! Les! Fellow children! God Almighty, how I miss you on
this pleasant idle morning! Pale sunshine is streaming through a very
pleasing, filthy window as lie forcibly abed here. You humorous,
excitable, beautiful faces, I can assure you, are suspended above me
as perfectly as if they were on delightful strings from the ceiling!
We are both in very satisfactory health, Bessie sweetheart. Buddy is
eating quite beautifully when the meals are stomachable. While the
food itself is not atrocious, it is cooked without a morsel of
affection or inspiration, each string bean and simple carrot arriving
on the camper's plate quite stripped of its tiny, vegetal soul. The
food situation could change in a trice, to be sure, if Mr. and Mrs.
Nelson, the cooks, man and wife, a very hellish marriage from casual
appearances, would only dare to imagine that every boy who comes into
their mess hall is their own beloved child, regardless of from whose
loins he sprang in this particular appearance. However, if you had the
racking opportunity of chatting for a few minutes with these two
persons, you would quite know this is like asking for the moon. A
nameless inertia hangs over those two, alternating with fits of
unreasonable wrath, stripping them of any will or desire to prepare
creditable, affectionate food or even to keep the bent silverware on
the tables spotless and clean as a whistle. The sight of the forks
alone often whips Buddy into a raw fury. He is working on this
tendency, but a revolting fork is a revolting fork. Also, past a
certain important, touching point, I am far from at liberty to tamper
with that splendid lad's furies, considering his age and stunning
function in life.
On second thought, please do not say anything to Miss Overman
about my penmanship. It is best for her daily and hourly position to
dwell or harp on my rotten penmanship to her heart's content. I am
inutterably in that good woman's debt! She has been meticulously
trained by the Board of Education. Quite unfortunately, my rotten
penmanship, coupled with the subject of the late hours I enjoy
keeping, are very often the only grounds for discussion she finds
thoroughly comfortable and familiar. I do not know where I have failed
her in this respect. I suspect I got us off on quite the wrong foot
when I was younger by allowing her to think I am a very serious boy
simply because I am an omnivorous reader. Unwittingly, I have left her
no decent, human notions that ninety-eight percent of my life, thank
God, has nothing to do with the dubious pursuit of knowledge. We
sometimes exchange little persiflages at her desk or while we are
stepping over to the card catalogues, but they are very false
persiflages, quite without decent bowels. It is very burdensome to us
both to have regular communication without bowels, human silliness,
and the common knowledge, quite delightful and enlivening in my
opinion, that everybody seated in the library has a gall bladder and
various other, touching organs under their skin. There is much more to
the question than this, but I cannot pursue it profitably today. My
emotions are too damnably raw today, I fear. Also the precious five of
you are innumerable miles from this place and it is always too damned
easy to fail to remember how little I can stand useless separations.
While this is often a very stimulating and touching place, I
personally suspect that certain children in this world, like your
magnificent son Buddy as well as myself, are perhaps best suited to
enjoying this privilege only in a dire emergency or when they know
great discord in their family life. But let me quickly pass on to more
general topics. On my God, I am relishing this leisurely
communication!
The majority of young campers here, you will be glad to know,
could not possibly be nicer or more heartrending from day to day,
particularly when they are not thriving with suspicious bliss in
cliques that insure popularity or dubious prestige. Few boys, thank
God with a bursting heart, that we have run into here are not the very
salt of the earth when you can exchange a little conversation with
them away from their damn intimates. Unfortunately, here as elsewhere
on this touching planet, imitation is the watchword and prestige the
highest ambition. It is not my business to worry about the general
situation, but I am hardly made of steel. Few of these magnificent,
healthy, sometimes remarkably handsome boys will mature. The majority,
I give you my heartbreaking opinion, will merely senesce. Is that a
picture to tolerate in one's heart? On the contrary, it is a picture
to rip the heart to pieces. The counsellors themselves are counsellors
in name only. Most of them appear slated to go through their entire
lives, from birth to dusty death, with picayune, stunted attitudes
towards everything in the universe and beyond. This is a cruel and
harsh statement, to be sure. It fails to be harsh enough! You think I
am a kind fellow at heart, is that not so? God reward me with
hailstones and rocks, I am no! No single day passes that I do not
listen to the heartless indifferences and stupidities passing from the
counsellor's lips without secretly wishing I could improve matters
quite substantially by bashing a few culprits over the head with an
excellent shovel or stout club! I would be less heartless, I am
hoping, if the young campers themselves were not so damned
heartrending and thrilling in their basic nature. Perhaps the most
heartrending boy within sound of my ridiculous voice is Griffith
Hammersmith. Oh, what a heartrending boy he is! His very name brings
the usual fluid to my eyes when I am not exercising decent control
over my emotions; I am working daily on this emotional tendency while
I am here, but am doing quite poorly. Would to God that loving parents
would wait and see their children at a practical age before they name
them Griffith or something else that will by no means ease the little
personality's purpose in life. My own first name "Seymour" was quite a
gigantic, innocent mistake, for some attractive diminutive like
"Chuck" or even "Tip" or "Connie" might have been more comfortable for
adults and teachers wont to address me in casual conversation; so I
have some acquaintance with this petty problem. he, young Griffith
Hammersmith, is also seven; however, I am his senior by a brisk and
trivial matter of three weeks. In physical bulk, he is the smallest
boy in the entire camp, being still smaller, to one's amazement and
sadness, than your magnificent son Buddy, despite the gross age
difference of two years. His load in this appearance in the world is
staggering. Please consider the following crosses this excellent,
droll, touching, intelligent lad has to bear. Resign yourselves to
ripping your hearts out by the roots!
a)He has a severe speech impediment. It amounts to far more
than a charming lisp, his entire body stumbling at the brink of
conversation, so counsellors and other adults are not pleasantly
diverted.
B)This little child has to sleep with a rubber sheet on his
bed for obvious reasons, similar to our own dear Waker, but quite
different in the last analysis. Young Hammersmith's bladder has given
up all hope of soliciting any interest or favor.
C)He has had nine (9) different tooth brushes since camp quite
opened. He buries or hides them in the woods, like a chap of three or
four, or conceals them beneath the leaves and other crap under his
bungalow. This he does without humour or revenge or private relish.
There is quite an element of revenge in it, but he is not at liberty
to enjoy his revenge to the hilt or get any keen satisfaction out of
it, so totally has his spirit been dampened or quite smothered by his
relatives. The situation is thoroughly stubborn and rotten, I assure
you.
He, young Griffith Hammersmith, follows you two eldest dons
around quite a bit, often pursuing us into every nook and cranny. He
is excellent, touching,intelligent company when he is not being
hounded by his past and present. His future, I am fairly sick to death
to say, looks abominable. I would bring him home with us after camp is
over in a minute, with complete confidence, joy and abandon, were he
an orphan. He has a mother, however, a young divorcee with an
exquisite, swanky face slightly ravaged by vanity and self-love and a
few silly disappointments in life, though not silly to her, we may be
sure. One's heart and purse sensuality go out to her, we have found,
though she does such maddening, crappy job as a mother and woman. Last
Sunday afternoon, a stunning day, utterly cloudless, she popped by and
invited us to join her and Griffith for a spin in their imposing,
ritzy Pierce-Arrow, to be followed by a snack at the Elms before
returning. We regretfully declined the invitation. Jesus, it was a
frigid invitation!I have heard some stunning, frigid invitations in my
time, but this one quite took the cake! I am hoping you would have
been slightly amused by her utterly false, friendly gesture, Bessie,
but I doubt it; you are not old enough, sweetheart! Not too deep in
Mrs. Hammersmith's transparent, slightly comical heart, she was keenly
disappointed that we are Griffith's best friends in camp, her mind an
admirably quick eye instantaneously preferring Richard Mace and Donald
Wiegmuller, two members of Griffith's own bungalow and more to her
taste. The reasons were quite obvious, but I will not go into them in
an ordinary, sociable letter to one's family. With the passage of
time, I am getting used to this stuff; and your son Buddy, as you have
very ample reason to know, is no man's fool, despite his charming,
tender age on the surface. However, for a young, attractive, bitter
lonely mother with all the municipal advantages of swanky, patrician
facial features, great monetary wealth, unlimited entree, and
bejeweled fingers to show this kind of social disappointment in full
view of her young son, a callow child already cursed with a nervous
and lonely bladder, is fairly inexcusable and hopeless. Hopeless is
too broad, but I see no solution on the horizon to damnable and subtle
matters of this kind. I am working on it, to be sure, but one must of
necessity consider my youth and quite limited experience in this
appearance.
At first, as you know, they put us in different bungalows in
their folly, advancing on the premise that it is quite sound and
broadening to separate brothers and various members of the same
family. However, acting upon a casual, comical remark made by your
incomparable son Buddy, with which I heartily concurred, we had a
damned pleasant chat with Mrs. Happy on the third or fourth ridiculous
day, pointing out to her how completely easy it is to forget Buddy's
absurd, budding age and delightfully human need for conversation and
lightening riposte, with the lively result that Buddy got permission
to move his personal effects as well as his fine, puny humorous body
in here the following Saturday after inspection. We both continue to
find relief, pleasure and simple justice in this turn of affairs. I am
hoping to hell you get to know Mrs. Happy quite intimately when or if
you get an opportunity to come up or resourcefully make one. Picture
to yourselves a gorgeous brunette, perky, quite musical, with a very
nice little sense of humor! It requires all one's powers of
self-control to keep from taking her in one's arms when she is
strolling about on the grass in one of her tasteful frocks. Her
appreciation and fairly spontaneous love for your son Buddy is a
handsome bonus to me, making tears spring to the eyes when least
expected. One of the many thrills of my existence is to see a young,
gorgeous girl or woman from sheer instinct recognize this young lad's
worth within a quarter of an hour of casual conversation beside a
charming brook that is drying up. Jesus, life has its share of
honorable thrills if one but keeps one's eyes open! She, Mrs. Happy,
is also a big fan of yours, Bessie and Les, having seen you many times
before the footlights in Gotham, usually at the Riverside, near their
residence. She unwittingly shares with you, Bessie, a touching
heritage of quite perfect legs, ankles, saucy bosoms, very fresh,
cute, hind quarters, and remarkable little feet with quite handsome,
small toes. You know yourselves what an unexpected bonus it is to run
into a fully grown adult with splendid or even quite presentable toes
in the last analysis; usually, disastrous things happen to the toes
after they leave a darling child's body, you would agree. God bless
this gorgeous kid's heart! It is sometimes impossible to believe that
this haunting, peppy beauty is fifteen (15) years my senior! I leave
it to your own fine and dear judgment, Bessie and Les, whether to
allow the younger children to get wind of this, but if perfect
frankness is to pass between parent and child as freely by mail as in
loving person, which is the relationship I have striven for during my
entire life with increasing slight success, then I must admit, in all
joviality, to moments when this cute, ravishing girl, Mrs. Happy,
unwittingly rouses all my unlimited sensuality. Considering my absurd
age, the situation has its humorous side, to be sure, but merely in
simple retrospect, I regret to say. On two or three haunting occasions
when I have accepted her kind invitation to stop by at the main
bungalow for some cocoa or cold beverage after Aquatics Period, I have
looked forward with mounting pleasure to the possibility, all too
slight for words, of her opening the door, quite unwittingly, in the
raw. This is not a comical tumult of emotions while it is going on, I
repeat, but merely in simple retrospect. I have not yet discussed this
indelicate matter with Buddy, whose sensuality is beginning to flower
at the same tender and quite premature age that mine did, but he has
already quite guessed that this lovely creature has me in sensual
thrall and he has made several humorous remarks. Oh, my God, it is an
honor and privilege to be connected to this arresting young lad and
secret genius who will not accept my conversational ruses for the
truth! The problem of Mrs. Happy will pass into oblivion as the summer
draws to a close, but it would be a great boon, dear Les, if you would
recognize that we share your heritage of sensuality, including the
telltale ridge of carnality just below your own heavy, sensual, bottom
lip, as does our own marvelous, youthful brother, the splendid Walter
F. Glass, young Beatrice and Waker Glass, those sterling personages,
being comparatively free of the telltale ridge in question. Usually, I
think you will agree, I freely trample on signs to go by in the human
face, for they are absolutely unreliable or may be obliterated or
altered by Father Time, but I never trample on the ridge below the
bottom lip, usually a darker shade of red than the rest of the lips. I
will not harp on the subject of karma, knowing and quite sympathizing
with your disdain for my absorbing and accidental interest in this
subject, but I give you my word of honor that the ridge in question is
little more than a karmic responsibility; one meets it, one conquers
it, or if one does not conquer it, one enters into honorable contest
with it, seeking and giving no quarter. I for one do not look forward
to being distracted by charming lusts of the body, quite day in and
day out, for the few, blissful, remaining years allotted to me in this
appearance. There is monumental work to be done in this appearance, of
partially undisclosed nature, and I would cheerfully prefer to die an
utter dog's death rather than be distracted at crucial moments by a
gorgeous, appealing plane or rolling contour of goodly flesh. My time
is too limited, quite to my sadness and amusement. While I intend, to
be sure, to work on this sensual problem without ceasing, it would be
quite a little windfall if you, dear Les, as my dear father and hearty
friend, would be a complete, shameless, open book with regard to your
own pressing sensuality when you were our ages. I have bad the
opportunity of reading one or two books dealing with sensuality, but
they are either inflaming or inhumanly written, yielding little food
for thought. I am not asking to know what sensual acts you performed
when you were our ages; I am asking something worse; I am asking to
know what imaginary sensual acts gave lively, unmentionable
entertainment to your mind. Without the mind, sensuality quite has no
organs to call her own! I fervently urge you to be shameless in this
matter. We are human boys and would not love or respect you the less,
quite the contrary, if you laid bare your earliest and worst sensual
thoughts before us; I am certain we would find them very touching and
moving. A decent, utterly frank criterion is always of splendid,
temporary use to a young person. In addition, it is not in your son
Buddy's nature or mine or your son Walter's to be in the least shocked
or disgusted by any sweet, earthly side of humankind. Indeed, all
forms of human folly and bestiality touch a very sympathetic chord
within our breasts!
Ye gods and little fishes! How cheerful and rewarding it is to have
a little leisure for communication with one's family during one's busy
camp life! You can easily fail to suspect how damn much blessed time I
have on my hands today to attend to the needs of the heart and mind;
full explanation to follow shortly.
Continuing my description, confidential and quite presumptuous, of
Mrs. Happy, whom I know you could learn to love or pity, she is at
great pains in private not to let her rather rotten married life spoil
the happiness and sweet burden of having a baby. She is currently
pregnant, though having at least six or seven months to go before the
event which she understands so badly takes place. It is an up hill
struggle for her all the way. She is verily a poor kid with a tiny,
distended stomach and a head full of very touching crap based on
confusion, maddening books by doctors who share the same popular,
narrow horizons, and the information supplied by a dear friend, with
whom she roomed at college, a superb bridge player, I understand,
named Virginia. Unfortunately, this whole camp is loaded with
heartrending, rotten marriages, but she, Mrs. Happy, is the only
pregnant person abroad, to my knowledge. Hence, in the absence of the
above Virginia, Mrs. Happy has enrolled my services as a
conversationalist, these being the services of a child of seven, mind
you! It affords me unlimited worry, also trivial amusement on
occasion, I am ashamed to say, that she is practically unconscious
that she is freely employing a child my age as an audience; however,
she is a shy, tremendous talker; if she were not spilling these sad
beans to me, to be sure, she would be spilling them to some other
emotional face that came along. One is obliged to take everything she
says with innumerable grains of salt. She is really a foreigner,
though a cute one, to absolute honesty of conversation. She believes
that she is a very affectionate person and that Mr. Happy is an
unaffectionate person. It is a very conversational theory, but sheer
crap, unfortunately. As God is my judge, Mr. Happy is no prize
package, but he is quite definitely an affectionate person. At the
other end of the pole, unfortunately, Mrs. Happy is a very
tenderhearted, quite unaffectionate person. One burns with impatience
toward her delusions when one is not secretly coveting her beauty! She
does not even know enough on occasion to pick up a little child like
your son Buddy, far from his mother and other loved ones, and give him
a decent kiss that will resound through the surrounding forest! She so
easily has no human idea of the terrible need for ordinary kissing in
this wide, ungenerous world! A flashing, charming smile is quite
insufficient. A delicious cup of cocoa, decorated with a thoughtful
marshmallow, is no decent substitute for a kiss or hearty embrace
where a child of five is concerned. She is in more hot water than she
knows, I freely suspect. If I am powerless to be of slight use to her
as conversationalist before the summer is over, this lovely beauty is
in future danger of immorality; a quite subtle downfall and
degringolade from mere flirtation and girlish conversation is
foreseeable. With her unaffection and great depths of ungenerosity,
she is growing prepared to make delirious, sensual love to an
attractive stranger, being too proud and hemmed in by self-love to
share her countless charms with a real intimate. I am very alarmed.
Unfortunately, my position is utterly false at moments of
conversational crisis, being torn between good, sensible, merciless
advice and corrupting desire to have her open the door in the raw. If
you have a moment, dear Les and Bessie, and the younger children as
well, pray for an honorable way for me out of this ridiculous and
maddening wilderness. Pray quite at your leisure, using your own good,
charming words, but stress the point that I cannot achieve an even
keel while being torn between quite sound and perfect advice and
simple lusts of the body and genitals, despite their youthful size.
Please be confident that your prayers will not go down the drain, in
my opinion; merely form them in words and they will be absorbed very
nicely in the way I mentioned to you at dinner last winter. Should God
choose to see me instrumental in this affair, I can be of quite
unlimited help to this beautiful, touching kid. The whole root of Mrs.
Happy's and Mr. Happy's private evil is that they have failed to
become one flesh quite to perfection. With daring and a careful
explanation of the proper, courageous method required, it can be
achieved quite briskly and in a comparative jiffy. I could demonstrate
very easily if Desiree Green were here, who is exceptionally daring
and open at the mind for a young girl of eight, but I can manage quite
nicely without a demonstration also. Do not hesitate to pray for me in
this delicate matter! Waker, old man, I particularly appeal to your
thrilling, innocent powers of prayer! Remember that I am not at
liberty to excuse myself from keen responsibility because I am a mere
boy of seven. If I excuse myself on such flimsy, rotten grounds, then
I am a liar or a cowardly fraud and maker of cheap, normal excuses.
Unfortunately, I cannot approach Mr. Happy, the husband, in this
matter. He is not too approachable in this or any other matter under
the sun. Should the proper time come for approachment, I will
practically have to strap him to a convenient chair to get his entire
attention. He made ropes in his previous appearance, but not very
well, somewhere in Turkey or Greece, but I know not which. He was
executed for making a defective rope, resulting in the deaths of some
influential climbers; however, it was really incredible stubbornness
and conceit, joined with neglect, at the root of the matter. As I told
you before we left, I am trying like hell to cut down on getting any
glimpses while we are up here for a pleasant, ordinary summer. Nine
times out of ten, it is an utter waste of time anyhow to let them pass
freely through the mind, whether or not the person involved would find
an open discussion of the matter helpful, quite spooky, or openly
distasteful.
This is going to be a very long letter! Stiff upper lip, Les! I
humorously give you my permission to read only one quarter of the
entire communication. Freely attribute the longness of the letter to
an unexpected bonus of leisure time, which I shall relate shortly.
Temporarily explained, I wounded my leg quite badly yesterday and am
confined to bed for a change, windfall of windfalls! Guess who
skillfully got permission to keep me company and attend to my personal
needs! Your our beloved son Buddy! He should be returning at any
moment now!
We have received quite a few more demerits since your thrilling call
from the LaSalle Hotel, which was an unspeakable pleasure for us,
despite the rotten connection. I have also mislaid my handsome, new
wrist watch during a recent Aquatics Period; however, everybody is
going to dive for it again tomorrow or this afternoon, so have no
fear, unless it is too hopelessly saturated. Returning to the subject
of the demerits, we got most of them for continuously sloppy bungalow,
followed by quite a few more in a neat bunch for not singing at pow
pow and leaving pow pow without permission. So it goes. Jesus, I hope
you can freely sense at this distance how much we miss you, dear
Bessie and Les and those other three peanuts after my own heart! Would
to God a simple letter were less fraught with the burdens of superb
written construction! One begins to despair of sounding quite like
oneself,
your son and brother, and yet quite uphold the excellent and touching
demands of splendid construction. This has the ear marks of being one
of the future despairs of my life, but I shall give all my consuming
attention to it and hope for an honorable, humorous truce.
A thousand thanks for your amusing and delightful letter and several
postcards! We were relieved and overjoyed to hear Detroit and Chicago
were not too tough, Les. We were equally delighted to hear that young
Mr. Fay was on the same bill in the Windy City; quite juicy news for
you, Bessie, if you still have a harmless, social passion for that
remarkable chap. I have been meaning to write to that chap out of the
blue for a whole year, dating from our rewarding and comical chat
together when we shared a taxi during that beautiful downpour; he is a
clever and mercifully original fellow and will be widely imitated and
stolen from before he is through, mark my words. Close on the heels of
kindness, originality is one of the most thrilling things in the
world, also the most rare! Kindly give us all the news in your future
letters, the more trivial and sweetly 97;691;2085;718]unimportant, the
more readable. The news about "Bambalina" is excellent and more than
arresting! Give it all you have, I beg you! It is a charming tune. If
you do it before camp is over, hastily send us one of the first
records, as there is a Victrola in poor condition in Mrs. Happy's
pleasant quarters and I would gladly impose upon our peculiar
friendship in such a case. Keep up the good work! Jesus, you are a
talented, cute, magnificent couple! My admiration for you would be
measureless were we not even related, be assured. Bessie, we hope to
hell you are enjoying magnificent spirits again, .sweetheart, and are
not too discontent with being on the road so quickly again. If you
have not got around to doing what you faithfully swore up and down you
would do to ease my ridiculous mind, please hurry and do it. It is
definitely a cyst, in my unhumorous opinion, and some respectable
physician should burn or cut it off post haste. I spoke to a
personable physician when we were on the train coming up and he said
it is quite fairly painless when they remove it, a gentle lop doing
the trick very nicely. Oh, God, the human body is so touching, with
its countless blemishes and cysts and despised, touching pimples
arriving and departing, on adult bodies, when least expected. It is
just one more pressing temptation to take off one's hat to God during
the distracting day; I personally cannot and will not see Him dispense
with human cysts, blemishes, and the odd facial pimple or touching
boil! I have never seen Him do anything that is not magnificently in
the cards! I pass over this delicate matter and merely send all five
of you about 50,0(X) kisses. Buddy would readily join me in this if he
were here. This leads to another delicate matter, I am afraid. Bessie
and Les, I soberly address you. Take no offense, but you are both
entirely, absolutely, and very painfully wrong about his never missing
anybody but me; I refer, of course, to Buddy. You ou would make me a
lot happier, quite frankly spoken, if you didn't press that kind of
painful and erroneous crap on me over the phone again, dear Les. It is
very hard to leave the phone on your own two feet when your own
beloved and talented father says something that damaging, wrong, and
quite stupid. The magnificent person in question does not wear his
heart on his damnable sleeve like most people, including you and
myself. The very first and last thing you must remember about this
small, haunting chap is that he will be in a terrible rush all his
life to get the door nicely slammed behind him in any room where there
is a striking and handsome supply of good, sharp pencils and plenty of
paper. I am quite powerless as well as dubiously inclined to alter his
course; it is an old affair, hanging upon innumerable points of honor,
be assured! As his beloved parents, you may not humanly be expected to
lighten his load, but you must not, I beg you, deliberately throw
weights of reproof on his little back. Beyond these subtle matters, he
is privately the most resourceful
creation of God I have ever run into, forever striving not to live a
second-hand existence on the fervent recommendation of practically
everybody one runs into. He will be swiftly and subtly guiding every
child in the family long after I am quite burned out and useless or
out of the picture. It is disrespectful and inexcusable for a young
boy my age to address his lovable father this way, but Buddy is the
one thing you don't know anything about. Let us quickly pass on to
more unticklish topics.
A certain United States congressman, a war buddy of Mr. Happy's,
visited the camp last weekend. As he was one of the most unwatchable
figures I have watched in many years, it would be wise to skip over
his name in this personal letter. A breath of insincerity and
personable corruption passed through the camp; the air still stinks to
high heaven. The kowtowing and artificial laughing on Mr. Happy's part
was beyond earthly description. In the privacy of an impromptu meeting
on the porch of her bungalow, I asked Mrs. Happy to take careful pains
not to allow the congressman and Mr. Happy's quite sickening responses
to him to upset her and that marvelous little embryo while all this
unamiable crap is going on. She quite concurred. Later in the day, for
her sake, I painfully accepted Mr. Happy's request and command that
Buddy and I come to their bungalow after third mess and sing and do a
few routines for his guest, the congressman in question, I have no
right whatever to accept a corrupt invitation for my beloved younger
brother; I am quite hoping, secretly, that the Almighty will take me
to task, quite harshly, for this criminal presumption; I have no
business making snap decisions without consulting this
brilliant
youth. However, we went into
consultation
after the invitation was accepted, privately agreeing not to wear our
taps when we went over, but this was a very false and self-deceptive
relief for us. In the heat of the evening, we consented to do a soft
shoe! In all irony, we were in superb form, as Mrs. Happy played her
accordion for accompaniment; it is very hard for us not to be in
superb form if a gorgeous, untalented creature accompanies us rottenly
on the accordion; it touches us to the quick, amusing us quite a bit,
too. For all our extreme youth, we remain quite vulnerable, amusing
foils where gorgeous, untalented girls are concerned. I am working on
it, but it is a fairly severe problem.
Please, please, PLEASE do not grow impatient and ice cold to this
letter because of its gathering length! When you are ready to despair,
swiftly recall how much leisure I have on my hands today and how
needful I am to have some pleasant communication with the five absent
family members of my heart! I am not constructed for continued
absences; I have never claimed to be constructed for them. Also, much
of my news and general communication promises to be very absorbing,
delightful, and emollient.
As you damned well know, we never change much in our hearts.
However, we are getting slightly tan and looking quite a lot like
healthy children and campers. We may need all the damnable health we
can get, to be sure. An unengaging incident recently occurred. In
addition to the common information that we are the children of the
esteemed Gallagher & Glass and that we are fairly experienced and
skilled entertainers in our own right, thanks to your touching and
thrilling example, news has traveled round about the camp that the
both of us, your small son Buddy and I, have been notorious, heavy
readers from a tender age and in addition have certain abilities,
prowesses, knacks, and facilities of very uncertain value and the
gravest responsibility, the latter being warmly attached to us like
cement from previous appearances, particularly the last two, tough
ones. Your son Buddy is currently taking most of it at the flood. It
requires broad shoulders, I can assure you. Consider, if you have a
minute, the sheer, juicy novelty and food for gossip and malice of a
chap of five who is an experienced reader and writer, daily increasing
in fluency by leaps and bounds, and who is also, despite his
ridiculous age on the surface, an exciting authority on the human face
with all its touching masks, vanities, spurts of pure courage, and
frightening deceits! That is the small fellow's present position.
Continue to imagine what would inevitably blossom out if some of this
confidential information leaked out and became common fact or rumor
among campers and counselors alike. That is quite what has happened.
Unfortunately, as he well knows, most of the recent commotion is his
own reckless fault. Oh, my God, this is a droll and thrilling
companion to have on life's bumpy road! Here is the entire crappy
incident in a nut shell, as follows: Mr. Nelson, a born neophile and
enthusiastic talebearer and gossip, is in utter charge of the mess
hall, as already related, along with Mrs. Nelson, a termagant, unhappy
woman, and inspired trouble maker. When nobody is in the mess hall, it
is the only charming place in camp where one can get any blissful
privacy whatsoever. Buddy has had his eye on this haven from the word
go. On Tuesday afternoon, a sultry day, he bet Mr. Nelson that he
could memorize the book Mr. Nelson chanced to be reading within the
space of twenty minutes to a half hour. If he did it perfectly, then
Mr. Nelson in his turn, to show his appreciation for the controversial
accomplishment, would let us, the Glass brothers, use the empty,
pleasant mess hall in our spare time for reading, writing, language
study, and other aching, private needs, such as evacuating our heads
of second-hand and third-hand opinions and views that are buzzing
around this camp like flies. My God, how I deplore and uncountenance
bargains of any kind, be they with responsible adults or adults
without honor! Without my knowledge of this quite terrible fact, this
astounding, independent chap went ahead and made this bargain with Mr.
Nelson, despite our countless discussions, in the wee hours, on the
desirability of keeping our mouths firmly shut on the subject of some
of our endowments and peculiarities. Fortunately, the incident was not
a total loss or debacle. The book itself chanced to be "Hardwoods of
North America," by Foley and Chamberlin, two magnificently modest and
quiet men, long admired by me from my reading experience, with very
infectious love for trees, especially beech and white oak; they have a
charming, unreasonable preference for beech trees! So the exchange of
words between Buddy and me was not too unbearably harsh or unpleasant;
no tears, thank God, were spent. However, Whitey Pittman, the bead
counsellor, hailing from Baltimore, Md., quite a laughing intimate of
Mr. Nelson's, got wind of the accomplishment when it was completed and
freely plucked the opportunity to cash in on it in conversation. In
all fairness and fascination, he has a remarkable gift for increasing
his own prestige at some child's expense; an intelligent scavenger and
conversational parasite. He is the same person, a fellow twenty-six
years of age, no spring chicken to be sure, who said to Buddy in the
midst of a throng of strangers: "I thought you were supposed to be
such a witty kid." Is that a conscientious remark to make to a little
fellow of five? Thank God for the avoidance of shame and embarrassment
to the whole family, I had no decent weapon on my person when this
revolting, crappy remark was made; however, quite afterwards, I
embraced an opportunity to tell Roger Pittman, the full name his
hapless parents gave him, that I would kill him or myself, possibly
before nightfall, if he spoke to this chap again in that manner, or
any other five-year-old chap, in my presence. I believe I could have
curbed this criminal urge at the crucial moment, but one must
painfully remember that a vein of instability runs through me quite
like some turbulent river; this cannot be overlooked; I have left this
troublesome instability uncorrected in my previous two appearances, to
my folly and disgust; it will not be corrected by friendly, cheerful
prayer. It can only be corrected by dogged effort on my part, thank
God; I cannot honorably or intimately pray to some charming, divine
weakling to step in and clean my mess up after me; the very prospect
turns my stomach. However, the human tongue could all too easily be
the cause of my utter degringolade in this appearance, unless I get a
move on. I have been trying like hell since our arrival to leave a
wide margin for human ill-will, fear, jealousy, and gnawing dislike of
the uncommonplace. Do not read this rash remark out loud to the twins
or possibly let it fall on Boo Boo's ears prematurely, but I admit,
with maddening tears coursing down my unstable face, that I do not in
my heart hold out unlimited hope for the human tongue as we know it to
day.
If the above paragraph is too illegible and irksome, try to recall
that I am writing at a swift, terrible rate of speed, with admirable
penmanship quite out of the question. In another handful of minutes or
quarter hours, it will be time for supper; I am writing against time.
In the Midget bungalow, one is required to sleep like a dog for ten,
exasperating hours every night, the bungalow being plunged into
darkness at nine o'clock sharp. I have approached Mr. Happy in this
matter several times, but to no avail. My God, he is a maddening man;
if he does not move one to wrath, he moves one to hysterical laughter,
an equal waste of time. If you could possibly write a short, amiable,
crisp letter, dear Les, if I may address you personally, advising him
that if one knows even the very rudiments of sensible breathing, ten
hours of sleep is sheer folly and imposition. We have our flashlights,
to be sure, but the arrangement remains a striking inconvenience to
us, entangling us in bad light and ill humor.
My contempt for myself for showing you merely the black and quite
dank side of camp life is immeasurable. In this rotten attitude, I
have failed to mention the countless things that are zipping along
with smoothness and beauty; despite my gloomy remarks in the above
paragraphs, each day has been generously studded with happiness,
sensuous pleasure, rejoicing, and fairly explosive laughter. Many
sweet animals loom into view when least expected, such as chipmunks,
unpoisonous snakes, but no deer. I am taking the dubious liberty, Les,
of sending you a few quills from a porcupine, dead but not diseased;
they may be a perfect answer to your old problem with the softness and
breakability of tooth picks. The general scenery is spellbinding, both
underfoot as well as to the sides. To my joy and sheer wonder, your
son Buddy has turned out to be utterly and thrillingly nemophilous! It
is an unexpected revelation to me to see him shape up in this manner.
While I take keen relish in country affairs, too, it is merely up to a
point; in my heart of hearts, I am outside my true element when away
from cold, heartrending cities of ludicrous size after the manner of
New York or London. Buddy, on the other hand, will forever break loose
from city connections, it is quite plain to see; we will not be able
to restrain him in another mere handful of years. I wish you could see
him striking through the dense forest here, when the powers that be
are not minding everybody's business for them, moving with
heartrending stealth, like a magnificent, amusing, berserk, Indian
messenger. Each night, to our entertainment and equal chagrin, I put
untold quantities of iodine on his stubborn, funny body, mutilated
from the blackberry thorns and other damnable outgrowths. Our pleasant
consumption of possibly a dozen books, excellent as well as mediocre,
before departure, on the subject of plants, edible and otherwise, has
been a superb boon to us, allowing us to cook many decent meals, under
the rose, of steamed pigweed, young nettles, purslane, as well as the
last of the tender fiddle heads, using the canteen cup as cooking
receptacle and frequently being joined by that heartrending little
peanut, Griffith Hammersmith, whose appetite in congenial surroundings
is quite stupefying and thrilling. Lest it slip my vacant mind, Buddy
asked me to tell you, Bessie sweetheart, to send him some more tablets
without lines, also some apple butter and corn meal, as he is
practically living on the latter, I daresay, when we are able to
prepare a pleasant, leisurely meal in peace. Be assured that the corn
meal is very nutritive for him; his little body is unusually suited to
corn and barley, if the truth be known. He will write to you very
soon, given the right opportunity and inclination. My God, is he a
busy boy! I have never known him busier, to the best of my
recollection. He has written 6 new stories, entirely humorous in
places, about an English chap recently returned from some stimulating
adventures abroad. It is an indescribable reward to see a person five
years of age sit back on his dear, comical, fleshless haunches and
dash off an engaging yarn with zest and no little acumen! I give you
my word of honor you will hear from this chap one day; no nightfall
passes that I do not mentally take off my hat to you for bringing him
into the world; your loving, charming agency in this lad's general
birth remains unspeakably moving to me; the picture is even more
moving and rewarding when one considers the abominable glimpse I had
at recess period after Christmas vacation, revealing that our intimacy
with you, dear Les, if you are still there, in our last appearance,
was fairly slight and fraught with discordancy. Continuing at leisure,
as for my own writing, I have completed about twenty-five (25)
reasonable poems for which I have a low regard, followed by 16 poems
that have some merit but no enduring generosity, as well as about 10
others that have turned out to be in unconscious, disastrous imitation
of William Blake, William Wordsworth, and one or two other dead
geniuses whose sudden passing never ceases to cut me like a knife.
With regard to my poetry, the general picture is poor and gnawing. It
is my absolute opinion that the only poem of personal, haunting
interest to me that I have written so far this summer is one I have
not written at all. During your expensive phone call from the La
Salle, you will recall, I mentioned that we and the other campers had
spent the entire day at the Wahl Fisheries. On the way there, a lunch
of sandwiches, quite filling, was prepared for us at Kallborn Hotel, a
well-bred, popular hotel frequented by loving, young couples on their
honeymoons. Strolling by the lake with Buddy and Hammersmith, I saw a
couple sporting and laughing. Putting two and two together, and
suddenly feeling disposed, from head to toe, to feel harmony with
those two unknown, young lovers, I wished to write a poem intimating
that the one millionth groom at the Kallborn Hotel had just playfully
splashed the millionth bride; I have personally witnessed young lovers
doing the same thing at Long Beach and other popular resorts. Bessie
dear, it is a little sight you would enjoy, thrill to, and faintly
smile at with a portion of your brain and heart; however, there is no
demand for this in any immortal poetry I have run into. One is left
holding the bag. Let us pass over this prickly topic. For your private
information and possibly Miss Overman's, but draw the line a bit
firmly there as she has no great gift for not repeating a confidence,
I regret to say, we are continuing to master Italian and reviewing
Spanish after taps. It is a broad, rotten hint, but some new batteries
would be a windfall.
Les, it is such a relief and pleasure to dash off a few lines
without listening for the damnable strains of the bugle that my ardor
is running away with me. If you are tired or frankly bored reading,
stop instantaneously, with my heartfelt permission. I am admittedly
taking advantage of your good will, fatherhood, and notorious,
humorous patience. Bessie, I know, will kindly give you the gist of
any communication that follows; light a cigarette with abandon, drop
my damn letter like a hot potato, and go down to the lobby of whatever
hotel you are staying at and enjoy yourself with a free conscience and
my undying love; a game of pool or pinochle might be refreshing!
Continuing at blissful random, we are not too popular with the other
campers in the same bungalow as yet, principally Douglas Folsom, Barry
Sharfman, Derek Smith, Jr., Tom Lantern, Midge Immington, and Red
Silverman. Tom Lantern! Is that or is that not an appealing name to go
through life with? Unfortunately, this youth seems determined not to
turn on any of his lights, so his delightful name is in danger of
going down the drain. This opinion is too harsh. My opinions are all
too frequently too damn harsh for words. I am working on it, but I
have given way to harshness too often
this summer to stomach. God speed you, Tom Lantern, with or without
your lights turned on! There is one boy on the top floor of this
poorly constructed bungalow who is the very salt of the earth; no
compliment heaped upon him would be too lavish be assured. He is often
dashing freely clown the flimsy stairs in his leisure moments and
passing the time of day with your unworthy sons, discussing with a
humorous and open heart his friends, acquaintances, and foes in Troy,
New York, a large hamlet beyond Albany, and generally finding life and
humanity magnificent under the deceptive surfaces. His valiance would
break your heart, I trust, or painfully chip it; an immeasurable
amount is required just to say a hearty hello to us; I have neglected
to say that we are currently being ostracized. His name is John Kolb,
8 years of age, by rights an Intermediate, but there was no room for
him in the Intermediates, so we are privileged to have his chivalrous
company in this crowded building. I beg you to write that valiant,
good-humored name upon your memory for now and all future time!
Unfortunately, anything over five minutes of conversation bores this
dauntless, active boy to tears, and one looks up, to one's touching
amusement, to find his winning, kind face gone from the premises! I
would give countless years of my life to be of some future help to
this lad. He kindly gave me his word of honor, quite blind to the
reasons that made me ask him, that he would never swallow whiskey or
any other liquors on reaching adulthood, but I have damnable, sad
doubts that he will keep his word. He has a waiting tendency to drink
himself into a soothing stupor; it can be defeated utterly if he uses
his entire mind, with a few lights turned on, but I am afraid he is
too kind and impatient a boy to use his entire mind for anything. We
have his address in Troy, New York. If I am alive when the crucial
years arrive, I shall rush to Troy, New York, without a second's delay
and if necessary act in his splendid behalf; it would slightly require
drinking the cup that stupefies myself, but you have to understand
that we have quite lost our hearts to this boy without a shred of
prejudice in his heart. My God, a valorous boy, 8½ years of age, is a
moving thing! It is too ironical to bear, but I give you my word that
valorous people require far more protection than meets the eye. I kiss
your noble, unsung feet, John Kolb, native of Troy, brother of an
uncruel Hector!
As for other matters, we are mixing admirably when opportunity
allows, joining in all the incessant sports and other activities,
enjoying many of them to the hilt. It is a break for us that we are
fairly magnificent, limited athletes; at baseball, perhaps the most
heartrending, delicious sport in the Western Hemisphere, even our
worst foes would not deny our unassuming prowess. This is no conceit
or credit to us, being a humorous bonus from the last appearance; any
game with a ball we achieve easy excellence with a little application;
any game without a ball we tend, unfortunately, to stink. Apart from
games and activities, we are making a handful of lifelong friends
quite by accident. You, however, in the strenuous position of being
our beloved parents, Bessie, must try quite hard to look at certain
matters straight in the face with utter refusal to flinch as one or
two factors loom large. I tell you now, this very moment, to please
tuck away someplace utterly unmelancholy in your memory against a
rainy day, that until the hour we finish our lives there will always
be innumerable chaps who get very seething, and thoroughly inimical
even when they see our bare faces alone coming over the horizon. Mark
you, I am saying our faces alone, independent of our peculiar and
often offensive personalities! There would be a fairly humorous side
to the matter if I had not watched it happen with sickening dismay too
many hundred times in my brief years. I am hoping, however, that as we
continue to improve and refine our characters by leaps and bounds,
striving each day to reduce general snottiness, surface conceits, and
too damn much emotion, coupled with several other qualities quite
rotten to the core, we will antagonize and inspire less murder, on
sight or repute alone, in the hearts of fellow human beings. I expect
good results from these measures, but not thrilling results; I do not
honestly see thrilling results in the general picture. However, don't
let this place too large a shadow on your hearts! Joys, consolations,
and amusing compensations are manifold! Have you ever personally seen
two such maddening, indomitable chaps as your absent sons? In the
midst and heat of fury and gathering adversity, do our young lives not
remain an unforgettable waltz? Indeed, perhaps, if you perversely use
your imagination, perhaps the only waltz Ludwig van Beethoven ever
wrote on his deathbed! I will stand without shame on this presumptuous
thought. My God, what thunderous, thrilling liberties it is possible
to take with the simple, misunderstood waltz if only man dares! In my
whole life, I give you my word, I have never risen from bed in the
morning without hearing two splendid taps of the baton in the
distance! In addition to distant music, adventure and romance press us
hard; absorbing interests and diversions kindly prevail; not once have
I seen us unprotected, thank God, against half-heartedness. One has no
business spitting at these hopeful blessings. Piled on top of all this
good fortune, what else does one find? A capacity to make many
wonderful friends in small numbers whom we will love passionately and
guard from uninstructive harm until our lives are finished and who, in
turn, will love us, too, and never let us down without very great
regret, which is a lot better, more guerdoning, more humorous than
being let down without any regret at all, be assured. I merely mention
some of this painful crap to you, need I say, so that it will be
available to your sweet memories either before or after our untimely
departures; do not let it get you down in the meantime. Also on the
hearty, revitalizing side of the ledger, bear in mind, with good cheer
and amusement, that we were quite firmly obliged, as well as often
dubiously privileged, to bring our creative genius with us from our
previous appearances. One hesitates to suggest what we will do with
it, but it is incessantly at our side, though slow as hell in
development. It is insuperably strong after taps up here, I find, when
one's ridiculous brains finally lie down and behave themselves and the
entire, decent mind is at long last quiet and not racing around in the
slightest; in that interlude, one watches it play in the magnificent
light I mentioned to you privately last May, Bessie, when we were
chatting back and forth affably in the kitchen. I am also watching the
same heartening action take place in the mind of that magnificent
person and companion you gave me for a brother. When the light
mentioned above is insuperably strong, I go to sleep in absolute
assurance that we, your son Buddy and I, are every bit as decent,
foolish, and human as every single boy or counsellor in this camp,
quite tenderly and humorously equipped with the same likable, popular,
heartbreaking blindnesses. My God, think of the opportunities and
thrusts that lie ahead when one knows without a shred of doubt how
commonplace and normal one is at heart! With just a little steadfast
devotion to uncommon beauty and passing rectitudes of the heart,
combined with our dead certainty that we are as normal and human as
anybody else, and knowing it is not just a question of sticking out
our tongues, like other boys, during the first, beautiful snowfall of
the year, who can prevent us from doing a little good in this
appearance? Who, indeed, I say, provided we draw on all our resources
and move as silently as possible "Silence! Go forth, but tell no man!"
said the splendid Tsiang Samdup. Quite right, though very difficult
and widely abhorred.
While I am quite frankly skimming over on the debit side, I ought to
point out, regretfully, that the great percentage of your children,
Bessie and Les, if you have not already repaired to the diversions of
the lobby, have a fairly terrible capacity for experiencing pain that
does not always properly belong to them. Sometimes this very pain has
been shirked by a total stranger, perhaps a lazy chap in California or
Louisiana, whom we have not even had the pleasure of meeting and
exchanging words with. Speaking for your absent son Buddy as well as
myself, I see no way to quit experiencing a little pain, here and
there. till we have fulfilled our opportunities and obligations in the
present, interesting, humorous bodies. Half the pain around,
unfortunately, quite belongs to somebody else who either shirked it or
did not know how to grasp it firmly by the handle! However, when we
have fulfilled our opportunities and obligations. dear Bessie and Les,
I give you my word that we will depart in good conscience and humor
for a change, which we have never entirely done in the past. Again
speaking for your beloved son Buddy, who should be back any moment, I
also give you my word of honor that one of us will be present at the
other chap's departure for various reasons; it is quite in the cards,
to the best of my knowledge. I am not painting a gloomy picture! This
will not be tomorrow by a long shot! I personally will live at least
as long as a well-preserved telephone pole, a generous matter of
thirty (30) years or more, which is surely nothing to snicker at. Your
son Buddy has even longer to go, you will freely rejoice to know. In
the happy interim, Bessie, please ask Les to read these next remarks
when or if he returns from the lobby or any other enjoyable place of
his choice. Les, I beg you to be patient with us in your leisure time.
Try your utmost not to mind too much and get very blue when we don't
remind you very freely and movingly of other regular boys, perhaps
boys from your own childhood. At frequent black moments, swiftly
recall in your heart that we are exceedingly regular boys from the
word go, merely ceasing to be very regular when something slightly
important or crucial comes up. My God, I utterly refuse to wound you
with further discussion of this kind, but I cannot honestly erase any
of the previous, sweeping, tasteless remarks. I am afraid they must
stand. Also, it would not be doing you a true favor if I did erase
them. Largely through my own cheap softness and cowardice, you have
twice before in previous appearances gently neglected to face up to
similar issues; I have no idea if I could stand to see you repeat this
pain. Postponed pain is among the most abominable kind to experience.
For a pleasant change, here is a cheerful and quite upli

The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.

Medicate my days, medicate my nights
It leaves me Fucked Up Inside..

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(bang)
-- Pashmina (pashmin...), February 13th, 2004.

seriously, what is the point?
-- stevem (bluesk...), February 13th, 2004.

haha
-- Ronan (ronan.fitzgerald...), February 13th, 2004.

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Oh God Kill Me Now.
-- NRQ (miltonpinsk...), February 13th, 2004.

Answers
(bang)
-- Pashmina (pashmin...), February 13th, 2004.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

seriously, what is the point?
-- stevem (bluesk...), February 13th, 2004.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

haha
-- Ronan (ronan.fitzgerald...), February 13th, 2004.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This thread has been punched in the nuts by a moderator.
-- Dan Perry (djperr...), February 13th, 2004.

-- Begs2Differ (whothehel...), February 13th, 2004.

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Oh God Kill Me Now.
-- NRQ (miltonpinsk...), February 13th, 2004.
Answers
(bang)
-- Pashmina (pashmin...), February 13th, 2004.
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seriously, what is the point?
-- stevem (bluesk...), February 13th, 2004.
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haha
-- Ronan (ronan.fitzgerald...), February 13th, 2004.
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This thread has been punched in the nuts by a moderator.
-- Dan Perry (djperr...), February 13th, 2004.
-- Begs2Differ (whothehel...), February 13th, 2004 11:10 AM. (Begs2Differ) (later) (link)
-- Kingfish Beatbox Botox Funktion (kingfis...), February 13th, 2004.

ilXor.com ilXor.com ilXor.com ilXor.com ilXor.com
ilXor.com ilXor.com ?

-- ilXor.com | (ilXor.comstuf...), February 13th, 2004.

Fitter
Happier
More productive
Comfortable
Not drinking too much
Regular exercise at the gym (3 days a week)
Getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries
At ease
Eating well (no more microwave dinners and saturated fats)
A patient better driver
A safer car (baby smiling in back seat)
Sleeping well (no bad dreams)
No paranoia
Careful to all animals (never washing spiders down the plughole)
Keep in contact with old friends (enjoy a drink now and then)
Will frequently check credit at (moral) bank (hole in wall)
Favors for favors
Fond but not in love
Charity standing orders
On sundays ring road supermarket
(No killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants)
Car wash (also on sundays)
No longer afraid of the dark
Or midday shadows
Nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate
Nothing so childish
At a better pace
Slower and more calculated
No chance of escape
Now self-employed
Concerned (but powerless)
An empowered and informed member of society (pragmatism not idealism)
Will not cry in public
Less hance of illness
Tires that grip in the wet (shot of baby strapped in back seat)
A good memory
Still cries at a good film
Still kisses with saliva
No longer empty and frantic
Like a cat
Tied to a stick
That's driven into frozen winter shit (the ability to laugh at weakness)
Calm
Fitter, healthier and more productive
A pig
In a cage
On antibiotics
-- Kingfish Beatbox Botox Funktion (kingfis...), February 13th, 2004.

-- NRQ (miltonpinsk...), February 13th, 2004.

Neil, you require 100...
*thunk*

*thunk*

*thunk*

... seven...

-- William Bloody Swygart (thingummy9...), February 13th, 2004.

"JUMPING"?!
like, from what? the cliffs of dover? in front of a bus?

-- Kingfish Beatbox Botox Funktion (kingfis...), February 13th, 2004.

When meta is merry.
-- Ned Raggett (ne...), February 13th, 2004. (tracklink)

SOME comment in advance, as plain and bare as I can make it: My name,
first, is Buddy Glass, and for a good many years of my life,--very
possibly, all forty-six--I have felt myself installed, elaborately
wired, and, occasionally, plugged in, for the purpose of shedding some
some light on the short, reticulate life and times of my late, eldest
brother, Seymour Glass, who died, committed suicide, opted to
discontinue living,when he was thirty-one.
I intend, right now, probably on this same sheet of paper,
to make a start at typing up an exact copy of a letter of Seymour's
that, until four hours ago, I had never read before in my life. My
mother, Bessie Glass, sent it up by registered mail.
This is Friday. Last Wednesday night, over the phone, I
happened to tell Bessie that I had been working for several months on
a long short story about a particular party, a very consequential
party, that she and Seymour and my father and I all went to one night
in 1926. This last fact has some small but, I think, rather marvelous
relevance to the letter at hand. Not a nice word, I grant you,
"marvelous," but it seems to suit.
No further comment, except to repeat that I mean to type up
an exact copy of the letter, word for word, comma for comma. Beginning
here.
May28, 1965
Camp Simon Hapworth
Hapworth Lake
Hapworth, Maine
Hapworth 16, 1924, or quite
in the lap of the
gods!!
Dear Bessie, Les, Beatrice, Walter, and Waker:
I WILL write for us both, I believe, as Buddy is engaged
elsewhere for an indefinite period of time. Surely sixty to eighty per
cent of the time, to my eternal amusement and sorrow, that
magnificent, elusive comical lad is engaged elsewhere! As you must
know in your hearts and bowels, we miss you all like sheer hell.
Unfortunately, I am far from above hoping the case is vice versa. This
is a matter of quite a little humorous despair to me, though not so
humorous. It is entirely disgusting to be forever achieving little
actions of the heart or body and then taking recourse to reaction. I
am utterly convinced that if A's hat blows of while he is sauntering
down the street, it is the charming duty of B to pick it up and hand
it to A without examining A's face or combing it for gratitude! My
God, let me achiever missing my beloved family without yearning that
they miss me in return! It requires a less wishy-washy character than
the one available to me. My God, however, on the other side of the
ledger, it is a pure fact that you are utterly haunting persons in
simple retrospect! How we miss every excitable, emotional face among
you! I was born without any great support in the event of continued
absence of loved ones. It is a simple, nagging, humorous fact that my
independence is skin deep, unlike that of my elusive, younger brother
and fellow camper.
While bearing in mind that my loss of you is very acute today,
hardly bearable in the last analysis, I am also snatching this
stunning opportunity to use my new and entirely trivial mastery of
written construction and decent sentence formation as explained and
slightly enriched upon in that small book, alternately priceless and
sheer crap, which you saw me poring over to excess during the
difficult days prior to our departure for this place. Though this is
quite a terrible bore for you, dear Bessie and Les, superb or suitable
construction of sentences holds some passing, amusing importance for a
young fool like myself! It would be quite a relief to rid my system of
fustian this year. It is in danger of destroying my possible future as
a young poet, private scholar, and unaffected person. I beg you both,
and perhaps Miss Overman, should you drop by at the library or run
into her at your leisure, to please run a cold eye over all that
follows and then notify me immediately if you uncover any glaring or
merely sloppy errors in fundamental construction, grammar,
punctuation, or excellent taste. Should you indeed run into Miss
Overman quite by accident or design, please ask her to be merciless an
deadly toward me in this little matter, assuring her amiably that I am
sick to death of the wide gap of embarrassing differences, among other
things, between my writing and speaking voices! It is rotten and
worrisome to have two voices Also please extend to that gracious,
unsung woman my everlasting love and respect. Would to God that you,
my acknowledged loved ones, would cease and cut out thinking of her in
your minds as a fuddy duddy. She is far from a duffy duddy. In her
disarming, modest way, that little bit of a woman has quite a lot of
the simplicity and dear fortitude of an unrecorded heroine of the
Civil or Crimean War, perhaps the most moving wars of the last few
centuries. My God, please take the slight trouble to remember that
this worthy woman and spinster has no comfortable home in the present
century! The current century, unfortunately, is a vulgar embarrassment
to her from the word go! In her heart of hearts, she would zestfully
live out her remaining years as a charming, intimate neighbor of
Elizabeth and Jane Bennet, continually being approached by those
unequally delicious heroines of "Pride and Prejudice" for sensible and
worldly advice. She is not even a librarian at heart, unfortunately.
At all events, please offer her any generous specimen of this letter
that does not look too personal or vulgar to you, prevailing upon her
at the same time not to pass too heavy judgment on my penmanship
again. Frankly, my penmanship is not worth the wear and tear on her
patience, dwindling energies, and very shaky sense of reality. Also
frankly, while my penmanship will improve a little as I grow older,
looking less and less like the expression of a demented person, it is
mostly beyond redemption. My personal instability and too much emotion
will ever be plainly marked in every stroke of the pen, quite
unfortunately.
Bessie! Les! Fellow children! God Almighty, how I miss you on
this pleasant idle morning! Pale sunshine is streaming through a very
pleasing, filthy window as lie forcibly abed here. You humorous,
excitable, beautiful faces, I can assure you, are suspended above me
as perfectly as if they were on delightful strings from the ceiling!
We are both in very satisfactory health, Bessie sweetheart. Buddy is
eating quite beautifully when the meals are stomachable. While the
food itself is not atrocious, it is cooked without a morsel of
affection or inspiration, each string bean and simple carrot arriving
on the camper's plate quite stripped of its tiny, vegetal soul. The
food situation could change in a trice, to be sure, if Mr. and Mrs.
Nelson, the cooks, man and wife, a very hellish marriage from casual
appearances, would only dare to imagine that every boy who comes into
their mess hall is their own beloved child, regardless of from whose
loins he sprang in this particular appearance. However, if you had the
racking opportunity of chatting for a few minutes with these two
persons, you would quite know this is like asking for the moon. A
nameless inertia hangs over those two, alternating with fits of
unreasonable wrath, stripping them of any will or desire to prepare
creditable, affectionate food or even to keep the bent silverware on
the tables spotless and clean as a whistle. The sight of the forks
alone often whips Buddy into a raw fury. He is working on this
tendency, but a revolting fork is a revolting fork. Also, past a
certain important, touching point, I am far from at liberty to tamper
with that splendid lad's furies, considering his age and stunning
function in life.
On second thought, please do not say anything to Miss Overman
about my penmanship. It is best for her daily and hourly position to
dwell or harp on my rotten penmanship to her heart's content. I am
inutterably in that good woman's debt! She has been meticulously
trained by the Board of Education. Quite unfortunately, my rotten
penmanship, coupled with the subject of the late hours I enjoy
keeping, are very often the only grounds for discussion she finds
thoroughly comfortable and familiar. I do not know where I have failed
her in this respect. I suspect I got us off on quite the wrong foot
when I was younger by allowing her to think I am a very serious boy
simply because I am an omnivorous reader. Unwittingly, I have left her
no decent, human notions that ninety-eight percent of my life, thank
God, has nothing to do with the dubious pursuit of knowledge. We
sometimes exchange little persiflages at her desk or while we are
stepping over to the card catalogues, but they are very false
persiflages, quite without decent bowels. It is very burdensome to us
both to have regular communication without bowels, human silliness,
and the common knowledge, quite delightful and enlivening in my
opinion, that everybody seated in the library has a gall bladder and
various other, touching organs under their skin. There is much more to
the question than this, but I cannot pursue it profitably today. My
emotions are too damnably raw today, I fear. Also the precious five of
you are innumerable miles from this place and it is always too damned
easy to fail to remember how little I can stand useless separations.
While this is often a very stimulating and touching place, I
personally suspect that certain children in this world, like your
magnificent son Buddy as well as myself, are perhaps best suited to
enjoying this privilege only in a dire emergency or when they know
great discord in their family life. But let me quickly pass on to more
general topics. On my God, I am relishing this leisurely
communication!
The majority of young campers here, you will be glad to know,
could not possibly be nicer or more heartrending from day to day,
particularly when they are not thriving with suspicious bliss in
cliques that insure popularity or dubious prestige. Few boys, thank
God with a bursting heart, that we have run into here are not the very
salt of the earth when you can exchange a little conversation with
them away from their damn intimates. Unfortunately, here as elsewhere
on this touching planet, imitation is the watchword and prestige the
highest ambition. It is not my business to worry about the general
situation, but I am hardly made of steel. Few of these magnificent,
healthy, sometimes remarkably handsome boys will mature. The majority,
I give you my heartbreaking opinion, will merely senesce. Is that a
picture to tolerate in one's heart? On the contrary, it is a picture
to rip the heart to pieces. The counsellors themselves are counsellors
in name only. Most of them appear slated to go through their entire
lives, from birth to dusty death, with picayune, stunted attitudes
towards everything in the universe and beyond. This is a cruel and
harsh statement, to be sure. It fails to be harsh enough! You think I
am a kind fellow at heart, is that not so? God reward me with
hailstones and rocks, I am no! No single day passes that I do not
listen to the heartless indifferences and stupidities passing from the
counsellor's lips without secretly wishing I could improve matters
quite substantially by bashing a few culprits over the head with an
excellent shovel or stout club! I would be less heartless, I am
hoping, if the young campers themselves were not so damned
heartrending and thrilling in their basic nature. Perhaps the most
heartrending boy within sound of my ridiculous voice is Griffith
Hammersmith. Oh, what a heartrending boy he is! His very name brings
the usual fluid to my eyes when I am not exercising decent control
over my emotions; I am working daily on this emotional tendency while
I am here, but am doing quite poorly. Would to God that loving parents
would wait and see their children at a practical age before they name
them Griffith or something else that will by no means ease the little
personality's purpose in life. My own first name "Seymour" was quite a
gigantic, innocent mistake, for some attractive diminutive like
"Chuck" or even "Tip" or "Connie" might have been more comfortable for
adults and teachers wont to address me in casual conversation; so I
have some acquaintance with this petty problem. he, young Griffith
Hammersmith, is also seven; however, I am his senior by a brisk and
trivial matter of three weeks. In physical bulk, he is the smallest
boy in the entire camp, being still smaller, to one's amazement and
sadness, than your magnificent son Buddy, despite the gross age
difference of two years. His load in this appearance in the world is
staggering. Please consider the following crosses this excellent,
droll, touching, intelligent lad has to bear. Resign yourselves to
ripping your hearts out by the roots!
a)He has a severe speech impediment. It amounts to far more
than a charming lisp, his entire body stumbling at the brink of
conversation, so counsellors and other adults are not pleasantly
diverted.
B)This little child has to sleep with a rubber sheet on his
bed for obvious reasons, similar to our own dear Waker, but quite
different in the last analysis. Young Hammersmith's bladder has given
up all hope of soliciting any interest or favor.
C)He has had nine (9) different tooth brushes since camp quite
opened. He buries or hides them in the woods, like a chap of three or
four, or conceals them beneath the leaves and other crap under his
bungalow. This he does without humour or revenge or private relish.
There is quite an element of revenge in it, but he is not at liberty
to enjoy his revenge to the hilt or get any keen satisfaction out of
it, so totally has his spirit been dampened or quite smothered by his
relatives. The situation is thoroughly stubborn and rotten, I assure
you.
He, young Griffith Hammersmith, follows you two eldest dons
around quite a bit, often pursuing us into every nook and cranny. He
is excellent, touching,intelligent company when he is not being
hounded by his past and present. His future, I am fairly sick to death
to say, looks abominable. I would bring him home with us after camp is
over in a minute, with complete confidence, joy and abandon, were he
an orphan. He has a mother, however, a young divorcee with an
exquisite, swanky face slightly ravaged by vanity and self-love and a
few silly disappointments in life, though not silly to her, we may be
sure. One's heart and purse sensuality go out to her, we have found,
though she does such maddening, crappy job as a mother and woman. Last
Sunday afternoon, a stunning day, utterly cloudless, she popped by and
invited us to join her and Griffith for a spin in their imposing,
ritzy Pierce-Arrow, to be followed by a snack at the Elms before
returning. We regretfully declined the invitation. Jesus, it was a
frigid invitation!I have heard some stunning, frigid invitations in my
time, but this one quite took the cake! I am hoping you would have
been slightly amused by her utterly false, friendly gesture, Bessie,
but I doubt it; you are not old enough, sweetheart! Not too deep in
Mrs. Hammersmith's transparent, slightly comical heart, she was keenly
disappointed that we are Griffith's best friends in camp, her mind an
admirably quick eye instantaneously preferring Richard Mace and Donald
Wiegmuller, two members of Griffith's own bungalow and more to her
taste. The reasons were quite obvious, but I will not go into them in
an ordinary, sociable letter to one's family. With the passage of
time, I am getting used to this stuff; and your son Buddy, as you have
very ample reason to know, is no man's fool, despite his charming,
tender age on the surface. However, for a young, attractive, bitter
lonely mother with all the municipal advantages of swanky, patrician
facial features, great monetary wealth, unlimited entree, and
bejeweled fingers to show this kind of social disappointment in full
view of her young son, a callow child already cursed with a nervous
and lonely bladder, is fairly inexcusable and hopeless. Hopeless is
too broad, but I see no solution on the horizon to damnable and subtle
matters of this kind. I am working on it, to be sure, but one must of
necessity consider my youth and quite limited experience in this
appearance.
At first, as you know, they put us in different bungalows in
their folly, advancing on the premise that it is quite sound and
broadening to separate brothers and various members of the same
family. However, acting upon a casual, comical remark made by your
incomparable son Buddy, with which I heartily concurred, we had a
damned pleasant chat with Mrs. Happy on the third or fourth ridiculous
day, pointing out to her how completely easy it is to forget Buddy's
absurd, budding age and delightfully human need for conversation and
lightening riposte, with the lively result that Buddy got permission
to move his personal effects as well as his fine, puny humorous body
in here the following Saturday after inspection. We both continue to
find relief, pleasure and simple justice in this turn of affairs. I am
hoping to hell you get to know Mrs. Happy quite intimately when or if
you get an opportunity to come up or resourcefully make one. Picture
to yourselves a gorgeous brunette, perky, quite musical, with a very
nice little sense of humor! It requires all one's powers of
self-control to keep from taking her in one's arms when she is
strolling about on the grass in one of her tasteful frocks. Her
appreciation and fairly spontaneous love for your son Buddy is a
handsome bonus to me, making tears spring to the eyes when least
expected. One of the many thrills of my existence is to see a young,
gorgeous girl or woman from sheer instinct recognize this young lad's
worth within a quarter of an hour of casual conversation beside a
charming brook that is drying up. Jesus, life has its share of
honorable thrills if one but keeps one's eyes open! She, Mrs. Happy,
is also a big fan of yours, Bessie and Les, having seen you many times
before the footlights in Gotham, usually at the Riverside, near their
residence. She unwittingly shares with you, Bessie, a touching
heritage of quite perfect legs, ankles, saucy bosoms, very fresh,
cute, hind quarters, and remarkable little feet with quite handsome,
small toes. You know yourselves what an unexpected bonus it is to run
into a fully grown adult with splendid or even quite presentable toes
in the last analysis; usually, disastrous things happen to the toes
after they leave a darling child's body, you would agree. God bless
this gorgeous kid's heart! It is sometimes impossible to believe that
this haunting, peppy beauty is fifteen (15) years my senior! I leave
it to your own fine and dear judgment, Bessie and Les, whether to
allow the younger children to get wind of this, but if perfect
frankness is to pass between parent and child as freely by mail as in
loving person, which is the relationship I have striven for during my
entire life with increasing slight success, then I must admit, in all
joviality, to moments when this cute, ravishing girl, Mrs. Happy,
unwittingly rouses all my unlimited sensuality. Considering my absurd
age, the situation has its humorous side, to be sure, but merely in
simple retrospect, I regret to say. On two or three haunting occasions
when I have accepted her kind invitation to stop by at the main
bungalow for some cocoa or cold beverage after Aquatics Period, I have
looked forward with mounting pleasure to the possibility, all too
slight for words, of her opening the door, quite unwittingly, in the
raw. This is not a comical tumult of emotions while it is going on, I
repeat, but merely in simple retrospect. I have not yet discussed this
indelicate matter with Buddy, whose sensuality is beginning to flower
at the same tender and quite premature age that mine did, but he has
already quite guessed that this lovely creature has me in sensual
thrall and he has made several humorous remarks. Oh, my God, it is an
honor and privilege to be connected to this arresting young lad and
secret genius who will not accept my conversational ruses for the
truth! The problem of Mrs. Happy will pass into oblivion as the summer
draws to a close, but it would be a great boon, dear Les, if you would
recognize that we share your heritage of sensuality, including the
telltale ridge of carnality just below your own heavy, sensual, bottom
lip, as does our own marvelous, youthful brother, the splendid Walter
F. Glass, young Beatrice and Waker Glass, those sterling personages,
being comparatively free of the telltale ridge in question. Usually, I
think you will agree, I freely trample on signs to go by in the human
face, for they are absolutely unreliable or may be obliterated or
altered by Father Time, but I never trample on the ridge below the
bottom lip, usually a darker shade of red than the rest of the lips. I
will not harp on the subject of karma, knowing and quite sympathizing
with your disdain for my absorbing and accidental interest in this
subject, but I give you my word of honor that the ridge in question is
little more than a karmic responsibility; one meets it, one conquers
it, or if one does not conquer it, one enters into honorable contest
with it, seeking and giving no quarter. I for one do not look forward
to being distracted by charming lusts of the body, quite day in and
day out, for the few, blissful, remaining years allotted to me in this
appearance. There is monumental work to be done in this appearance, of
partially undisclosed nature, and I would cheerfully prefer to die an
utter dog's death rather than be distracted at crucial moments by a
gorgeous, appealing plane or rolling contour of goodly flesh. My time
is too limited, quite to my sadness and amusement. While I intend, to
be sure, to work on this sensual problem without ceasing, it would be
quite a little windfall if you, dear Les, as my dear father and hearty
friend, would be a complete, shameless, open book with regard to your
own pressing sensuality when you were our ages. I have bad the
opportunity of reading one or two books dealing with sensuality, but
they are either inflaming or inhumanly written, yielding little food
for thought. I am not asking to know what sensual acts you performed
when you were our ages; I am asking something worse; I am asking to
know what imaginary sensual acts gave lively, unmentionable
entertainment to your mind. Without the mind, sensuality quite has no
organs to call her own! I fervently urge you to be shameless in this
matter. We are human boys and would not love or respect you the less,
quite the contrary, if you laid bare your earliest and worst sensual
thoughts before us; I am certain we would find them very touching and
moving. A decent, utterly frank criterion is always of splendid,
temporary use to a young person. In addition, it is not in your son
Buddy's nature or mine or your son Walter's to be in the least shocked
or disgusted by any sweet, earthly side of humankind. Indeed, all
forms of human folly and bestiality touch a very sympathetic chord
within our breasts!
Ye gods and little fishes! How cheerful and rewarding it is to have
a little leisure for communication with one's family during one's busy
camp life! You can easily fail to suspect how damn much blessed time I
have on my hands today to attend to the needs of the heart and mind;
full explanation to follow shortly.
Continuing my description, confidential and quite presumptuous, of
Mrs. Happy, whom I know you could learn to love or pity, she is at
great pains in private not to let her rather rotten married life spoil
the happiness and sweet burden of having a baby. She is currently
pregnant, though having at least six or seven months to go before the
event which she understands so badly takes place. It is an up hill
struggle for her all the way. She is verily a poor kid with a tiny,
distended stomach and a head full of very touching crap based on
confusion, maddening books by doctors who share the same popular,
narrow horizons, and the information supplied by a dear friend, with
whom she roomed at college, a superb bridge player, I understand,
named Virginia. Unfortunately, this whole camp is loaded with
heartrending, rotten marriages, but she, Mrs. Happy, is the only
pregnant person abroad, to my knowledge. Hence, in the absence of the
above Virginia, Mrs. Happy has enrolled my services as a
conversationalist, these being the services of a child of seven, mind
you! It affords me unlimited worry, also trivial amusement on
occasion, I am ashamed to say, that she is practically unconscious
that she is freely employing a child my age as an audience; however,
she is a shy, tremendous talker; if she were not spilling these sad
beans to me, to be sure, she would be spilling them to some other
emotional face that came along. One is obliged to take everything she
says with innumerable grains of salt. She is really a foreigner,
though a cute one, to absolute honesty of conversation. She believes
that she is a very affectionate person and that Mr. Happy is an
unaffectionate person. It is a very conversational theory, but sheer
crap, unfortunately. As God is my judge, Mr. Happy is no prize
package, but he is quite definitely an affectionate person. At the
other end of the pole, unfortunately, Mrs. Happy is a very
tenderhearted, quite unaffectionate person. One burns with impatience
toward her delusions when one is not secretly coveting her beauty! She
does not even know enough on occasion to pick up a little child like
your son Buddy, far from his mother and other loved ones, and give him
a decent kiss that will resound through the surrounding forest! She so
easily has no human idea of the terrible need for ordinary kissing in
this wide, ungenerous world! A flashing, charming smile is quite
insufficient. A delicious cup of cocoa, decorated with a thoughtful
marshmallow, is no decent substitute for a kiss or hearty embrace
where a child of five is concerned. She is in more hot water than she
knows, I freely suspect. If I am powerless to be of slight use to her
as conversationalist before the summer is over, this lovely beauty is
in future danger of immorality; a quite subtle downfall and
degringolade from mere flirtation and girlish conversation is
foreseeable. With her unaffection and great depths of ungenerosity,
she is growing prepared to make delirious, sensual love to an
attractive stranger, being too proud and hemmed in by self-love to
share her countless charms with a real intimate. I am very alarmed.
Unfortunately, my position is utterly false at moments of
conversational crisis, being torn between good, sensible, merciless
advice and corrupting desire to have her open the door in the raw. If
you have a moment, dear Les and Bessie, and the younger children as
well, pray for an honorable way for me out of this ridiculous and
maddening wilderness. Pray quite at your leisure, using your own good,
charming words, but stress the point that I cannot achieve an even
keel while being torn between quite sound and perfect advice and
simple lusts of the body and genitals, despite their youthful size.
Please be confident that your prayers will not go down the drain, in
my opinion; merely form them in words and they will be absorbed very
nicely in the way I mentioned to you at dinner last winter. Should God
choose to see me instrumental in this affair, I can be of quite
unlimited help to this beautiful, touching kid. The whole root of Mrs.
Happy's and Mr. Happy's private evil is that they have failed to
become one flesh quite to perfection. With daring and a careful
explanation of the proper, courageous method required, it can be
achieved quite briskly and in a comparative jiffy. I could demonstrate
very easily if Desiree Green were here, who is exceptionally daring
and open at the mind for a young girl of eight, but I can manage quite
nicely without a demonstration also. Do not hesitate to pray for me in
this delicate matter! Waker, old man, I particularly appeal to your
thrilling, innocent powers of prayer! Remember that I am not at
liberty to excuse myself from keen responsibility because I am a mere
boy of seven. If I excuse myself on such flimsy, rotten grounds, then
I am a liar or a cowardly fraud and maker of cheap, normal excuses.
Unfortunately, I cannot approach Mr. Happy, the husband, in this
matter. He is not too approachable in this or any other matter under
the sun. Should the proper time come for approachment, I will
practically have to strap him to a convenient chair to get his entire
attention. He made ropes in his previous appearance, but not very
well, somewhere in Turkey or Greece, but I know not which. He was
executed for making a defective rope, resulting in the deaths of some
influential climbers; however, it was really incredible stubbornness
and conceit, joined with neglect, at the root of the matter. As I told
you before we left, I am trying like hell to cut down on getting any
glimpses while we are up here for a pleasant, ordinary summer. Nine
times out of ten, it is an utter waste of time anyhow to let them pass
freely through the mind, whether or not the person involved would find
an open discussion of the matter helpful, quite spooky, or openly
distasteful.
This is going to be a very long letter! Stiff upper lip, Les! I
humorously give you my permission to read only one quarter of the
entire communication. Freely attribute the longness of the letter to
an unexpected bonus of leisure time, which I shall relate shortly.
Temporarily explained, I wounded my leg quite badly yesterday and am
confined to bed for a change, windfall of windfalls! Guess who
skillfully got permission to keep me company and attend to my personal
needs! Your our beloved son Buddy! He should be returning at any
moment now!
We have received quite a few more demerits since your thrilling call
from the LaSalle Hotel, which was an unspeakable pleasure for us,
despite the rotten connection. I have also mislaid my handsome, new
wrist watch during a recent Aquatics Period; however, everybody is
going to dive for it again tomorrow or this afternoon, so have no
fear, unless it is too hopelessly saturated. Returning to the subject
of the demerits, we got most of them for continuously sloppy bungalow,
followed by quite a few more in a neat bunch for not singing at pow
pow and leaving pow pow without permission. So it goes. Jesus, I hope
you can freely sense at this distance how much we miss you, dear
Bessie and Les and those other three peanuts after my own heart! Would
to God a simple letter were less fraught with the burdens of superb
written construction! One begins to despair of sounding quite like
oneself,
your son and brother, and yet quite uphold the excellent and touching
demands of splendid construction. This has the ear marks of being one
of the future despairs of my life, but I shall give all my consuming
attention to it and hope for an honorable, humorous truce.
A thousand thanks for your amusing and delightful letter and several
postcards! We were relieved and overjoyed to hear Detroit and Chicago
were not too tough, Les. We were equally delighted to hear that young
Mr. Fay was on the same bill in the Windy City; quite juicy news for
you, Bessie, if you still have a harmless, social passion for that
remarkable chap. I have been meaning to write to that chap out of the
blue for a whole year, dating from our rewarding and comical chat
together when we shared a taxi during that beautiful downpour; he is a
clever and mercifully original fellow and will be widely imitated and
stolen from before he is through, mark my words. Close on the heels of
kindness, originality is one of the most thrilling things in the
world, also the most rare! Kindly give us all the news in your future
letters, the more trivial and sweetly 97;691;2085;718]unimportant, the
more readable. The news about "Bambalina" is excellent and more than
arresting! Give it all you have, I beg you! It is a charming tune. If
you do it before camp is over, hastily send us one of the first
records, as there is a Victrola in poor condition in Mrs. Happy's
pleasant quarters and I would gladly impose upon our peculiar
friendship in such a case. Keep up the good work! Jesus, you are a
talented, cute, magnificent couple! My admiration for you would be
measureless were we not even related, be assured. Bessie, we hope to
hell you are enjoying magnificent spirits again, .sweetheart, and are
not too discontent with being on the road so quickly again. If you
have not got around to doing what you faithfully swore up and down you
would do to ease my ridiculous mind, please hurry and do it. It is
definitely a cyst, in my unhumorous opinion, and some respectable
physician should burn or cut it off post haste. I spoke to a
personable physician when we were on the train coming up and he said
it is quite fairly painless when they remove it, a gentle lop doing
the trick very nicely. Oh, God, the human body is so touching, with
its countless blemishes and cysts and despised, touching pimples
arriving and departing, on adult bodies, when least expected. It is
just one more pressing temptation to take off one's hat to God during
the distracting day; I personally cannot and will not see Him dispense
with human cysts, blemishes, and the odd facial pimple or touching
boil! I have never seen Him do anything that is not magnificently in
the cards! I pass over this delicate matter and merely send all five
of you about 50,0(X) kisses. Buddy would readily join me in this if he
were here. This leads to another delicate matter, I am afraid. Bessie
and Les, I soberly address you. Take no offense, but you are both
entirely, absolutely, and very painfully wrong about his never missing
anybody but me; I refer, of course, to Buddy. You ou would make me a
lot happier, quite frankly spoken, if you didn't press that kind of
painful and erroneous crap on me over the phone again, dear Les. It is
very hard to leave the phone on your own two feet when your own
beloved and talented father says something that damaging, wrong, and
quite stupid. The magnificent person in question does not wear his
heart on his damnable sleeve like most people, including you and
myself. The very first and last thing you must remember about this
small, haunting chap is that he will be in a terrible rush all his
life to get the door nicely slammed behind him in any room where there
is a striking and handsome supply of good, sharp pencils and plenty of
paper. I am quite powerless as well as dubiously inclined to alter his
course; it is an old affair, hanging upon innumerable points of honor,
be assured! As his beloved parents, you may not humanly be expected to
lighten his load, but you must not, I beg you, deliberately throw
weights of reproof on his little back. Beyond these subtle matters, he
is privately the most resourceful
creation of God I have ever run into, forever striving not to live a
second-hand existence on the fervent recommendation of practically
everybody one runs into. He will be swiftly and subtly guiding every
child in the family long after I am quite burned out and useless or
out of the picture. It is disrespectful and inexcusable for a young
boy my age to address his lovable father this way, but Buddy is the
one thing you don't know anything about. Let us quickly pass on to
more unticklish topics.
A certain United States congressman, a war buddy of Mr. Happy's,
visited the camp last weekend. As he was one of the most unwatchable
figures I have watched in many years, it would be wise to skip over
his name in this personal letter. A breath of insincerity and
personable corruption passed through the camp; the air still stinks to
high heaven. The kowtowing and artificial laughing on Mr. Happy's part
was beyond earthly description. In the privacy of an impromptu meeting
on the porch of her bungalow, I asked Mrs. Happy to take careful pains
not to allow the congressman and Mr. Happy's quite sickening responses
to him to upset her and that marvelous little embryo while all this
unamiable crap is going on. She quite concurred. Later in the day, for
her sake, I painfully accepted Mr. Happy's request and command that
Buddy and I come to their bungalow after third mess and sing and do a
few routines for his guest, the congressman in question, I have no
right whatever to accept a corrupt invitation for my beloved younger
brother; I am quite hoping, secretly, that the Almighty will take me
to task, quite harshly, for this criminal presumption; I have no
business making snap decisions without consulting this
brilliant
youth. However, we went into
consultation
after the invitation was accepted, privately agreeing not to wear our
taps when we went over, but this was a very false and self-deceptive
relief for us. In the heat of the evening, we consented to do a soft
shoe! In all irony, we were in superb form, as Mrs. Happy played her
accordion for accompaniment; it is very hard for us not to be in
superb form if a gorgeous, untalented creature accompanies us rottenly
on the accordion; it touches us to the quick, amusing us quite a bit,
too. For all our extreme youth, we remain quite vulnerable, amusing
foils where gorgeous, untalented girls are concerned. I am working on
it, but it is a fairly severe problem.
Please, please, PLEASE do not grow impatient and ice cold to this
letter because of its gathering length! When you are ready to despair,
swiftly recall how much leisure I have on my hands today and how
needful I am to have some pleasant communication with the five absent
family members of my heart! I am not constructed for continued
absences; I have never claimed to be constructed for them. Also, much
of my news and general communication promises to be very absorbing,
delightful, and emollient.
As you damned well know, we never change much in our hearts.
However, we are getting slightly tan and looking quite a lot like
healthy children and campers. We may need all the damnable health we
can get, to be sure. An unengaging incident recently occurred. In
addition to the common information that we are the children of the
esteemed Gallagher & Glass and that we are fairly experienced and
skilled entertainers in our own right, thanks to your touching and
thrilling example, news has traveled round about the camp that the
both of us, your small son Buddy and I, have been notorious, heavy
readers from a tender age and in addition have certain abilities,
prowesses, knacks, and facilities of very uncertain value and the
gravest responsibility, the latter being warmly attached to us like
cement from previous appearances, particularly the last two, tough
ones. Your son Buddy is currently taking most of it at the flood. It
requires broad shoulders, I can assure you. Consider, if you have a
minute, the sheer, juicy novelty and food for gossip and malice of a
chap of five who is an experienced reader and writer, daily increasing
in fluency by leaps and bounds, and who is also, despite his
ridiculous age on the surface, an exciting authority on the human face
with all its touching masks, vanities, spurts of pure courage, and
frightening deceits! That is the small fellow's present position.
Continue to imagine what would inevitably blossom out if some of this
confidential information leaked out and became common fact or rumor
among campers and counselors alike. That is quite what has happened.
Unfortunately, as he well knows, most of the recent commotion is his
own reckless fault. Oh, my God, this is a droll and thrilling
companion to have on life's bumpy road! Here is the entire crappy
incident in a nut shell, as follows: Mr. Nelson, a born neophile and
enthusiastic talebearer and gossip, is in utter charge of the mess
hall, as already related, along with Mrs. Nelson, a termagant, unhappy
woman, and inspired trouble maker. When nobody is in the mess hall, it
is the only charming place in camp where one can get any blissful
privacy whatsoever. Buddy has had his eye on this haven from the word
go. On Tuesday afternoon, a sultry day, he bet Mr. Nelson that he
could memorize the book Mr. Nelson chanced to be reading within the
space of twenty minutes to a half hour. If he did it perfectly, then
Mr. Nelson in his turn, to show his appreciation for the controversial
accomplishment, would let us, the Glass brothers, use the empty,
pleasant mess hall in our spare time for reading, writing, language
study, and other aching, private needs, such as evacuating our heads
of second-hand and third-hand opinions and views that are buzzing
around this camp like flies. My God, how I deplore and uncountenance
bargains of any kind, be they with responsible adults or adults
without honor! Without my knowledge of this quite terrible fact, this
astounding, independent chap went ahead and made this bargain with Mr.
Nelson, despite our countless discussions, in the wee hours, on the
desirability of keeping our mouths firmly shut on the subject of some
of our endowments and peculiarities. Fortunately, the incident was not
a total loss or debacle. The book itself chanced to be "Hardwoods of
North America," by Foley and Chamberlin, two magnificently modest and
quiet men, long admired by me from my reading experience, with very
infectious love for trees, especially beech and white oak; they have a
charming, unreasonable preference for beech trees! So the exchange of
words between Buddy and me was not too unbearably harsh or unpleasant;
no tears, thank God, were spent. However, Whitey Pittman, the bead
counsellor, hailing from Baltimore, Md., quite a laughing intimate of
Mr. Nelson's, got wind of the accomplishment when it was completed and
freely plucked the opportunity to cash in on it in conversation. In
all fairness and fascination, he has a remarkable gift for increasing
his own prestige at some child's expense; an intelligent scavenger and
conversational parasite. He is the same person, a fellow twenty-six
years of age, no spring chicken to be sure, who said to Buddy in the
midst of a throng of strangers: "I thought you were supposed to be
such a witty kid." Is that a conscientious remark to make to a little
fellow of five? Thank God for the avoidance of shame and embarrassment
to the whole family, I had no decent weapon on my person when this
revolting, crappy remark was made; however, quite afterwards, I
embraced an opportunity to tell Roger Pittman, the full name his
hapless parents gave him, that I would kill him or myself, possibly
before nightfall, if he spoke to this chap again in that manner, or
any other five-year-old chap, in my presence. I believe I could have
curbed this criminal urge at the crucial moment, but one must
painfully remember that a vein of instability runs through me quite
like some turbulent river; this cannot be overlooked; I have left this
troublesome instability uncorrected in my previous two appearances, to
my folly and disgust; it will not be corrected by friendly, cheerful
prayer. It can only be corrected by dogged effort on my part, thank
God; I cannot honorably or intimately pray to some charming, divine
weakling to step in and clean my mess up after me; the very prospect
turns my stomach. However, the human tongue could all too easily be
the cause of my utter degringolade in this appearance, unless I get a
move on. I have been trying like hell since our arrival to leave a
wide margin for human ill-will, fear, jealousy, and gnawing dislike of
the uncommonplace. Do not read this rash remark out loud to the twins
or possibly let it fall on Boo Boo's ears prematurely, but I admit,
with maddening tears coursing down my unstable face, that I do not in
my heart hold out unlimited hope for the human tongue as we know it to
day.
If the above paragraph is too illegible and irksome, try to recall
that I am writing at a swift, terrible rate of speed, with admirable
penmanship quite out of the question. In another handful of minutes or
quarter hours, it will be time for supper; I am writing against time.
In the Midget bungalow, one is required to sleep like a dog for ten,
exasperating hours every night, the bungalow being plunged into
darkness at nine o'clock sharp. I have approached Mr. Happy in this
matter several times, but to no avail. My God, he is a maddening man;
if he does not move one to wrath, he moves one to hysterical laughter,
an equal waste of time. If you could possibly write a short, amiable,
crisp letter, dear Les, if I may address you personally, advising him
that if one knows even the very rudiments of sensible breathing, ten
hours of sleep is sheer folly and imposition. We have our flashlights,
to be sure, but the arrangement remains a striking inconvenience to
us, entangling us in bad light and ill humor.
My contempt for myself for showing you merely the black and quite
dank side of camp life is immeasurable. In this rotten attitude, I
have failed to mention the countless things that are zipping along
with smoothness and beauty; despite my gloomy remarks in the above
paragraphs, each day has been generously studded with happiness,
sensuous pleasure, rejoicing, and fairly explosive laughter. Many
sweet animals loom into view when least expected, such as chipmunks,
unpoisonous snakes, but no deer. I am taking the dubious liberty, Les,
of sending you a few quills from a porcupine, dead but not diseased;
they may be a perfect answer to your old problem with the softness and
breakability of tooth picks. The general scenery is spellbinding, both
underfoot as well as to the sides. To my joy and sheer wonder, your
son Buddy has turned out to be utterly and thrillingly nemophilous! It
is an unexpected revelation to me to see him shape up in this manner.
While I take keen relish in country affairs, too, it is merely up to a
point; in my heart of hearts, I am outside my true element when away
from cold, heartrending cities of ludicrous size after the manner of
New York or London. Buddy, on the other hand, will forever break loose
from city connections, it is quite plain to see; we will not be able
to restrain him in another mere handful of years. I wish you could see
him striking through the dense forest here, when the powers that be
are not minding everybody's business for them, moving with
heartrending stealth, like a magnificent, amusing, berserk, Indian
messenger. Each night, to our entertainment and equal chagrin, I put
untold quantities of iodine on his stubborn, funny body, mutilated
from the blackberry thorns and other damnable outgrowths. Our pleasant
consumption of possibly a dozen books, excellent as well as mediocre,
before departure, on the subject of plants, edible and otherwise, has
been a superb boon to us, allowing us to cook many decent meals, under
the rose, of steamed pigweed, young nettles, purslane, as well as the
last of the tender fiddle heads, using the canteen cup as cooking
receptacle and frequently being joined by that heartrending little
peanut, Griffith Hammersmith, whose appetite in congenial surroundings
is quite stupefying and thrilling. Lest it slip my vacant mind, Buddy
asked me to tell you, Bessie sweetheart, to send him some more tablets
without lines, also some apple butter and corn meal, as he is
practically living on the latter, I daresay, when we are able to
prepare a pleasant, leisurely meal in peace. Be assured that the corn
meal is very nutritive for him; his little body is unusually suited to
corn and barley, if the truth be known. He will write to you very
soon, given the right opportunity and inclination. My God, is he a
busy boy! I have never known him busier, to the best of my
recollection. He has written 6 new stories, entirely humorous in
places, about an English chap recently returned from some stimulating
adventures abroad. It is an indescribable reward to see a person five
years of age sit back on his dear, comical, fleshless haunches and
dash off an engaging yarn with zest and no little acumen! I give you
my word of honor you will hear from this chap one day; no nightfall
passes that I do not mentally take off my hat to you for bringing him
into the world; your loving, charming agency in this lad's general
birth remains unspeakably moving to me; the picture is even more
moving and rewarding when one considers the abominable glimpse I had
at recess period after Christmas vacation, revealing that our intimacy
with you, dear Les, if you are still there, in our last appearance,
was fairly slight and fraught with discordancy. Continuing at leisure,
as for my own writing, I have completed about twenty-five (25)
reasonable poems for which I have a low regard, followed by 16 poems
that have some merit but no enduring generosity, as well as about 10
others that have turned out to be in unconscious, disastrous imitation
of William Blake, William Wordsworth, and one or two other dead
geniuses whose sudden passing never ceases to cut me like a knife.
With regard to my poetry, the general picture is poor and gnawing. It
is my absolute opinion that the only poem of personal, haunting
interest to me that I have written so far this summer is one I have
not written at all. During your expensive phone call from the La
Salle, you will recall, I mentioned that we and the other campers had
spent the entire day at the Wahl Fisheries. On the way there, a lunch
of sandwiches, quite filling, was prepared for us at Kallborn Hotel, a
well-bred, popular hotel frequented by loving, young couples on their
honeymoons. Strolling by the lake with Buddy and Hammersmith, I saw a
couple sporting and laughing. Putting two and two together, and
suddenly feeling disposed, from head to toe, to feel harmony with
those two unknown, young lovers, I wished to write a poem intimating
that the one millionth groom at the Kallborn Hotel had just playfully
splashed the millionth bride; I have personally witnessed young lovers
doing the same thing at Long Beach and other popular resorts. Bessie
dear, it is a little sight you would enjoy, thrill to, and faintly
smile at with a portion of your brain and heart; however, there is no
demand for this in any immortal poetry I have run into. One is left
holding the bag. Let us pass over this prickly topic. For your private
information and possibly Miss Overman's, but draw the line a bit
firmly there as she has no great gift for not repeating a confidence,
I regret to say, we are continuing to master Italian and reviewing
Spanish after taps. It is a broad, rotten hint, but some new batteries
would be a windfall.
Les, it is such a relief and pleasure to dash off a few lines
without listening for the damnable strains of the bugle that my ardor
is running away with me. If you are tired or frankly bored reading,
stop instantaneously, with my heartfelt permission. I am admittedly
taking advantage of your good will, fatherhood, and notorious,
humorous patience. Bessie, I know, will kindly give you the gist of
any communication that follows; light a cigarette with abandon, drop
my damn letter like a hot potato, and go down to the lobby of whatever
hotel you are staying at and enjoy yourself with a free conscience and
my undying love; a game of pool or pinochle might be refreshing!
Continuing at blissful random, we are not too popular with the other
campers in the same bungalow as yet, principally Douglas Folsom, Barry
Sharfman, Derek Smith, Jr., Tom Lantern, Midge Immington, and Red
Silverman. Tom Lantern! Is that or is that not an appealing name to go
through life with? Unfortunately, this youth seems determined not to
turn on any of his lights, so his delightful name is in danger of
going down the drain. This opinion is too harsh. My opinions are all
too frequently too damn harsh for words. I am working on it, but I
have given way to harshness too often
this summer to stomach. God speed you, Tom Lantern, with or without
your lights turned on! There is one boy on the top floor of this
poorly constructed bungalow who is the very salt of the earth; no
compliment heaped upon him would be too lavish be assured. He is often
dashing freely clown the flimsy stairs in his leisure moments and
passing the time of day with your unworthy sons, discussing with a
humorous and open heart his friends, acquaintances, and foes in Troy,
New York, a large hamlet beyond Albany, and generally finding life and
humanity magnificent under the deceptive surfaces. His valiance would
break your heart, I trust, or painfully chip it; an immeasurable
amount is required just to say a hearty hello to us; I have neglected
to say that we are currently being ostracized. His name is John Kolb,
8 years of age, by rights an Intermediate, but there was no room for
him in the Intermediates, so we are privileged to have his chivalrous
company in this crowded building. I beg you to write that valiant,
good-humored name upon your memory for now and all future time!
Unfortunately, anything over five minutes of conversation bores this
dauntless, active boy to tears, and one looks up, to one's touching
amusement, to find his winning, kind face gone from the premises! I
would give countless years of my life to be of some future help to
this lad. He kindly gave me his word of honor, quite blind to the
reasons that made me ask him, that he would never swallow whiskey or
any other liquors on reaching adulthood, but I have damnable, sad
doubts that he will keep his word. He has a waiting tendency to drink
himself into a soothing stupor; it can be defeated utterly if he uses
his entire mind, with a few lights turned on, but I am afraid he is
too kind and impatient a boy to use his entire mind for anything. We
have his address in Troy, New York. If I am alive when the crucial
years arrive, I shall rush to Troy, New York, without a second's delay
and if necessary act in his splendid behalf; it would slightly require
drinking the cup that stupefies myself, but you have to understand
that we have quite lost our hearts to this boy without a shred of
prejudice in his heart. My God, a valorous boy, 8½ years of age, is a
moving thing! It is too ironical to bear, but I give you my word that
valorous people require far more protection than meets the eye. I kiss
your noble, unsung feet, John Kolb, native of Troy, brother of an
uncruel Hector!
As for other matters, we are mixing admirably when opportunity
allows, joining in all the incessant sports and other activities,
enjoying many of them to the hilt. It is a break for us that we are
fairly magnificent, limited athletes; at baseball, perhaps the most
heartrending, delicious sport in the Western Hemisphere, even our
worst foes would not deny our unassuming prowess. This is no conceit
or credit to us, being a humorous bonus from the last appearance; any
game with a ball we achieve easy excellence with a little application;
any game without a ball we tend, unfortunately, to stink. Apart from
games and activities, we are making a handful of lifelong friends
quite by accident. You, however, in the strenuous position of being
our beloved parents, Bessie, must try quite hard to look at certain
matters straight in the face with utter refusal to flinch as one or
two factors loom large. I tell you now, this very moment, to please
tuck away someplace utterly unmelancholy in your memory against a
rainy day, that until the hour we finish our lives there will always
be innumerable chaps who get very seething, and thoroughly inimical
even when they see our bare faces alone coming over the horizon. Mark
you, I am saying our faces alone, independent of our peculiar and
often offensive personalities! There would be a fairly humorous side
to the matter if I had not watched it happen with sickening dismay too
many hundred times in my brief years. I am hoping, however, that as we
continue to improve and refine our characters by leaps and bounds,
striving each day to reduce general snottiness, surface conceits, and
too damn much emotion, coupled with several other qualities quite
rotten to the core, we will antagonize and inspire less murder, on
sight or repute alone, in the hearts of fellow human beings. I expect
good results from these measures, but not thrilling results; I do not
honestly see thrilling results in the general picture. However, don't
let this place too large a shadow on your hearts! Joys, consolations,
and amusing compensations are manifold! Have you ever personally seen
two such maddening, indomitable chaps as your absent sons? In the
midst and heat of fury and gathering adversity, do our young lives not
remain an unforgettable waltz? Indeed, perhaps, if you perversely use
your imagination, perhaps the only waltz Ludwig van Beethoven ever
wrote on his deathbed! I will stand without shame on this presumptuous
thought. My God, what thunderous, thrilling liberties it is possible
to take with the simple, misunderstood waltz if only man dares! In my
whole life, I give you my word, I have never risen from bed in the
morning without hearing two splendid taps of the baton in the
distance! In addition to distant music, adventure and romance press us
hard; absorbing interests and diversions kindly prevail; not once have
I seen us unprotected, thank God, against half-heartedness. One has no
business spitting at these hopeful blessings. Piled on top of all this
good fortune, what else does one find? A capacity to make many
wonderful friends in small numbers whom we will love passionately and
guard from uninstructive harm until our lives are finished and who, in
turn, will love us, too, and never let us down without very great
regret, which is a lot better, more guerdoning, more humorous than
being let down without any regret at all, be assured. I merely mention
some of this painful crap to you, need I say, so that it will be
available to your sweet memories either before or after our untimely
departures; do not let it get you down in the meantime. Also on the
hearty, revitalizing side of the ledger, bear in mind, with good cheer
and amusement, that we were quite firmly obliged, as well as often
dubiously privileged, to bring our creative genius with us from our
previous appearances. One hesitates to suggest what we will do with
it, but it is incessantly at our side, though slow as hell in
developm

lol.

so, honestly, if you're going to spend all your time on ILX, don't you wanna at least talk about something besides ILX politics? can there really be that much drama on a messageboard? what about our real lives -- i feel there must be more drama, like, in our homes, or outside them even (crazy thought, i know). it's just so bizarre, the idea that a bunch of people get together online to argue over who's a more reponsible poster/mod/member of the community. is that really all there is to do??

thanks for listening, ILX.

1) never underestimate the power of a slow day at work.

2) can someone encapsulate the clusterf*ck going on on that Tombot/JJ thread on I Must Protest because for some reason my work filter has blocked it. Y'all must be talking about p*l*t*cs quite seriously!

i can't even go there, it's too much and i get scared

I was just hoping there would be, you know, pictures of dancing cats or something on it.

tell me something about your life, surmounter

hmm... i love coffee with milk every morning :D

lol dancing cats

Bring on the dancing cats! headless and all alone, shiver and say the words, to every lie you've heard...

cats? fuck thhat shit.

dancing PANDAS.

http://i159.photobucket.com/albums/t135/Erin619_2007/dancing-with-cats.jpg

DANCING CATS, DUDE!!!

The Olympics are over. I don't have to look another panda in the face for another 4 years.

i prefer coca cola to coffee

ohh i know i've been neglecting my soda fetish

Re your initial post, Sur, I think it's because it's the only thing we all have in common.

that and food

there should really be a combined ilx POLLitics/breakfast meat thread

if anyone wants to help me post pictures of delicious food to the tombot/jj clusterfuck thread, it would be appreciated

Q: can there really be that much drama on a messageboard?

A: yes

Q: can someone encapsulate the clusterf*ck going on on that Tombot/JJ thread on I Must Protest because for some reason my work filter has blocked it.

A: dancing PANDAS

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v617/WidowOfDestiny/Jiggle_Panda.gifhttp://img.photobucket.com/albums/v617/WidowOfDestiny/Jiggle_Panda.gifhttp://img.photobucket.com/albums/v617/WidowOfDestiny/Jiggle_Panda.gif

I really like you, Surmounter! Just saying. I like your revive.

I just scrolled through the tombot/JJ thread, it's just some pictures of pie and lots of words.

awww ffm i really like you too! also you seem like a blast to party with :)

ha i know n/a workin the pie pix

There's nothing wrong with meta

http://www.iurpa.org/graphics/gif/metalogo.gif

When Meta Metastasizes

I am still cool with the works of John Barth; what's the beef here?

K8 it actually features a lot of photos of fancy breakfasts and desserts.

Thanks, Abbott, I am finally at home, and just wasted 20 minutes of my life reading it!

Those pies looked really tasty.

ILX has gone through these paroxysms every year or so (often in late summer, funnily enough) - I wondered if it was any different or just more of the same.

Just makes me realise exactly how much stuff, on-board, meta and IRL, I completely missed out on during the past year (during unemployment and prior to that when there was proper ILX work ban in effect.)

Nothing at all too important.

Births, deaths, divorces, marriages - that kind of thing. Call me a statistician or a gossip but I'd kinda like to be vaguely aware of what's going on in other people's lives on that scale.