time goes by...

[S]: It was cold in Russia. People were smearing goose fat on their bodies to stop frostbite, and near Moscow zookeepers fed an Indian elephant a bucket of vodka to keep it warm; the elephant then went on a rampage, tore radiators from a wall, and calmed down only after it was given a hot shower.
-from "Harper's Week in review"


[SH]: Given the behavior of this elephant you're describing, I'm pretty sure it wasn't Indian. It's African.


[S]:yo,
Last night I was talking with my roomate, [], about the web commic WIGU which is undergoeing a transformation from a three-pannel-a-day format to book form- my contention was that the comic isn't fucking funny enough to sustain that, my roomate disagreed. The whole thing sparked a debate about narrative structures in general, and serialisation in particular, which Pat seemed to think was a bad thing. He said that serialisation was why Dickens was a worse novelist than Terry Prachet contemporary Brit fantasy humor).

I was struck dumb by this for a couple of moments. Then I pointed out that Dickens was a genius who used brillient prose trun societie's own weapons against itself, whereas Prachet was an ammusing hack who had managed to turn maybe a dozen jokes into an absolutly ungodly number of slightly funny books. [] conceded that this might be true, but asserted that Prachet was deffinitavly more enjoyable to read, and, as a consequence, preferable- he sugested that maybe it was all a matter
of taste.

Again, I was silent, this time as I contemplated the unchartable depths of imbicility, and the absolute banckrupcy of both immagination and soul that could lead someone to hold such a depraved opinion. Finally, I said that it probably was just a matter of taste, and that he was certainly entitled to hold his own opinion, and seemed to let the matter drop.

As soon as the non-aggressive and conciliatory words were out of my mouth I vividly immagined that the four of you were watching the exchange and had let out a collective "Wha???" In that moment, I felt myself grow older, and I felt the icy tenticles of death tighten their grip perceptably around my spine.

Of course, then I wennt and defeated the whole purpose by trying to explain to him how lucky he was that I wasn't screeming at him: this made him very uncomfortable, although I suspect that he still was more comfotable than he would have been if I had handeled the situation the way I would have three years ago.
fight the power,


[SH]: Yeah, [S]. I think you're dying. Which is good. In the better days, you would have tried to shove "David Coperfield" up his ass...Would it help to say that a [S] who doesn't fight, on behalf of Dickens!, is already dead to me?


[BL]: holy shit. As one who felt the icy tendrils some time ago, I can say I don't think it signals death, though it may correlate with age. To the contrary and much worse, it signals the beginning of a moral declension after which one just doesn't care about truth anymore. Death comes to us all, but it won't reach me with a clear conscience. I'm truly sorry [S], but welcome to the club. When I get to the city, remind me that we need to go shopping at Polo for your new skull and cross bones necktie.


[SH]: [BL], as usual, is completely wrong. WHEN THE FUCK DID ANY OF US EVER CARE ABOUT "TRUTH"? We only cared to prove that the other of us was dumb. The "moral declination" argument is interesting, but wrong. Think about it. Fill in the blank, if you will: "If one is DECLINING, that means that one once was..." Although, call me when you go to "Polo".


[ER]: well shit [BL] that's a bit extreme, [S] decides for once in his life not to pick a fight and now you've got him shopping at polo

your story kinda reminds me of the incredibly frustrating discussion I once had with my roommate trying to explain why scientology was crap (but whats the harm, if it works for you . . . ) I only felt a little bit better when I realized that her brief interest in scientology was because she thought that the volunteer handing out the free literature was really hot.


[BL]: well, as [S] is usually the sort to defend the truth to the death (even if it means that we're the ilk that finds its collective self up against the wall when the revolution comes), I maintain my position that this is a declension. Frankly, I'm already at the bottom of the slide so I won't be upset regardless of who comes along (even if it's [SH] - never a more honest man have I known, though with quite the unique relationship to "truth") when we get the skull and bones neckties. The great tragedy is that now our compass doesn't want to steer us off the cliff when that's exactly where we need to go.


[BL]: re: the drunken elephant in Moscow. It's the beer before liquor problem. Distilled libations are uncommon in the traditions of both continents.


[SH]: [BL] ended with: "The great tragedy is that now our compass doesn't want to steer us off the cliff when that's exactly where we need to go." Easily the most beautiful and true thing [BL] ever said.