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Thursday, September 11, 2014

Unlucky 13





It’s been 13 years.  Yes, I still remember.  No, I won’t forget. 

More than that, though, I won’t forgive.  But the people I’m not forgiving may surprise you.  At the time, I supported, and still do, a military reprisal.  It was inevitable, and it was necessary.  It was the other ominous shit that, even then, gave me the fucking willies.

I will not forgive those who knee jerked, and made disproportionate war effective for our enemies.  In a blind fear, we threw billions of dollars down a hole, and we’re still doing it.  We walk around, cocky, knowing that ‘merica! is number one…but we danced to their tune, and we’re still doing it.

I do not forgive the creation of the exceptionally ominous Department of Homeland Security.  Words like “Homeland”, “Fatherland”, and “Motherland” are rhetorically charged devices that smolder in the minds and hearts of the masses, and I worried about it then.  I see no reason today to stop worrying. 

I do not forgive the creation of the TSA, a ridiculous adventure in security theatre that has kept exactly zero travelers safer in the past 13 years.  They confiscate belt buckles and knives and jars of jam, and tell themselves they're effective.  Kudos, boys, you’re doing a bang up job. 

I do not forgive the creation of the snoop state that Snowden exposed, nor those in power who wished to silence and now wish to punish.  We shredded the 4th amendment looking for the needles in the haystack. 

I do not forgive the furtive movement to arm police with ever increasing military hardware in fear of terrorists.  Those toys are getting used against citizens, not foreign, nor even domestic, terrorists.  Mission creep is a very, very real thing. 

The thing I hate most about those vile men that poked the eagle with a stick is quite simple, really.  They won.  

In Remembrance,
Dangerboy

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Five Things I Think, Sep 9



It’s time again…let’s put on our thinking caps and enjoy, shall we?

1) I think I never get enough time at the lake.  I had waaaaay too much fun this trip, made more enjoyable by good friends, my awesome Little Danger and Wifefish, good food, and good booze. 

I also picked up a pair of these bad boys:  http://www.darkfingloves.com/  For those who are too lazy to click, let suffice the description of a pair of webbed gloves.  Coupled with a short pair of foot fins, I zipped around the lake like an otter on meth. The gloves are slender enough that you can still open a can of Samuel Adams with ease, put it in a coozie, and slurp away to your heart’s content.  You can even do it 12 times in a row.  If, by chance, you felt the need to do so. 


2) I think I’m pleased as punch about the new career.  It’s official now, Wifefish and I bought out the business.  We are officially business owners.  That’s both exhilarating and a bit frightening, but mostly the first one. 

I’ve been involved in the tax industry for years and years and years, but now I get to put all that knowledge and all my curiosity to work for clients of my very own.  I’ll be transitioning to a full time be-my-own-boss in January, and I’m looking forward to it like a beaver on the way to a tree farm. 

3) I think I’m enjoying the living history aspect of Pioneer Village.  Yes, we’ve made more progress on the cabin from 1797, but beyond that I’ve been learning some new skills. 

I got to work in the Smithy last time around, as did Little Danger.  I just worked the bellows for the blacksmith as he made some nails and such, but still, I got to learn something I didn’t know.  I’ll be making a point to get in there and learn every chance I get, because let’s face it…hot steel is awesome. 



Granted, our last foray out there for a museum event was as muggy as Satan’s jock strap, and a wasp used my neck as a bull’s eye for a loaded butt bombing run.  I may have made a noise akin to a mule having a surprise prostate exam.  Ah, the life of a pioneer has hardships, my friends.

4)  I think I truly understand the nature of ambivalence.  I’m at a point again with the Game where I am tired of it.  Events are awesome, I see great things, participate in wonderful theatre, get exercise, and just generally have fun.

Between events, though, I get to deal with crap.  Complaints.  Bitching.  Requests for special attention that would require me taking time away from career and family to sit down with players and mediate whatever dispute may be on their minds.  At least one person just stirring the shit pot trying to get a rise out of someone else, using me to do it. 

I’m not amused.  I find myself again looking at the calendar and wondering if running this thing is worth all the crap I put up with.  Game day, the answer is yes.  Today, the answer is no. 

5) I think it’s time for another kid brag.  Little Danger got bumped out of his swim class…not for being bad, but because they wanted him to swim in the next age bracket.  Good swimmer, that one, and he’s just done the width of the pool with no flotation device. 

I am truly in love with the way parenthood makes little milestones extraordinary.  You may recall my thoughts on bad dads some time ago, wherein I said my job is to lift him up, to raise him above me.  This is one such milestone…I didn’t learn to swim until high school.  He’s already able to tow me around in a rescue swim.

You see, last lake trip, I noticed he was moving around pretty darn well, so I decided about 5 boat lengths away from the pontoon to just stop and ask him to take me back to the boat.  We were both wearing jackets, because lake=85 feet deep, but he managed to haul me back in toot de suite in a nearly perfect rescue swim. 

Wifefish and I make it a habit not to tell him he can’t do things.  

Well, those are my thoughts for today...some good, some bad, all mine.  What do YOU think?

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Be SEATED!




I’m going in the wayback machine for today’s post.  As many of you know, I’m a fan of live theatre.  Huge fan, in fact.  And willing participant.

I’m proud to be able to share that joy with Little Danger, who, at the age of 3, has managed to watch Hamlet in its entirety.  He was well behaved and quiet, asking in a whisper occasionally “Why he sad?” or things like that.  He’s also enjoyed 4 viewings of Jesus Christ Superstar, because Wifefish is AWESOME and kicked ass as Mary Magdelene.  He was similarly spectacular at each show, saving his singing for the car ride home.  (He does a fairly good rendition of “What’s the Buzz.”)

Today, I read an interesting and somewhat frightful article regarding the decline of the American Audience in theatre.  Between Shia Lebouf getting booted for being a butthead and various cellphone infractions galore on Broadway, it appears that audiences just can’t be bothered to politely pay attention.  It’s like theatre has caught a bad case of the assholes, which is a rash that can inhabit the house.

I was part of such an audience once, and it was not fun.  But oh, was it memorable.

In 1990, (I know, way back machine) I was a junior in high school.  Our English class would occasionally take trips to the Repertory Theatre of St Louis, aka “The Rep”, to take in a play.  Thus it was that we went to see Fences, a fairly impressive production.

As luck would have it, this production had a guest star.  I (and my classmates, of course) had a front row seat for a hell of a performance by none other than Avery Brooks, who had been playing Hawk on television, and would of course go on to play Captain Sisko on Deep Space Nine. 

If you’ve seen the interview he did with Shatner, and you’ve wondered what made Avery Brooks go insane, wonder no more.  It was the audience that day that cracked his sanity; I’m sure of it.  The experience lay in his mind like ticking time bomb, triggering an aneurism in later years as I imagine he recalled the scene over and over until only the piano could save him. 

The play itself was good, the actors quite talented.  The set was AMAZEBALLS, including a kitchen just inside the door of the house fa├žade that had running water.  Talk about your practicals!  A working kitchen faucet! 

I’ll assume you’re not familiar with the play itself, so here’s your synopsis.   I’ll wait for you to come back.

Back?  Awesome.  As you can see, that was some heavy subject matter for a high school class, but really, just a great show.  Unfortunately, the day we attended was also a day in which the hosting college had sent many of their own students for extra credit.  To say they misbehaved would be an understatement of epic proportions.  It’s like saying Hulk has anger issues.

I was largely focused on the stage, and missed a great deal of the inappropriate stuff.  In discussions on the bus ride home, others recalled a plethora of audience problems.  Candy wrapper opening, mumbling, discussing, snoring.  (Granted, that last one I’d nearly been guilty of my own self in a production of Henry IV in that very house.  My teacher forgave me for it, saying it bored her, too.)   

But I remember clearly the fight between father and son, Avery’s character Troy going after Cory with a baseball bat in some very convincing combat choreagraphy, and how the audience wasn’t, as I was, horrified at the prospect.  Instead they howled with glee.  Someone in the back yelled “get that motherfucker.”  Candy was thrown on the stage.  Reflect on that for a moment.  Someone attending an institute of higher learning decided that part of their extra credit included throwing candy at a live cast in one of the premier theatres of the city.  Acute case of the assholes.   

At show’s end, it was obvious that the cast was as happy as a seal at a polar bear reunion.    The curtain call was terse, short, and perfunctory.  Each actor wore a frown, scowl, or other dour demeanor, clearly pissed off at having wasted a damn good performance on such an unappreciative bunch.  (It bears mentioning that not one single member of our class had participated in any of these shenanigans.)

"Who raised these kids?"


Most of the cast left the stage, whilst most of the audience started to get up and go their merry way.  Avery stood center stage and just watched.  After what could only be called a dramatic pause, he spoke.  He used what was then the “Hawk voice” and would become the “Sisko’s pissed basso profundi.”  Two words, bouncing off the sound clouds as if spoken through a loudspeaker. 

“BE.  SEATED.” 

It garnered an amazing response.  Everyone sat their ass down, responding to the commanding tone as if he’d been holding the nickel-plated .357 he held every week on our TVs.  Playing a hitman can command a bit of respect. 

After a scant few moments to let everyone sit, he began his lecture.  Worthy of a professor of theatre, he launched on a diatribe that had even those of us who’d done nothing wrong slinking down in our seats.  He wielded shame like a bludgeon, at one point walking stage right, plucking a twizzler off the floor, and bellowing “THIS has no PLACE in the THEATRE.”  It sounded something like this:

  

The audience that left was a vastly different audience than had arrived.  The lecture seemed to penetrate most, and there was precious little shit talking as the students filed out.  There was a great deal of silence. 

It was a performance every bit as memorable as the production he’d just participated in, if not more so.  It was a message most in the room absolutely needed to hear.  And maybe, just maybe, it’s one I’d like to see him deliver anytime an audience gets a case of the assholes.




Thursday, June 19, 2014

Five Things I Think, June 19



1) I think the progress we’re making on the 1797 cabin is fantastic.  A base log has been replaced, a sill log pulled and replaced with stone (to protect the overall structure), and most of the roofing supports sourced.  It was hard and heavy work, and I was still pretty sore at bedtime Monday night.  We might get this job done by our goal time frame of 1 year from start, which, for a guy as good at home improvement as Congress is at customer satisfaction, is one heck of an accomplishment.  


2)  I think I had a pretty cool Father’s Day.  Little Danger got to see many DeLoreans, including a Back To The Future repro that was quite amazing, and they even set the time machine to his birthday.  Too awesome, even though I didn’t get to take part in that adventure due to point #1 there…I was working with a crew of fantastic people while Wifefish possibly shouted “Great Scott!” 


There was a surprise encounter with a B-17 on my way home from cabin work, and I collected Wifefish and Little Danger to tour said Fortress.  It reminded me of a similar trip my Dad arranged for me, to the local municipal airport way back when, some 33 years ago.  Recursive parenting awesomeness for the win.




We finished the day with a trip to a local brewhouse for some fantastic food at a reasonable price, some really good beer, and a complimentary pint glass inscribed with the date, which was another surprise.  Suffice to say, the day did its level best to outdo my expectations in just about every way.  It succeeded. 

3)  I think I’m tired of the news.  Seriously, soul-suckingly tired.  I remember when the news was given to us with a bit of gravity, a bit of respect, and a care for the facts.  Now it’s all sensational. 
A radio station I am not going to listen to anymore tipped me over the edge this morning, dropping a tag of a sentence fragment just before discussing the “Iraq situation”. 

A deepened male voice, echoed up just like a monster truck commercial, announced “Turmoil in the Middle East!” as if I was supposed to buy a ticket for a seat, but only need the edge, this Sunday Sunday Sunday.  I put in a CD.  I’m tired of being shouted at, cajoled, marketed to, and annoyed.  I just want to know what’s going on.  Journalism may, in fact, be wheezing like a smoker on the stairs. 

4) I think it’s ironic that my most productive day this week was a vacation day from The Job.  I handled two clients in the morning for the new career, then went to the house and fixed a ceiling fan, vacuumed the floors, put away laundry, trimmed the fenceline, and even played a little pitch n’ catch with Little Danger in the front room.  I was like some sort of goddamned superdomesticman.  Behold, my feather duster of power, and the pruning shears of justice!
Then I went forth with the men-in-law and visited two taprooms at local craft breweries, and sampled many, many beers.  I’m in love with the craft beer revolution. This, too, proved productive, as we managed to make some great connections with fellow beer enthusiasts, and we settled on a creative and awesome way for me to display the growlers I’m collecting in the Pyrate Pub. 


5) I think I’m cautiously optimistic about the quality of JJ’s new Star Wars movie, but that ultimately I don’t care if it’s good or not.  Bottom line is this:  I will be able to take my son to an opening night of Star Wars in the theatre, something I never thought would happen.  It could be a steaming pile of monkey shit, and I’d sit diligently through two hours of solid lens-flare to experience it with Little Danger.

But if Jar Jar shows up, I’m going after JJ with a vintage 1977 Millenium Falcon and bludgeoning him with it until he looks like he’s gone 3 rounds with a rancor.  I’ll show up at his doorstep like a Gamorrean with a grudge.  It’d be all Darth Danger up in his mansion.  Just sayin’.  

So, gang...what do you Think today?

 

Friday, June 13, 2014

Five Things I Think, June 13



1) I think it’s nuts that June has arrived already.  This year is attempting to zip past like it’s trying to prevent bad things happening to Marty McFly.  It seems just yesterday that I was at the end of tax season, and now here I am looking at Midsummer.  

Hey, calendar, knock off these shenanigans!  I have things to do! (Things.  Like the mountain of laundry, the mountain of LARP laundry, the cleaning of the bar, the fixing of the ceiling fan light, the bathroom grout, the...well, you get the picture.) 

2)  I think I’m having fun with writing, even though you haven’t seen it here.  I’ve been picked up by a local publication, writing humorous beer articles.  The Venn diagram is one perfect circle between their needs and my interests.  It’s a happy thing.

It’s also a paid gig, which is pretty cool as well.  I’m trading words for shiny rocks, and whereas I will not be getting rich on this project, it will pay for the beer I research and, in turn, write about.    

3)  I think Little Danger is a fucking rock star.  He’s about to turn 4, and it’s been a great ride so far.  I am in awe of how often he smiles, how much he cares, and the way we share the world together.  Rock.  Star.  



I had the fun and awesome experience of drumming with him again recently, and this time he strapped on his little drum and stood next to me for a good half hour as we pounded out some rhythms.  Watching him dance around with a ton of friends was also especially endearing, and a level of magical silliness I’ve not witnessed in 21 years of drumming at that location.  Of course, I’m biased.  And I feel not one ounce of shame about it.  (Though that sentence fragment did get a twitch out of my inner grammar police.  As did that one.) 

4) I think hitting 40 has not been in any way as “bad” as some had led me to expect.  I feel like I’m hitting my stride.  I work out more than I ever have before; I still lead the pack on hikes and battles (when fighting with foam).  I just don’t feel the need for a mid-life crisis at all.  I’m thinking about penciling it in for my 52nd birthday. 

Given that this year Wifefish, the Kushies, and I have started restoring a cabin built in 1797, I have a completely different perspective on age than once I did.  When you’re working on lumber that was stacked together almost 220 years ago, 40 seems downright juvenile.  Although it is refreshing to realize that modern life expectancy makes me quite likely to hit a century.  I have a goal, people.  Now get off my lawn!

It's a fixer upper.

5) I think, as I reflect further on point 4 there, that history can be completely awesome.  In researching the time period of the cabin’s construction, I found some amazing provenance, a journal written by a man who traveled with the cabin’s original owner.  I know the exact date the first log was laid, the experiences they had getting to that point, and even what they hunted for that first morning.  (Bear.  Motherfucking black bears hunted by chopping down their tree and shooting them when they hit the ground, hopefully before they mauled your face off.  Pioneer living was not for the weak.)

I also discovered some roots in my family that I hadn’t been able to find previously, and traced my line back to those same gentlemen.  It turns out I have direct ties to the battle of Point Pleasant, and to the American Revolution.  I’ve a long ago cousin who was a bona fide, grade A badass.  It’s made me look at my skill set and think about adding some of those primitive living skills I’ve always thought about, but never bothered to work on.  It’s started with cabin-building, now I’m going to look at some true woodscraft to enjoy with Little Danger as he grows.  Why not? 


I hope you, dear reader, have a great day.  So…what do you think?

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Five Things I Think, March 12



1) I think, and I have had this thought before, that it’s been too long since I’ve written.  There are so many things going on for me right now, both good and bad, and I’ve been remiss in putting them to words. 
            This is the year that I’ve begun to transition from one career to another, and this seems to be treating me well thus far.  I enjoy the work, I like the boss (me), and it’s not bad money. 
            This is the year that I’ve been watching Little Danger grow by leaps and bounds, physically and mentally.  He’s a beacon, a light that calls me home with a beaming smile and a “cuddle me jus’ a little bit.” 
            This is the year that The Company has started on a comeback trail, but has done a poor job in implementation.  I’ve fielded some pretty terrible tech support calls in which we are the screw-up, not the client, and I have come to hate waiting on programmers to fix the problem.  See item 1 above…I like having the ability to fix my own screw ups or fail on my own merits, as opposed to reliance on the fruits of another’s labor.  Especially when that fruit is not as sweet as once it may have been.
            This is the year that Wifefish and I have started fighting our way out of our corner, relying on each other to tag-team our problems as if we were the freakin’ Road Warriors.  (For the record, I’m Hawk.)  Granted, neither one of us is wearing a Mohawk just now, but we are giving the massive suplex of doom to our problems…together. 
            This is the year that we have a regular weekly game running with some friends, playing Dark Heresy every Tuesday.  I’ve so long wanted to have a weekly game, and now that I have one going, I’m pleased as punch, especially given that football season is over, and there’s no weekly Monday Night Football to be had.  Tuesday Night kill heretics in the name of the Emperor is every bit as fun for me. 
            This is the year that I make some changes, and they seem to be for the better.

2)  I think Little Danger makes me giggle sometimes.  Last week, as we were gaming, he went to the kitchen pantry for a snack.  The mind of a 3 year old is a strange thing. 
            Pepper the crazy terrier was accompanying him, and he kept pushing her away, saying “No, I no need help!”  Of course, Pepper has the comprehension capacity of a sweet potato, and so kept merrily attempting to play with him.  More pushing ensued, and Wifefish corrected him, saying he couldn’t push her away like that, it would only add more energy to her play.
            So the boy looks thoughtful for a moment, grabs a dog biscuit from said pantry and hands it to the dog, who merrily takes off for a solitary dining experience in her kennel in the front room.  Little Danger then triumphantly perused the pantry for a snack as we, the supposed adults, laughed uproariously and I beamed at his problem-solving skills. 
            Way to go, Little Danger. 

3)  I think the Snowplow Saga has drained me.  I’ll have to post the whole story, but suffice to say that being backed over by a city vehicle, driven by one who was completely at fault, left me without the minivan.  We now have a brand spankin’ new Ford Escape, which I am moderately happy about.  We now have a ridiculous car payment, which has left me feeling about like I’ve just traipsed through a lumberjack camp dressed as a mighty pine tree.  I’m not suffering from buyer’s remorse, though, but a case of wanting to beat the everlovin’ apefuck out of the douchecanoe who, through his overwhelming dumbfuckery, took away the van that had been fully paid off.  Alas, such is not to be. 

4) I think that while my son is in every way awesome, and in fact more awesome than anyone on the planet, there is one foible he possesses that is both maddeningly frustrating and deeply hilarious.  Note, if you are a something-in-law to me, STOP READING NOW.

Wifefish and I have given Little Danger another nickname, one which he has earned.  Due to his amazing ability to sense from anywhere in the house, whether awake or asleep, if there is any sort of marital affection in the works and further due to his uncanny power to interrupt any such activity at the most inopportune time, we have gifted him with the moniker Captain Cockblock.  (Note that it's a secret name, one we dare not let him hear until he's 20.)  It’s his special supervillain power. 



 The Captain threatens the safety of Metropolis...

(note to the in-laws.  I did tell you to stop reading.  This uncomfortable feeling you have right now?  Totally your fault.) 

Why, just this very morning, he proved his ability.  Sadly, his “spidey sexy sense” doesn’t know humor from reality.  I strolled into the bedroom fresh from the shower, and jokingly said to Wifefish, waving my hands at my chest as if some freakish takeoff on Vanna White displaying freshly-purchased vowels, “Would you like any of this before I put it away?”

Approximately 8.7 microseconds later, a voice rose up the stairwell, in its best ore rotundo glorificus, “MOOOOOOMMMM!  Need help making Star Wars go!”  Needless to say, Wifefish and I shared a moment of euphoric laughter as I got dressed. 

5) I think I’m tired of winter.  I know, I know, huge revelation there.  It’s like being tired of politics or Bieber.  I’m just ready for a little warmth, a little green, and less shivering and gas bills.  OH LOADY THE GAS BILLS! 

This winter came in every bit as brutally as the no-stripe wooly worms suggested this year, and decided to muck up the joint like the rudest house guest ever.  Not only did it put its feet on our couch, but it wiped its nethers on grandma’s drapes and used the doilies for a snotrag.  Rude bastard. 

Worse, it’s keeping me from an awesome project that I can’t wait to dive into.  More on that another time, though. 

I hope you, dear reader, have a great day.  So…what do you think?

Monday, December 2, 2013

The Nature of Goodbye



I have to say goodbye to an old friend tomorrow. 

Our dog, Oberon, a German Shepherd of proud bearing and dazzling intellect, has been suffering from a degenerative spinal column issue.  His back legs just don’t work anymore, and he’s lost control of when he poops. 

He was selected from a litter by dint of gnawing, oh so adorably, on Wifefish’s shoe lace.  “I’m picking the crazy one,” she said.  Yep. 



He and I had a rocky relationship at first.  His puppyhood was a sloppy affair, and the source of a few heated discussions between Wifefish and I.  It was a poopyhood, really.  The sentence “You don’t have poop in your bloodstream, so you don’t get an opinion” was once, perhaps foolishly, uttered by me, back in the days when his puppyness had not allowed him the understanding that his poo was not for dancing in, nor eating, nor for dancing in and eating and then scratching his daddy to hell and back with tiny puppy claws.

Still, he was adorable, and thus he survived.  Wifefish is patient, and thus I survived.

Once he learned not to scratch me, frolic in his own excrement, or bite the hand that feeds, he became a damn fine dog.  I maintain this despite his never learning not to use my nether regions as a springboard for leaving the couch.


I have a veritable plethora of fond memories of him.  My wife’s dog, he became mine as well.  The love of a dog is a wonderful thing, a pleasure to receive.

I remember his first trip with us, no bigger than a football.  I remember as he topped 70 lbs and still thought he was football sized, trying to ride in my lap in the car.  It doesn’t work so well, it turns out.

I remember how he would look at me, and then just do exactly what I expected of him.  My favorite example was when we brought Little Danger home, and Oberon whuffled and sniffed him, looked at Wifefish and I, and accepted him as part of the family.  He would place himself between Little Danger and any doorway, keeping him corralled and any possible threats to the baby on the wrong side of his teeth.



There’s so much more to say about him…about his time in our family, his fierce love and vicious cuddling.  I could write for days just about the way he would always take treats gently, so as not to put too much teeth on your hand as he gobbled up whatever edible awesomeness one might offer him. 

Last night, I pulled Little Danger aside for a serious talk.  I asked if he remembered saying goodbye to our cat Kelton, when he passed.  He nodded yes.  I told him “Time’s coming, this week, when we’re going to have to say goodbye to Oberon too.  He’s not going to come home, son.”
“Why not?”

“Well, we’re going to take him to the vet, and because his legs can’t be fixed, and his insides aren’t working, we’re going to let him go.  He’s going to be put to sleep so he doesn’t have to wait for the rest of his body to quit.  It hurts him.”

“I have idea”, he said.  “Maybe Oberon go sleep, and wake up, and not be old anymore.” 

“Son,” I said, through fresh tears (manly fresh fucking tears, mind you), “you’ve just seized upon the heart of the matter.  That’s the belief system of just about every worldly religion summed up right there.”

“Where he go?”  And thus, I got to describe Heaven, and the Summerland, and a brief overview of reincarnation before booping him on his nose and letting him know we’d discuss it in more detail as he got older, but I was just broad brushing it for now.

“OK,” he said.  And you know what?  It will be.  Yes, I’m going to miss the old man, and there’ll be a dog-shaped hole in Wifefish’s heart as well as my own for a while, but it’s truly time to say goodbye.  And yes, there will be more manly tears this week.  But I will shed them with no shame, knowing they are a tribute to a member of the family both furry and awesome.


Tonight, we're helping out a friend by testing her edits to Hamlet, which she's directing at a local theatre.  I think it fitting that Oberon gets to listen to Shakespeare on his last night with us, and I may take a moment to read from Midsummer as well, because I'm a goddamn sap and the goodbye is more for us than him.  He will know that his pack will be OK, and that his pain is over, and he will know that he is loved, in whatever canine way he comprehends it. 

Through the house give gathering light,
By the dead and drowsy fire:
Every elf and fairy sprite
Hop as light as bird from brier;
And this ditty, after me,
Sing, and dance it trippingly. 

Now, until the break of day,
Through this house each fairy stray.
To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be;
And the issue there create
Ever shall be fortunate.
So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be;
And the blots of Nature's hand
Shall not in their issue stand;
Never mole, hare lip, nor scar,
Nor mark prodigious, such as are
Despised in nativity,
Shall upon their children be.
With this field-dew consecrate,
Every fairy take his gait;
And each several chamber bless,
Through this palace, with sweet peace;
And the owner of it blest
Ever shall in safety rest.
Trip away; make no stay;
Meet me all by break of day. 


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