Shenanigan was a dogs dog. She rolled over for any passing pleasant human face, but would throw down with canines ten or twelve times her size, if allowed. Which she obviously wasn't. One stood no chance of being bitten by her, but a fair chance of drowning. She never ate, except when you were feeding her right that second. That was 'Nana', a good dog.

She was born someplace or other on Long Island, probably. Things Happened. She eventually ended up at the Brookhaven Animal Shelter where she was adopted by a huge geek who tossed her in the back of a small red car. From there, she ate things. Once, flip-flops. After that, only actually digestible food. She lived in Rocky Point and frolicked on the beach (but only up to her abdomen) and then moved to historic City Island, where she longed to chase cars and passersby but was repeatedly foiled by a malicious fence. From there, to the hard streets of Fordham Road, where the things she might eat at random on the floor were all potentially deadly. Eventually, to scenic Hastings on Hudson where she pounced upon joggers on the Aqueduct Trail regularly.

Unfortunately, when Things Happened, she contracted some sort of ailment, probably hepatitis. This caused severe damage to her small doggy liver. Despite that, she persevered, in the hope of a better life adopted by friendly people who would feed her. She lasted far longer, once aware of her condition, than veterinarians thought possible. In the end, she got only Patrick Woods, his family, and friends. These people did feed her, more than some thought needed, but not nearly enough in her eyes. For five years after her unceremonious deposit in the care of the Woods family, she made do as best she could. Keeping up the happy face of a dog well cared for and perpetually hungry despite full bowls of dog food in evidence. On October 28, 2008, at around 5:12 PM, she died. After, unbelievably, refusing food for several days and crawling, or attempting to crawl, into the bedroom closet on two occasions. Unwilling to eat, unable to hop upon a visitor, and other less pictorially pleasant inablities she was put down. She passed peacefully, with her owner petting her as she fell asleep.

She will be missed. A strange, Labrador/????/???? who warmed the hearts of all she met.

Roland lay upon his bed, bleeding. This dark lord had been a little tougher than Zarnath had been. The battle was the usual back and forth followed by a deus ex machina salvation but Malthusilum, yes that was his name, had managed to get in a few good shots in with his staff before the stone had crushed him. Roland had dreamed of that staff a few times in the delirious days since the battle. He didn't have much else to do other they lie there and bleed after all. To be fair, the staff was the kind of item that haunted your nightmares. It had been covered in glowing runes that seemed to twist and change color of their own accord. Horrible images, no less imposing for being represented in a minimalist style, and sentences predicting Roland's own doom would crawl along its length. Worse, whenever a word of power had been uttered it flashed blood red to match the eyes of the enormous dark lord who wielded it.

He had charged the orcish forces as they began to lay siege and made straight for Malthusilum. As per convention, they all got out of the way to allow the duel below the castle walls. Roland's rapier had flashed but had been parried time and again by the bald pointy eared mage's staff. Each time the staff and sword had met the mage spat out a word and pain seared along Roland's arm and down across his chest. Slowly, but surely, blow after blow, a wound had opened along that line of searing pain. When he staggered and fell, dizzy from the lack of blood, Malthusilum had raised his staff and shrieked and incantation to call lighting from the sky to incinerate his prostrate form. Typically, the spell had been poorly aimed, struck the parapet, causing a guard to jump backwards quickly into the stone wall, dislodging the stone he struck, which obediently fell off onto the dark lord's head.

They had won on the spot and the orcs had immediately fled, as always happened, but the wound was particularly nasty. They had been able to slow the bleeding to a seep and it didn't seem to have been infected, but the damn thing just didn't want to heal. He'd even had to postpone the victory speech, which was very much against tradition. Roland was unquestionably brave, and probably insane, but even the brave and insane get to worrying after long enough lying, bleeding, in bed.

            *                                  *                                  *

Loreund whistled 'Isadora's Good in Bed' as she skipped down the road. 'Isadora's Good in Bed' is a merry little tune that, as you might guess, talks about the attempting to gain the sexual favors of a particular bar wench and, predictably, relates several amusing mishaps of her would be lovers. It was popular in taverns, usually after ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />midnight when only those seriously tying one on were left. You know, right around when the bartender starts drinking heavily himself. Aside from that merry tune, the road was pretty silent. The ruins of the battle surrounding the path filled the air with a pungent odor of death and decay but not with music.

A few human paupers, still looting the bodies for anything of value or utility they might be able to find and sell occasionally glanced up wondering who could be singing such a song in such a place and catching sight of her shook their heads. Everyone knows elves are crazy but this one seems particularly cracked was the common thought.

Not that anyone said anything of course. Elves might be crazy, incomprehensible creatures that despite being apparently immortal seemed to have a combination of Attention Deficit Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder but they were still immortal. This makes for a particularly nasty mix of obsessively pursuing a goal for a while,[1] and then not giving a damn at totally some random moment later. It also means that if you are a human pauper, scrounging the corpses of the dead, that you don't mess with one. Being around that long means that you possess immense power, if only from all the random junk you have learned over the past several thousand years. Telling an elf they're wrong is like telling an oak tree that its roots would do better if the grew left rather than right. It's just not done.

So, as per usual, Loreund was totally ignored on her musical skip down the road toward The Keep. This is, of course, is exactly as she wanted. Loreund was young, as elves go. With only millennium under her belt she hardly got any credit among the eleven community. As such, like most youngins, she was utterly addicted to gambling.

*                                            *                                         *

Shadowy forms danced in the red glow, molten light absorbed to pitch upon their cloaks; thousands of them, innumerable but to the great dark kings who knew every single one by name. The Kings sat far from the molten river along whose shore the many forms, great and small, danced. The Kings enjoyed the show; they sat in near rapture remembering an age past where basking in the heat of the Delthud was enough to sustain them. Now their immense forms could not be supported merely by the glow of the river of flame. Now they needed better fare. Only the invisible glow of belief would sustain them.

A tiny form emerged from immense passage to the overworld, they could not hear its muttering.

"My lords!" it shouted as it approached, "I bring you news of the overworld!"

It took the Kings a moment to notice. Domovoi was typically beneath their sight, literally and figuratively.

"WHAT NEWS DO YOU BRING LITTLE DOMOVOI?" a harsh voice echoed around the minds of all within the chamber. The dancers ceased. All songs and sounds ground to an immediate halt. When a King thoughtspoke everyone listened.

"My lords," said a voice almost no one, save the Kings who spoke into the minds of their subjects, could hear, "I bring news of Malthusilum's campaign to bring us to the glory of the sun!"

"SPEAK," thought the voice "AND DECIEVE US NOT, FOR WE WILL KNOW, LITTLE DOMOVOI."

"My lords," it repeated, "Malthusilum has fallen. A castle fell upon his head. The humans are strong my lord and learning of our ways."

"AND THE CHRSTHERIORI?"

"It was taken my lord," Domovoi replied, oh so apologetically, "the humans ground him into pulp as they did with Marnath and Zarnath, oh great imperial spirits of the Kaleli."

"AGAIN!" the voice howled, "HAVE THEY LEARNED OF THE CHRISTERIORI, LITTLE DOMOVOI? DID THEY LEARN IT FROM YOU?"

"Oh no my lords!" it squeaked, "no, no, no, no my lords! They have simply taken to destroying the corpses of their enemies my lords! Please, please do not harm me! I serve! I only serve!"

"OF COURSE NOT OUR LITTLE DOMOVOI" the great shadowy figure echoed, "OF COURSE NOT. YOU ARE OUR GOOD LUCK CHARM!"

The hall echoed with laugher and the tiny black shadowy figure shuddered.

"NEVER HAVE YOU FAILED US."

More laughter, more shuddering.

"YOU ARE OUR MOST VALUABLE SERVANT" it intoned, with a slight hint of malice "AREN'T YOU, OUR LITTE DOMOVOI?"

 The room fell silent once more.

"WHAT SAY YOU OF YOUR FAILURE. THE MOST RECENT OF MANY?"

"They would not listen to me my lords! Please have mercy," the little form was prostrate before them now, "I am not at fault. I tell them to observe the old ways! I tell them to follow the commands of the Kings! They do not listen my lords! They try 'tactics' and 'strategy'. They ignore honor and wish to prevail without the blessing of the dissapperated Kings"

"SO YOU SAY. WHAT PROOF DO YOU BRING?"

"This, my lords this!" The tiny figure produced out of some indefinable place within its tiny robed form a small pouch, opened it, and spilled it upon the floor before it. The chamber stared at the black soot that fell, not particularly far, from the hands of the little shadow. "He sought to channel the lake itself my lords! To defile its majesty into his unworthy service!"

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MASTER OF THE REALM OF RATS?"

"No my lords! But it is of the river, it is the sand upon which it rests. It is not to be touched. Yet, though some process he sought to make the river his slave and defeat the humans by its power. Robbing all of us of the base of life!"

"WRONG INDEED OUR LITTLE SERVANT. WHY DID YOU NOT STRIKE HIM DOWN YOURSELF FOR SUCH TREACHERY?" it asked.

More laughter echoed although Domovoi's smile was anything but genuine. In sad, depressed tones, he answered, "I am too small my lord."

"INEED," it answered amid the following mirth, "GO REST LITTLE ONE, WE WILL HAVE NEED OF YOU SOON!"

Meron was happy. All the other kings were too but after all, it was his idea.

Well, I got almost no feedback last time, and none actually on myspace, but hey, I like the story so it's going to keep going. Comments still appreciated though:

            *                                *                            *

            In the depth of the night a tiny shadow with red glowing snake slitted eyes shuffled its way across the remains of the battlefield. If you listened very closely and very low to the ground, you could hear it muttering and if you were roughly the size of a beetle, the form issuing these very low decibel epithets might even be terrifying.

            "Always the demons-dammed same," the tiny and raspy voice repeated again and again as it scrambled over the still warm and sticky body of an orc who had been doused with pitch and like all the other orcish forces left behind, alive or dead, abandoned to the crows and wild dogs.

            "I tell them and I tell them," the intonation went on, "massacre the inhabitant then go into the castle yourself. But do they listen? No! Of course not…little Domovoi can't possibly know anything he's been around forever and is still so small! Hurmph."

            After quite a while longer the tiny figure made its way over to the messy form of Zarnath, his body as untouched as any of his former minions. Prying open what was left of the Dark Lord's mouth the little creature calling itself Domovoi reached inside, plucked out a very specific tooth, and placed it carefully inside its own tiny mouth. Somehow, it fit.

                        *                                  *                                  *

            When Issac and Josephus finally made their way back to their village they were greeted by several dozen orcish women and a few score of young orcs. The brood conceived just before the all the males of the village had attended the "drinks on the house" open magic stick night was coming of age and the village was positively teeming with younglings. This might seem strange to the outsider. Only a few months had passed since the most recent wave had departed and these goblins were no more than a lustful wink in the eyes of the Brood Mothers. But orcs are not humans and do not breed or grow like them. How could they if they are lead off to their deaths in large numbers every year or so? Natural selection will take its course over time after all. The species that breeds slowly and dies quickly has no future. Breed fast or die fast.

            Orcs breed like rabbits, or perhaps mice. This is not by accident. Female orcs don't fight and the young ones generally wonder what madness overtakes their men every few years to go forth into battle and, probably, not return. The old ones used to wonder but have accepted it as 'the way things are'. However, males going off and females staying behind has its effect on any culture, and a perplexed one probably even more so. Consequentially, the Brood Mothers generally take aside the handful of orcs who make it back from the regularly spaced wars and ensure as quickly as possible the continuation of the species. They then birth between fifteen and fifty baby orcs each of which[1] grows like gangbusters for three or four months until they reach maturity. As such the orc population fluctuates wildly from very small to very large every few years. Or at least, it used to before Issac got home.

                        *                                  *                                  *

            "Friends!" Roland exclaimed from the top of a positively unheroic box which, until a few moments ago, contained onions. 'Victory is ours! Evil and its minions have been defeated! Zarnath is defeated! The Dark Lord has fallen!" An uproarious cheer broke from the several hundred young men assembled in the courtyard. Roland basked in the wondrous glory of it for a moment and then raised his hand in a gesture for silence.

            "This," he continued, "is the beginning of a new era!" More cheering. Roland struck a heroic pose, right arm stretched up into the air holding his sword aloft in traditional fashion, trying to keep his face grim despite the smile that threatened to creep across his lips.

            "Never again! Never again," he repeated, "shall the forces of darkness assault our fair city or The Keep we call home!"

            It would be inaccurate to say that this statement was met with deafening silence. Several of the youngest men cheered. They sounded vaguely like crickets.

                        *                                  *                                  * 

            Three years later the orcs were all gathered around a small, colorful wagon in the center of their rapidly expanding village. Josephus, now healed with an extra, particularly nasty (and therefore honorable) scar exposed to all, was talking to a shortish, black robed, bald man with pointy ears and red snake-slitted eyes. A veritable horde of young orcs gathered around the wagon admiring, or at least noticing, the poorly drawn images on the sides.

            "Stick figures?" some whispered, "he's selling stick figure portraits? Good luck with that nonsense. Wonder how much they cost to have a fancy wagon like this…" Most, but not all of the youngest orcs were in attendance. A few kept their distance.

            "What do you mean kill him?" asked Ardwen, a smallish grey-green orc of around the age of 7^[2], "That wouldn't be pleasant. I mean, he seemed nice enough. He's been friendly with Josephus and he gave me this neat looking picture. I'm not really sure what's it's of but still, it was a nice gesture and all."

            "Yeah," echoed Lawrence, Ardwen's brood brother, "I mean, we should at least at least let him try to sell his funny caricature drawings. Even if they all look the same and the charcoal comes off on your hands. Besides," he added glancing at sketch Ardwen was holding ,"I'm sure everyone else will kill him if he refuses to give refunds."

            "Look, I told you." responded Issac patiently, "I've heard about these guys. They are bad news."

            "Pah."

            "SERIOUSLY, P me…?< told Ardwen>

            "Friends," echoed a hollow, raspy, but somehow melodious voice from the center of the camp, "let me tell you of glory..."

            Below the colorful wagon a tiny, shadowy figure shook its head and muttered.

                        *                                  *                                  *

            "Ohshitohshitohshit." said Ardwen pulling the arrow out of his bloodied leg with his now three fingered hand^[3], "What the fuck happened?"

            Issac, who was carrying an unconscious ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Lawrence over his shoulder, merely grunted, scowled and shifted the young orc's weight a little to the side, declining to answer.  They trudged on for another hour before Issac finally lay Lawrence in front of a tree and settled in for a nice nap in the dirt. When Issac awoke Ardwen was sitting near his face staring at him with a sad look in his eyes. Lawrence lay with his head upon Ardwen's lap.

            "What?"

            Ardwen just looked down. The young orc, whose head lay serenely between his brood brother's knees eyes were closed. Lawrence had suffered a pretty bad wound to the abdomen earlier. He had screamed when first being carried but had passed out shortly thereafter. He had to be moved. To leave him was more certainly death than a fireman's carry for a few miles. Nevertheless, Issac's clothing was stained through from the slow seep of his blood. He also wasn't breathing.

            "Oh." Issac replied, "Ah…

            "What are we going to do about this?" Asked Ardwen with a slight crack to his voice, "He's dead. Isn't he?" Issac nodded. "What are we going to do?"

            "Um. Well, not much point in carrying him anymore considering. I suppose we should bury him, maybe I can get this rusty axe to work as a spade?" he said calmly, "It's no good leaving his body around for the humans to find. Josephus says they feed us to their dogs. He's probably right."

            "Yeah…" said Ardwen, wondering at how cold and practical Issac had suddenly become. He himself was just returning to his wits. Finding oneself in a strange place amid piles of corpses of those you know tends to have an unsettling effect on the mind you see.  For a while he had given himself to terror, simply running in whatever direction seemed most fitting. It wasn't until a bit later it occurred to him that he had, without realizing it, been following another form in front of him, carrying something, which occasionally glanced back. When the terror had fled, the rage set in. 

"That's not what I meant and you know it!" he growled, "I mean how are we going to get these bastards. They killed him. They killed Lawrence. We can't just let them get away with it. How are we going to do it?" Issac stared at him for a moment and then looked at the ground and scratched behind his ear.[4]

            "Well I figured that the next time one rides into town..." Issac began.

            "Rides into town? They never come to town! They just hide behind their big walls. We can't wait for them to come to us" came Ardwen's reply, cutting Issac off in midsentence "we have to get them there. Behind their fucking walls. Bastards! Bastards!"

            Issac looked decidedly confused. "Wait, who are we talking about here?"

            "The humans! Those fucking Keep dwellers. They killed him. We gotta get them. Make them pay!"

            "Um, no, we don't. It's not really their fault."

            Few memories remained of the battle, or much of anything between being in town and the battle, but one image remained. A grubby looking human, as if they all didn't look that way, in a stained shirt stabbing Lawrence full in the chest with a pitchfork as the pair of them scrambled up the wall was one of those few.

 "What? Why? I saw that filthy human" he almost spat, "stab him and push him off the wall. Those bastards! They killed him! Of course it was their fault. What the hell are you talking about?"

            "Ardwen," Issac took a deep breath and replied with the slow, confident voice of a school teacher reminding a third grader that three times five is in fact fifteen, "we attacked them." After waiting a few moments for this to sink in he added "they were just defending themselves. We would have done exactly the same thing they did."

            This was not an acceptable response. Ardwen promptly tackled Issac, or tried to at any rate. Issac, without moving much, grabbed his shoulder as he charged and turned him tumbling off into a nearby wooded ditch. Three years is a long time for an orc to learn how to fight.

"Bullshit." He screamed, mangling a helpless bush as he made his way out of the scrub, "This is not our fault! We didn't want to be here! They killed us for no reason!" His voice held the edge to it of one close to snapping.

Issac laid the lifeless head of Lawrence, which had been unmoved in the scuffle, off of his lap and onto the ground. He stood and pointed back in the direction from which they had fled.

"Look." He said, picked up his axe, and began digging, ever so slowly, a grave.

Ardwen looked.

He saw the towering walls of the Keep. He saw little plumes of smoke rising from the black, soot covered landscape surrounding the outer walls of the keep. He saw, even from here, the piles of green skinned bodies against the walls that had been a grisly ramp to the top.

            "I don't think they did." Issac continued, little piles of dirt forming next to a little hold at his feet, "And even if they did, so what? We were still attacking them. Whether we wanted to or not."

            "But..." Ardwen sat down heavily next to the still form of Lawrence. "But... that's not fair."

            "Yeah."

Since I'm exausted and cannot sleep I went back to the fantasy novel I've been writing off an on for some time now. In the interest of forcing myself to make some more progress on this damned thing I'm going to post bits every so often for feedback and to create a sense of guilt when I don't work on it. This is not all I have so far but seems like a good bit to start with. Enjoy.

Chapter One: Knee Deep in Uncle Phillips

What the fuck am I doing here? Issiac thought as he suddenly noticed that he was standing hip deep in a pile of his childhood friends, holding a battle axe, wearing nothing but some tattered rags, and for some reason, foaming at the mouth. I don't even like radishes!

                                                 *                 *            *      

            The great battle of the third month of the two hundred and seventy ninth year of the Age of Legends had raged for three days and didn't look likely to stop. The city of Moosewood had withstood the siege as long as its defenders could stand. Again and again the orcs hurled themselves at the walls. Climbing over their own dead with a feral glint in their eye, wave after wave sought access to The Keep. Thousands died brutal burning deaths but the orcish forces seemed determined to take their objective at any price. It was only a question of time before the end. Their numbers seemed inexhaustible and soon they would attain their prize, the Magical Radish of Kuhn.

            Unlikely as it may seem at this time their leader, the great demon-summoner, child-devourer, flame-dweller, and chain-smoker Zarnath, decided that his best plan would be to take on the head of the opposing army in a one on one, no holds barred, rapier duel on the top of the tallest tower for miles. This seemed to be in keeping with tradition and Zarnath, like his mentor Marnath, was a stickler for the classical way of doing things.  Conveniently, the tallest tower for miles just happened to be The Keep itself. The army flooded the building, Zarnath gained the roof, lit a cigarette, and waited patiently for his foe to kill two dozen or so of his minions and race up the stairs to meet him.

            Following several screams of pain and dismay from below a slim young man of around 6 feet with light brown hair and a winning smile gained the roof and drew his inexplicably sheathed sword. Then ensued the typical back and forth swordplay and the accompanying witty dialog.^[1] Shortly, Zarnath succeeded in disarming his enemy, the young man's name was Roland the Unquestionably Brave and Probably Insane, and stood over him in triumph.

            "NOW FOOLISH HUMAN. I, ZARNATH SHALL KILL YOU, TAKE THE RADISH, AND RULE UNQUESTIONED OVER THE UNIVERSE!" He bellowed loudly before succumbing to a long, and particularly harsh, series of emphysema induced coughing fits. These fits were of such force that they caused Zarnath to double over, lose his balance in the high rooftop wind, and topple head first from the side of the tower farthest from the ground onto the stones below.^[2] It was a death a dark lord could be proud of.

            Upon his squelchy demise the Orcish forces seemed to halt as one. Their strength broken they fled in chaos back over the bodies of their friends and relatives into forest beyond. Seeing the death of Zarnath, as all below did, their resolve must have failed them. Orcs are stupid and cowardly and will not fight without the leadership of dark lord like Zarnath. At least this is what the forces of Moosewood and The Keep assumed. What had in fact happened was the 200,000 orcs realized as one that they didn't even like radishes and decided home was a much more reasonable place to be.

                        *                                        *                              *

            "Anyone know what the hell just happened?" asked Issiac as he made his way through the forest supporting an elderly, green and one eyed orc named Josephus. Issiac was a young orc, tall at five foot six inches with brown skin, strong but missing the distinctive scars that mark an Orc of greater years. They were making poor progress as Josephus was barely conscious and Issiac was limping slightly himself. "Last thing I remember we gave that fellow with the red eyes and hooded cloak a chance to read some poetry at open enchanted stick night in the tavern."

            "First time eh?" Said Josephus before muttering something else inaudible but seemingly mushroom related. He had lost a lot of blood and was slipping in and out of comprehensibility. "An old veteran like me, seen plenty, good mashed potatoes tho."

            "Huh?"

            "Happens all the time. One moment yer sitting having a good beer, next yer thinking what am I doing here. Hey I rhymed," Josephus finished and then promptly passed out.

            Issiac sighed and trudged on. He kept to an eastward path because he had a vague idea that the hills his clan lived in lay in that direction. He carried Josephus for more than mile before deciding he could go no farther. Looking around and deciding this spot was as good as the next he gently set the orc down by a nearby tree started gathering up firewood. Issiac then set a near mathematically perfect ring of stones, cleared away an area of all flammable underbrush and lit a small camp fire that Smokey the Bear would have awarded him a medal of valor for. The added warmth of the fire seemed to help the older orc regain his senses and after some time he began to stir.

            "Collard greens..." The older orc whispered, his green scarred head rolling back and forth on his shoulders. "Fried noodles..."

            "Josephus?" Issiac asked, hurrying over to the side of the other orc. "Josephus, are you alright?"

            "Baked Meatball Lasagna!" He exclaimed and sat bolt up right. Then, as if his nerves had sent a late but urgent distress call about the heavy wound in his side, followed it with a scream that would have been funny in other circumstances and promptly collapsed again.

            "Here eat something," Issiac said, passsing Josephus a peice of the roast rabbit he had caught and humanely killed before lighting the fire.^[3] "You lost a lot of blood back there. Thats a pretty nasty cut you have too."

            "This?" said Josephus through lips slightly greener than just a few moments previous, "I've had worse when you were just a weenling." He paused, counting slowly on his fingers and toes. "But that was only a eight seasons ago wasn't it? Bad luck I suppose. For you. Not for me."

            Issiac gave him a puzzled look.

            "Well, had you been weened only a little later" explained Josephus, "you probably wouldn't have been here at all. Of course if you hadn't been here, I'd still be back there and you've seen how nasty those humans are to us, especially when were wounded and defenseless."

            "Marmalade?" Issac said shaking his head.

            "I was just saying that if you had been born a month or two younger you'd have missed this wave." Josephus managed as he began cracking the rabbit leg over a rock to get at the marrow, "probably would have been in the next one though. Happens all the time. Some shadowy figure rides into town selling fresh fish, dried antelope, candied apples, tobacco or somethin, we let em give a pitch to the whole town and bam, knee deep in Uncle Philip's 300 miles away from home. And that's when we're lucky."

            "They must be pretty sneaky," Issac mused, "for these guys to avoid being spotted before it's too late."

            "What? No. Not really. Black cloaks, blood red snake slitted eyes and such usually give em away pretty fast."

            "But then... why do we let them talk?"

            "Well, we wouldn't want to be rude you see..."

My lover's eyes are
Nothing like the sun.
She walks in beauty but
It ain't like the night.
Her smile's not a summers day
but it warms me up.
Words don't contain her.
Poetry is not enough.

Cause it isn't love if
You can count the ways
And the rose ain't that red if
It's all you have to say.
Love can't be a secret that
once told they run.
It can't be held in sad lines
Or in happy ones.

My love is here
on the ground.
It's in a look.
It's in a touch.
It's a person.
It isn't clouds.
How could I reach her
otherwise?

Dear Lord grant me ears
So that I might listen
And know that it is you speaking

I fear to mistake you
And deny allegiance to all
But I cannot know how to mark you truly

I wander through words
From the mouths of others
But I do not hear your voice

I enter houses
That others call your own
But I must shake the dust from my feet

I love my fellow man
And seek to atone for my transgressions
But am ignorant of if I am shriven

If in your wisdom you should leave me in silence
Then here I shall remain
And be content

I shall abide by your will
Deaf and so, mute
Watching others cross out of the desert

You know me, I normally wouldn't disclose this sort of thing over myspace but I figured you might want to know. The truth is… I used to have a really small pecker. The kind that girls would laugh at once they had found the microscope I kept on my nightstand.

But those days are over! 

Now, my wang is large enough to immobilize a dog and is classified as a deadly weapon in 15 states. Instead of laughing, women weep at the sight of it. How did I do it? I'll let you in on my secret. It's a new miracle drug called: Play-C-Bo (monosaccharide) and it is fantastic! Within moments of taking it my game was through the roof. Now I can walk into any club or bar and just know that my giant woody will get me some play.

Want to know the best part? It's totally free! A full year supply only for filling out the form! You just send $199.99 for shipping and handling to this address:

Play-C-Bo Company

1-1Confidence Ln.

Couch, ON 1337

Dude, it's totally worth it. What do you have to lose? Try it! Once the ladies know you are packing a howitzer they will fall like flies at your knees.

           I'm as arrogant as the next guy. Ok, let's be honest. I'm more arrogant than the next guy. I'm possibly more arrogant than the next 10 guys.

I think I'm smarter than most people.

I think I'm better spoken than most people.

I think I'm a better writer than most people.

I think I'm a better chess and pool player than most people, for whatever little that's worth.

I've been known to mock the arguments of those who disagree with me.

I've been known to mock the people who make those arguments.

I've been known to make esoteric references and then become annoyed that no one understood them.

I've even been known to accuse rooms full of people of hypocrisy right to their faces when they hold my fate in their hands.

I try to be humble. I generally avoid saying the above. But deep down, I'm an arrogant bastard. Today however, I hit a point where even my own arrogance stared at a disfigured portrait and shuddered.

As some of you know, I'm in the process of being published. I've been working on an article for a scholarly philosophical journal called Sophia and after almost two years it is finally on its merry way to the printers. It has already been published online.

No, I'm not going to link you. Trust me, you would be bored out of your mind.

Besides, you probably wouldn't want to pay to download it and read it anyway considering  what I discovered when I went, out of curiosity, to see what Springer (the publisher) was charging for the article. I thought, I don't have a graduate degree. Most of it was written before I even graduated from college. Heck, I used it as my writing sample and didn't get into the doctoral programs I applied to. So, being generous, I figured for the .pdf of my article alone they would probably charge 5 maybe 10 bucks.

They want $32.

This is a roughly, depending upon how things are spaced in the final version, 20 page article. That's nearly two dollars a page. Now, I think I'm a pretty good philosopher but I ain't no Immanuel Kant. I can get the most recent translation of The Critique of Pure Reason with annotations for less than that on Amazon and that book is 800 pages thick.

"Okay, okay," I said to myself, "maybe this does make some kind of sense. I mean, probably when people download an article of this ilk they are planning to use the text for a class and will be running off thirty something copies for their students or sticking it in a course pack they will in turn extort their pupils for." $32 doesn't seem so outrageous when you look at it that way.

Now, I'm not sure I'm getting a free copy of the journal. I think I am, but not certain. I know, if I do, I'm only going to get one for myself and family and friends have already asked for copies to put on bookshelves and wave at vaguely in conversation. So, this morning, I started looking into purchasing extra copies of the full journal that I could give to those who requested one. The price is not on the website so I had to e-mail Springer's subscription department.

With my article being so exorbitantly priced online, I was prepared to get gouged. $32 just for mine probably meant something like $40 or $50 for the print journal with all the articles by other, more prestigious, folks. You know, a discount for subscribers and since the journal is oddly sized a decreased concern about running off a bunch of copies for a class.

$86. For one copy of the journal. Plus tax and probably international shipping.

Now, I'm arrogant but that's insane.

 I remember it well. I was sitting on the futon in Shell and Aisha's apartment. The black-framed television, whose sound inexplicably didn't work for an incoming signal, spluttered out Fox network and displayed a dismal picture. The Yankee's were losing. Again. After winning the first 3 games, the third by an embarrassing margin, they had proceeded to drop the next two and here in the 5th inning they looked like they were going to drop a third.

 I sighed.

 Then my eyebrows furrowed.

 The cameraman had for some reason unbeknownst to me decided to zoom in on the ankles of Curt Shilling, the starter for Boston that day and one of the best pitchers in baseball. I looked, confused, at the screen for a moment before I realized the purpose of the shot; the sock coming out of Shilling's shoe was stained scarlet. I knew that he had been having problems, something with his feet. But they were allegedly resolved before the game. Yet, here he was bleeding clear through his shoes and still shutting out the Yankees.

 Damn, I thought, now I kind of want him to win after all.

            *                      *                      *                      *

 That ALCS is one of the few that any Yankee fan, or Red Sox fan, or fan of baseball in general will never forget. The bloody sock is one of those items that will go down in baseball history. The one from Game 2 of the World Series already has, it sits right now in a glass case in the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown New York.

 Over the past few days however, the authenticity of the blood has been called into question. The announcer for the Baltimore Orioles clamed that Schilling's catcher, Doug Mirabelli, told him that the blood was a fake, red paint to be exact. My initial inclination was basically, 'dude, shut up.' The blood sure looked like blood and not something from the discount isle in Home Depot. Also, even if it were something designed to grace the walls of a barn someplace, who gives a damn? So it was fake, so what? It's a much better story with it being real. It's akin to Walter Johnson demanding the ball at the end of the final game of 1924 World Series (the only one Johnson would win in his Hall of Fame career) and if there is one thing I love above all else in baseball it is the great tales that have emerged throughout the history of the game. The bloody sock was one of them.

 But, then, I started wondering about it. Maybe the connection was made in my mind because of Schilling himself. The man is a bit of a blow hard and does not hide his opinions. I don't have a problem with that myself; in fact, I encourage it in professional athletes. I always think fondly of Babe Ruth's quip after being awarded a $100,000 contract (times change don't they?). He was asked if he felt it was ok that he was now making more money per year than President Hoover. Ruth responded, "Well, I had a better year than Mr. Hoover."

 So, I can't be too judgmental if a player has a big mouth. At least they aren't jumping into the stands beating the shit out of cripples who are razzing them (Ty Cobb actually did this). No, it's more the content of Schilling's statements that sent my mind down a speculative path. You see, in 2004 Schilling went around the country stumping for the reelection of President Bush until the Red Sox contractually forced him to stop. He was of course entitled to his opinion, dead wrong as it may have been. But I started pondering if the rationale this administration seems to use frequently, which I loathe, was really all that different from my own rationale for not giving a damn about if the sock was really bloody or not.

 Sure, the stakes are totally different. One is entertainment; one is the lives and deaths of thousands. Still, the argument seems to be mostly the same. I didn't care because the value of the story, in terms of how much fans of baseball enjoy the game and its history, was greater than that of the truth. The administration thought (to pick one out of a hat) the story of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, and whatever goals we might speculate they hoped to accomplish by starting the war (Oil, Military-Industrial complex etc.), were also more important than the truth. Don't ask questions about the reality of the story! It's better off being real!

 Truth is a funny thing and a particularly tough one to assign a value. It has no market value. We can't buy and sell truth, information sure, but truth no. It doesn't always bring us pleasure; sometimes it comes with great pain. Yet, everyone (I'm purposefully avoiding a cheap shot at the administration here conservatives; see I can play nice) values it at least to some degree. So when we weigh it against something else, be it monetary, political, or otherwise, we are playing a tricky hand. Some folks, like Kant, would go so far as to say never to devalue the truth.

 Deep down, I don't think people like Kant were right. There are times that a lie is important, even if those times are special cases. The trouble is in identifying those times. In the clear cut cases the stakes are either really low like one I heard last week: "I like your hat", or extraordinarily high like one from FDR: "I have said this before, but I shall say it again and again and again: Your boys are not going to be sent into any foreign wars." However, the questions are always worth the asking, even if the lie is worth repeating. Well, maybe not about the hat, but certainly when the stakes are high, like about the Second World War, or the two wars we are currently fighting.

 So, in the interest of good patterns of behavior, I've changed my mind. Let's ask all the questions we want about the middle cases. After all, no one ever said we have to believe a good story in order for us to enjoy it. Babe Ruth's called shot has been questioned since the day after it happened (not that he hit the home run, but rather that he was pointing at the stands as opposed to the pitcher, which, if you look at the tape, he probably was) and the story is no less a part of the charm and lore of baseball history. A fake bloody sock to boost the morale of his team would be just as worthwhile as a real one I suspect. However, if the goal is more than the story but some action with real world consequences then we need to believe it and the questions become even more important because, obviously, if the story is false we shouldn't act, or at least we need a better reason.

 Curt Schilling has offered a 1 million dollar wager to anyone who cares to test the sock, proceeds to ALS research (the disease Lou Gehrig died of and Steven Hawking currently suffers from) if it is his blood and to a charity of the winner's choice if it is not. Anyone have 100,000 ten-dollar bills they aren't using for anything?

So, there I was, skulking down Fifth Avenue like some deranged breakfast Santa. Slung over one shoulder was my laptop bag, bulging at the seams, Crooked under my right arm was a cardboard box, and hanging over my left shoulder was the part of the picture that crosses from normal to decidedly odd. Perched there was a large, clear, plastic garbage bag filled with bagels, muffins, little packages of cream cheese, tiny individually wrapped slabs of butter and several dozen tiny jars of jam.

I had started my trek in the Roosevelt Hotel and let me tell you the stares were less hostile on the street. In case you don't know the Roosevelt, it ain't no Motel 6. It's a pretty ritzy joint. The kind of place the George Steinbrenner and Jodi Foster stay at. I know because I've seen them both coming out of there on my way to and from Grand Central. As such, this is not the kind of place where a twenty something guy with a light beard, scraggily hair and an old fashioned hat go unnoticed. Even less so when that fellow is heading out the door with a see-through sack of comestibles.

Why was I fleeing the Roosevelt bearing a horde of starch and toppings? You see, from time to time, mostly as a PR thing, my firm hosts seminars on the ins and outs of international trade. Every time congress changes the tariff rules a little there is a demand to know exactly how various companies, I won't mention names but use your imagination, can exploit the new rule to it's fullest extent. There was such a seminar this morning and was the unfortunate sucker, I mean dutiful employee, who was assigned to be there at 7:00 AM to set up for it and work the check in / "do you have a check?" table.

I don't typically mind working these things.  Getting up early isn't that big a deal for me and mostly it's just setting up a projector, ticking names off a list, writing down 'it's in the mail' next to those names, and sitting around for a while. Typically, I can even score a free bagel and coffee from the complementary continental breakfast. Today wasn't that much worse in terms of the conference really. Sure, the speaker didn't bring a laptop to show his power-point presentation. Sure, I had to let him use my own one, not firm property, which I had taken with me this morning in order to take notes in class with this evening. Sure, I had to answer every question about set up at least twice, three times if it wasn't the one he wanted to hear the first two. All of that is pretty much par for the course and the seminar was quite sparsely attended.  I guess that's what happens when the topic is Haiti.

The speaker is a tall fellow and one of the three folks whose name is emblazoned upon our firm letterhead. The kind of man who might have trouble thinking much more of himself and he had just flown up from Miami. He is not a person I get along with particularly well, but he was more amenable this morning than usual. However, in his hubris, he had booked one of the largest conference rooms in the hotel for this seminar and ordered a continental breakfast to match. Now, when I say it was sparsely attended, I mean that we had ten people. We had room for at least sixty and food to match. Needless to say, at the end of the seminar, there was an enormous amount left.

I am not above taking home leftovers. Not at all. Despite my pension to buy people drinks or pay for dinner when no one is looking, I can be quite frugal at times. Often when I come to these things I make off at the end with a few bagels, a muffin or two and some of the tiny things of jam. Breakfast for the rest of the week. This time however, there was WAY too much food and the overwhelming mass of it, probably coupled with the desolate attendance, caught this particular partner's notice, along with that of the senior managing partner here in NY, who had staggered in around half way through after clearly having a very good time at he Customs and International Trade Bar Association dinner I had to work until nine last night. Before I know it, there are two people, each making at least middle six figures a year, raiding the unused trash can for it's plastic bag and dumping the entire contents of the table into it. Well, as much as would fit anyway. They found a cardboard box for the rest.

I feel like I ought to point out at this stage that when I brought my laptop out with me today I did not bring the power supply. The computer was fully charged and since I only planned on using to take notes for around 2 hours in class I hadn't seen the point of bringing it along and potentially losing it. When it was discovered that Mr. T (let's call him) needed to use it I expressed some concern that the battery might not last for the full 4 hours of slideshow he had planned on using it. He replies by handing me his American Express Card, $200 in cash (in case they asked who I was), and sending me off to the Best Buy around the corner to buy another one. It cost nearly $100 dollars. He didn't bat an eye.

Back to Mr. T purloining the all left over goods: This made me wince. It's one thing to discreetly take away a little bit of food for yourself. It's another to take everything but the silverware. At least, I think they left the silverware. Yes, they did leave it. I know because as soon as this pair of literal millionaires was done relocating every edible scrap in the room into the two improvised containers I was the one ordered to carry it back to the office.

Looking like a man who had committed armed robbery at H&H, I made my way out of the hotel and onto the street, wondering what would possess someone who thinks nothing of dropping $100 dollars on a power supply to take thirtysomething leftover bagels, only to have them go soggy and gross in the office fridge. Maybe it's that he felt he had to win somehow. The seminar was a flop but at least he got over on the hotel.

I hope that's not true. I hope he simply has some sort of bagel fetish. Or loathes the idea of ever wasting food. Or something. I'd really hate to have to feel sorry for someone who makes more money than I do by a power of ten.