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Excellent guess. I may have gone with New Year's Party, but Christmas brings in the religious aspect which adds luster, if not lust, to the picture.

Link to info on the painting from wiki:

The_Death_of_Sardanapalus

In point of fact, I posted the above as a sidelong reference to Mat and the important decision that awaits him. In the vein of being sympathetic and having empathy for the situation he is in.

Hope he can survive the rabble and clamorous herds, which no doubt I think he will.

What's the first law?

And do you have a Zeroth Law?

Oh, Happy Thanksgiving to one and all. USA #1.

Cheers.

First law is more complex and relates to cognition.

1st law of drinking*

a) The experience of tasting a drink is weakly related to the specific drink being tasted
b) The experience of drinking drinks is strongly related to the specific drinks being drunk

*applies all the less important stuff as well

zeroth law: Maybe 'mine's a pint'

I had a dream last night. My youngest son and I, along with a third person, whose face I could not see, boarded a ferry. The ferry was a fully functioning water vessel, but we boarded at the corner of 5th Ave. and Luminous St. We never once touched water, instead hovering just above the black, baking in the summer sun pavement.

I almost did not make it onto the ferry. My ID was mistaken for a man who had passed away many years ago. That man had been a world famous jockey.

The security woman, 4' 2" tall and wearing a green scarf with wild horses galloping across a desert landscape stitched meticulously in shades of brown and grey, recognized the photo of the famous man and eyed me wearily. Seeing the ID I had given to the petite and willowy, almost transparent, woman, I at once attempted to snatch it from her hand. She shrunk from my aggression, turned and walked away.

I protested, trying to tell her that the famous jockey was my great, great uncle. She disappeared into the aft section of the asphalt skimming transport.

With no one to question me about a now lack of ID, I hurried to catch up with my son. Just as I reached his side, and was within shouting distance of the captain of the craft, the most amazing sight floated above and then in front of us.

Hi above, but not hi enough to clear the marble and limestone buildings lining Luminous Ave. was a gigantic bus, four stories tall and six-hundred feet long. The monstrous flying bus was weaving side to side. I couldn't help myself, I walked to the front of the ferry and tapped the captain on the shoulder.

"You need to slow down," I said. The captain brushed my hand aside and continued forward. She nodded to a man next to her. I glanced at the man, only able to see him from behind. Startled, I, at once, realized this was the man who had come aboard with my son and I.

Before I could step forward and finally see this mans face, the bus hi above and in front of us glanced against a stately brick building on our right. Bricks fell to the pavement, a hole opening up on the side of the building as the reeling airborne vehicle tacked left and slammed into the capital building, destroying the dome atop the three-hundred year old marble monolith.

"Please slow down," I yelled at the captain, sure we would be crushed by falling debris.

It was then that my son grabbed my shoulders and said....

"Everything is fine, dad. We will make it to the island in a few minutes."



Breeze heavy with the freshwater scent of humanity’s tepid discards, the ferry silently swung east off Luminous St. onto Coral Dreams Ave.

Bodies jumping from the windows of the gigantic bus as it disintegrated in midair filled my mind’s vision. I pressed my fists painfully against watery eyes, trying to force white knuckles through pupil and ocular nerve in a vain attempt to destroy impressionable brain matter. Accepting silence enveloped the ferry, but was broken by the screeching impact of metal upon ivory tower, marble accepting engineering marvel without question. Finally, the sounds of destruction ceased. Silence returned, and the scent of humanity’s tepid discards grew stronger.

The glittering ocean appeared in front of our floating vessel, the city’s skyscrapers, littered sidewalks and blinking lights forgotten for a moment. The ferry slowed, slowed, and stopped at the water’s edge.

My son was standing in front of me, next to the man with the factory carnival face. They were peering out at the gently rolling water. The captain cleared her throat and in a trapped within a tiny box baritone voice announced, “We have arrived at the island. Please begin disembarking.” She then turned and walked to the aft section of the eerily still boat.

With my right hand, I grabbed my son’s left hand. “We are leaving and going back to the city.” He looked at me confused. He then turned to the man next to him.

“This isn’t an island. This is the ocean.”

The man turned to him. The man’s face had changed. Soft, wrinkle-free skin, slim straight nose, blue eyes, light brown hair and perfect white teeth had replaced the pistons and rotting countenance. He smiled an angelic smile.

“Look into the water. What do you see?”

My son and I both looked out to the water. Just the rolling waves and the musky scent of nature meeting humanity’s onslaught. “Let’s go,” I said as I pulled my son away from the front of the boat.

The man laughed. Not condescendingly or in malice. He laughed as if we had missed seeing the eighth wonder of the world. “You must peer deeper, deep below the surface.”

My son turned back to the ocean. I couldn’t help myself, I turned with him. The man’s voice was like a song trailing off into the distance, begging for those who could hear to follow the melody wherever it led.

Something was in the water. Closer we inched to the rail. The smell of the ocean gobbling up concrete, metal, stone and human rind grew overwhelmingly sweet.

There, just below the surface were people walking as if on clouds in the air. All around them were fields of green, forests and mountains. Far below the people were stars and planets, multiple suns and a distance unfathomable.

My son gasped. “Look at that, dad. We can hike forever. Do you see the horses and deer?” I did.

And there were fields of wheat, fruit trees as far as the eye could see, and a rainbow, so bright it cast its colors over the entirety of everything beneath the waves.

“This isn’t real,” I mumbled, wanting to disbelieve my own words.

The angelic man smiled at me. “Search your heart.”

I wanted so much to reach out and touch the water. I wanted it all to be real. My son smiled back at the man. A barely perceptible metallic glint shone through the man’s perfect white teeth. I frowned. His smile faltered, but only for a fraction of moment.

He looked at my son. “Jump in. You won’t be sorry.”

I gathered strength, filled my mind with thoughts of all that was good about life.

“Son,” he turned towards me. “Underneath the city behind us was once all those things you see under the water. They are still there. We simply need to help the world see through the machines and blacktop.” My son frowned. I continued. “Out there,” I waved at the sea. “Out there is what we want our world to be again, but it is not real. Look closely at the man next to you.”
The man’s smile was wavering. More steel replaced his teeth, the crumbling mountains sprung from his brow, brown eyes gave way to millions of souls trapped somewhere unreal.

My son stepped back from the thing in front of him. “I want to go with my father.”

“Noooo!” wailed the visage in front of us. “You chose this ride. Now, you have no choice!”

The ferry began to shake, as if it wanted to go onto the water, but was unable to breach the invisible line between land and sea. Gears turned beneath the deck. The boat began to tremble, cracks opening in polished wood walls and flooring. My son and I backed away from the railing. The ferry bounced off the asphalt. Our knees buckled, but we did not fall.

The thing screamed at the ocean. “Never again, never again. You will never have what you want again, you fools!”

I've been busy posting anti-Trump limericks on Twitter (TwerkedTruth). Looks like they're not going viral and bringing down the President as I was almost sure they would. The last time I launched such a political Twitter campaign was during the 2014 midterms and by the time I got back here I'd discovered the Circus Music had died. Now I just finished wading through the Zeno ATF thread. So in memory of the day the Circus Music died and in recognition of Zeno's faithful misanthropy I submit this token support of the arts.




PairTheBoard

I'm thankful for contango

There is real action in the comments sections.

No ****.

So creative.

SITTING Piss Thinker.

Probably German

It was a point that needed to be made. Sorry for any inconvenience.

The Human Stain.

Which also, coincidently, is the titled of a Novel by Philip Roth*.

*That I just finished this morning, after getting up and taking a piss.

I support the arts. Useful to know PTB does the same. Probably, most SMP'ers do also.

Drinking just the right amount is an art.

If I ever get a gf again (shudder) I'm going to take her to the ballet. That'll either get me laid on the first date or dumped immediately which would probably be for the best.

You are old Howard, you don't have time to **** around with the little ****. So your plan is a good one. Go for the 40-year old hot mother with a 20-year daughter. This increases your options. Flash a lot of money around also. You are looking for fast sex with little responsibly. Act accordingly.

If mother/daughter combo is the goal I have to change my strat to 'Move into trailer park, find mother w/ 20 y.o. daughter, flash cash, take both to bowling alley bar and ply w/ shots of Jaeger, then take them to a monster truck rally.'

hmmmm........

Getting poontang sometimes means demeaning yourself in the preliminary rounds. Never let that stop you. You can't anyway - it is hardwired into your male DNA.

Years ago one of my co-workers, who chased pussy all day and night, gave some advice: Remember, ten slaps in the face are worth one night in bed. His aggressive style fit him. It may, of course, not fit you or me, but his advice holds some wisdom. If you can take it.

One of my favorite quotes of all time:

Sex: the pleasure is momentary, the position ridiculous, and the expense damnable. Philip Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfield

I think that I'll just forget the whole idea.

A wise decision Howard; but not very becoming of you. I think you need trouble and turmoil in your life, that Sex supplies so well. This sedate old man stuff is too responsible and you will die of boredom before the cancer gets you. Now that's silly.

There are 3 women in the card room that I'm almost certain that I could get with and, for each, I'd need the industrial strength Viagra. No, thanks.

Few months ago I went home with a less-than-desireable.

She had that slutty look about her. The type that reminds you of what it was like to be intimidated by women; of what it's like to be young.

I had to.

Get back to hers.
Couldn't.

Up until that day I thought I was good to go with anyone. The dick discerns, even if we don't.

Just you wait until you find out how much Viagra costs, the bastards!

Welcome to Sales Paradise, where even the sales pitches are for sale!