The Coffee Guy's blog

Mechania Mania Masking Moronic Miasma

The build goes on. The Sic Fiddy shapes up sharply in the shop. Frame form fixed and fomented. Fortunately, I have been fixated on facing the chiffonier in the water closet. Filing and forming the feature first, then fully coating it in a false appearance.

With Java in hand the tank arrived. Not as claimed but in hand. Tweaking, no twerking on the four banger a tad at a time. Styling it as a chopper light. Olde school, slight extensions, hard tail, single seat, not totally minimalist, forward leaning, rearward braking, clean but not pristine, aged but reliable, converted, spoked, heated, baked, and powdered. A sorta like me.

As the winter bodes well on the likelihood of no hooded man making his way after the ides, I am stroking tot get a roller by the time we celebrate the old lady’s birthday. Comstar conversion under way. Cut off, stripped and ripped, sourced the newies and still deciding on rim size. Bearings ordered front and back. Still humming and hawing on the pistons. Too cheap to just buy.

See a lotta da bros posting progress pointedly; sorry not that much out there in my bones. Chew wanna see it, chew know where I live. A few have. Either way it’s a dusty drama in da dungeon of deliverance. I will blow that out one fine and frosty day. Wind to suck the breath out of the dust of the saw. Pushed by fan and factory air fully flushing the socket pocket.

Sheesh seems I probably have sussed new stuff not even seen by some seeking solace. Some day I will do the spread. That which to sell and those which to install. What order? You got me on that one. Was a long time ago I pulled and ripped the iron from the steel the alloy from the aluminum. Well it only goes back one way. You will know if your head turns and you don’t. Only do it once. Ride forward, look forward, lean forward, forward your opinions, opine freely, free your bones, bone up on your order of operations, operate as you would do when.

Backada jamma, most things freed up. Went to the crook yesterday and lessened the pain by a sawbuck, but not happily pushing the limit as it was. He had them, I knew it. Not a one on the Bay of E or the Webbed Highway of Disinformation. Sossa I dig and prod now chaperoned in the back by a light saber toting Dooley. Would he know a right from a left, a Sic from a VT Shadow? Likelihood was not wagered on. Twas me that knew and found.

Will rebuild in time, once the dust has blown.

Slip a little sugar in today, Cynthia. I will take it French.

 

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.

FacePlant Can Champion Trending

We vilified video games for making our children both violent and obese. Where do we stand on social media? What are the hours, what is the content, what is the end-game?

Without a coffee in hand you can quite easily posit that there is initially a total obliteration of social and personal responsibility when entering into the oddly named media of social? Society? Media? Medium? Social?

Let’s run the numbers. Social; friendly, public, civil, hospitable. Society; Humankind, people, community, or civilization. Media; communication, news, or intelligence. Medium; cause, channel factor, or force.

Now let’s have a look at the names for these methods of interaction. FacePlant, Twitter, Instagram, et al. Trending with me yet? Sedimentation is how these “media” are both accessed and uplinked. For the most part you cannot be “doing” something at that point. You will have stopped all humanoid activity to either see what your post looks like, or to see what else is posted. To see responses to posts, to see trends of tweets, to see how viral it has gone.

People, the public, have intelligent communication, from one person to another, without any force other than the rush of wind caused by exhalation while speaking. None of which you can witness on a CRT. OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, I KNOW NOBODY IS USING ONE OF THOS ANY MORE. It’s a facon de parler. Oh and for the great unwashed, it’s the thing we used to get our information on before a flat screen.

Let go into the lexicography and lexicon of these platforms. “Home”, where you live. It is not a page on the LCD or information device. “Favourites”, 1.a person or thing regarded with special favor or preference: That song is an old favorite of mine. 2. Sports. a competitor considered likely to win. 3. a person or thing popular with the public. 4. a person treated with special or undue favor by a king, official, etc..

Not ringing a bell yet? Sorry, another speech figurine. “Trending” to have a general tendency, as events, conditions, to tend to take a particular direction; extend in some direction indicated. Magnificent, as long as your time frame come in milliseconds, I would have assumed to take or extend in a particular direction that it intimated reach or breadth. Just the opposite is in order today. On the Mediocre of Society, 20 minutes is an eternity, “Hash Tag”, not that people don’t know what the number symbol is, or and octothorpe is. Never end a sentence in a preposition. Got it.

So instead of explaining what you think of something, you can immediately push it forward as something new and “trending” by including a precursor of the octothorpe. By you have not thought about, arrived at an opinion on, investigated the issue with, or even looked for the origin of the information you are social mediocrity has passed along. Just push along the reactionary. Foster the unsupported.

One of my all-time favourites is the “Follow” term used in most of the non-monostatic, relational bases of communication attempts. “Social Mediums”.

 

I have people on all three of my feeds “following me” to my oblivion. Not that they have hard of me or know me or like what I have said. It’s because something I stated had trended for a millisecond, or someone have hash tagged a post of mine or I had shared off some ditty I had seen while lurking on the FacePlant.

Trend that Pin You Twit, don’t follow me, unless you are my favourite.

Slip a lil cream in today Cynthia, I’ll take it pale.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.

 

My father was an explorer of life and a teacher for life. Don Hull

My dad could regale you with tales of far off places he has been to, and in the same breath teach you something.

 When my dad spoke of places he visited or worked, it was no cursory look around when he was there.  He would tell you where the people came from, what the industry was, and what grew on the land and why.  Travel for him was how he opened another book.

 There are many ways to go through life, as a worker, or a boss, or an entrepreneur, as a roust about, or just flowing along with the river of life.

 My father paddled up stream in that river, he already saw what was down stream so he would ponder what was around the next bend in the river of life and go for it.

 As a young man he moved from one of the hottest places on earth, the south pacific with Australia and New Guinea to one of the coldest parts of one of the coldest countries Canada and to work in a mine in Northern Ontario.

I remember the first farm he bought in Falkenbug Ontario it was pretty soon when Don realized that the Volkswagen Beetle they had at the time was not going to cut it as a farm vehicle.

 My dad could always remember names and places.  Me I’m a numbers guy.  He could tell you the names of guys he went so school with in elementary school, and tell you the name of the street the hardware store was on 40 years ago in Bracebridge.

One of the things my dad and I did separately together as it were, was the Sunday Times Crossword puzzle.  If we chatted throughout the week, we would not let on to each other which clues we actually had figured out until the week end when the solution came out.  He worked from his ability to remember names and places, as well as reading almost everything that came his way, I worked from the numbers end and having inherited my love of reading and inquiry.  The fun began if we were together and we could usually polish that puzzle off in short order working together.

In Australia they call anything outside of town the “bush”.  In Ontario we really lived in the bush.  Forest all around.  I think my dad loved that, it brought back his years prospecting for gold in New Guinea and the Yukon.

I could go on with stories of his adventures, but this one is true Don Hull.  He packed up his two sons in the car, I think we were 12 and 13, in Bracebridge and drove off with a few supplies, some rock hammers and a geological map of the Parry Sound area.  We stopped and parked on the side of some highway, and struck out onto crown land in the middle of nowhere.

Checking the map, reading the compass, chipping at the odd out-cropping of Quartz. We did this for three days.  Looking for old abandoned mine sites or signs of gold in them thar hills.  When we finally got out of the bush it appeared we were nowhere near the car.  Easy fix!  My dad told us to sit tight and hang around where we were, he would hitchhike back and get the car.  For dad this was just a normal thing to do and I remember his casual acceptance of the situation, his move along and do it anyway point of view.

My dad accepted everybody and everything as a learning experience.  I am sure I will be learning things from him for many years to come.

Of course as you could imagine, my dad did a stint in amateur theater as well.  I think this came from his love of verse.

One of his favourite poets was Robert Service.

In closing I would like to read a short excerpt from a Robert Service Poem in memory of my dad.

Call of the Wild

 

Have you gazed upon naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,

Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore.

Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blaze on,

Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar.

Have you swept the visoined valley with the green stream streaking through it,

Searched the vastness for a something you have lost.

Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it:

Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?

Have you broken trail on snowshoes? Mushed your huskies up the river,

Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?

Have you marked the maps void spaces,

mingled with the mongrel races,

Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?

And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?

Then harken to the Wild, It’s wanting you.

Then listen to the Wild, it’s calling you.

And the wild is calling, calling, let us go.

 

Thanks dad you are the best

 

 

Flow Tracker, Flat Tracker, Street Bob, Café, Bobber, Brat, Rat, or Chopper.

If you build it, nothing will come of it.  The inoperative cooperative dystopia will not cajole you into participating.  If it ain’t broke, then go fix it.  Again, it is hobby time, and there are no hobbits around.   I was taking a Bitcoin to the bank when I ran across a cashier.  She still didn’t bulge when I tried to pay her off.

Sunday can be fortuitous or it can be waistrous.   I spent the day standing, so fortitude was on my side.  Thence cometh the snow and I fainted to sleep.  Waking to refreshed melting, if not somewhat behind MY schedule.  The Date of being Good is nigh.  Now nourish the noggin and parry up the positive mental attitude and carpe diem.

What build will be built by the builder this year?  Personally I am in the throes of cogitating on a new wind vane.  Of course, there is always the possibility of selling off a couple of two wheelers and getting a new one.  Something I like.  Love the CX’s and the R60’s.  Of course, there is the ever-present SX ‘es and the Rd400’s.  Any ideas out there?  I also take ‘em free. 

Then the titular question arises. Stylin’ and whilin’ away the hours, starin’ and comparin’.  Then it hits you like a big pizza pie with the moon in the sky.  The desideratum need not meet your expectations.  I will be on board with drawing this year.  What will extricate itself from the parchment will be up to it.  Get a round toit?  I prefer mine square.

Slip a little cream in my Java today Sabrina, I need the Moo Cow Mirage.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.

 

 

 

 

Cruising, Down the River on a Sunday Afternoon

No trick or trade today.  Just here for the trunk sale.  Since when were trunks so desirable?  I remember when they were worn all summer, just in case you came across a pond, or river, or creek, or lake.  Jump in, swim out and back or across.  Never had a direction so we just went there.

Out and dry off.  Nows’a days chew gonna need a towel, permit, permission, guardian, and probably a responsible person.  How was it that when we were so irresponsible, we lived long enough to be responsible?  What is your response to that?  Repossession of your potentiality will lead a predilection of your pulchritude.

Make it and they will materialize I say.  The doctor is in, not indulgent.  A scant few have seen my scantling collection and how it has been deployed and employed.   I implore you to seek it out and allow those ideas morph and meander into your group crania.  Perhaps the dissemination not inseminating of this germ impregnates your grey matter enough to open the seven orifices of the head to glean creative insight.

The art is within the beholder not in the object.  I object to the objectification of that which has not been criticized as art.  Otherwise why else would we have Art “Critics” and not Art “Appreciants”?  Film Critics, not Film Fanatics?   We have Car or Auto Reviewers, not Car Critics.  We have Program Evaluators and not Program Dissenters.

Nothing but flatulent flabellums foisting their fancy on folk.  Creation was not done in seven days.  Creation is an ever-changing, ongoing, everlasting, advancing, forever unfolding, open ended, continuing, circulating, cutting edge, rampant forge down an unknown path.  You cannot be boxed in.  Need I bring futurists into the picture?  Gene Roddenberry, Robert Heinlein, George Orwell.  I could go on.  They were not talking the future so much as creating a possibility.  Creating.

We don’t need a book review to tell us what was creative about the output from these guys, it just was.  Come into my garage and hand me a wrench.  That is an act of creativity.  Or part thereof.  A large stint in my humble surrounds below our house is spent looking and evaluating, parsing possibilities, holding up a piece of steel and thinking, “will it work only if I can……”.

There are times when the old, tried and true, works.  That is when art has been transformed into technology.  First there is art.  Then it is quantified.

Plead me not into temptation to buy technology when I can create a solution.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.

 

 

 

Trivial we Speak of the Travails of Weather

And sundry and no other Sunday malaise filled occupation when all else fails.  We orate blithely about that which we have no control.  We make up theories and theorems to explain our attachment or the etiology of it all.

Posit that the world is flat.  Our complete prognostication techniques would be as useful as a specimen of defecation on a comestible.  You wouldn’t touch it.  Primary  prognosticators parry particular performance submissions from “AROUND” the world.   Massage them with historic and physical properties known, then suggest what “MIGHT” happen hence.

Bingo, bongo, bango, the world is flat prior to Columbus and his cadre gadding about with no direction.  The prevailing always coming from the west; what some big ass fan over there and some goof turning it on and off at the switch whenever he wants?  What would the early harbinger hang his hat on?  Accuracy?

“The wind cometh eastward matey, all day till night falls.”  And so it doesn’t, now what?  You are seaward and heading in some unknown direction till you run into a chunk of terra firma again.  Thata’ guy whoda’ told ya to go sailing is somewhere else, and before you get back to him he may be dead or you may be.

With what weather witch would you wear your explanatory notes of freezing rain?  Super-cooled water only freezing on contact.  That is the modern day explanation.  Did they even have the word “super”?  What about “duper”  How did they sing that song then?  Possibly in the mainstream development of man, weather was moderated by the generally tropical and equatorial surrounds of modernizing man.  No freezing rain there I suspect.

The ease of which you can see weather develop form a height leads one to believe mountain residents figured it out first.  With the onset of valley cloud, moist air, convection currents, and downdrafts, you have a lot of information to start your theory on that a flatlander would never experience.

None the less, once the weather went past you, and past the Near East, and past the Middle East, then beyond the Far East, Where did the Polo of Marcus think that the wind went?  How come the ocean would no just drain off the edge?  Did people in Japan commit Hari-kari on the far edge of the earth?  I can see the romantic side ot the Flat Earth Society.  Simplicity in singularity of sameness.  Sameses.  Coined. It’s taken sorry.  But we of the in Lyn know of this.

Let it roll Raoul, I like it on the side.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.

 

 

From Sarnia to Narnia and Nari a Sari

The Griffin gone, obscure as it is built. The connexion to Kingston through the Cataraqui is ineffable.  In 1938 this fair burg was enjoined to the others we whopped in the war of 1812.  Then again doubled in 1999.

The aqua blue waters passing without a nod wend towards the Lac St Clair.  The not too distant shore bearing those brethren of the lake and land.  One thing of note you cannot miss is the unending clank and bang of the rail cars shunting and shifting in their languid movements to and fro from the States United.  A subway not marring the fall scene for me makes the connexion.  Who’da thunk?  In all these years crossing the Blue Water, I never knew trains moved under.  What a boring project!

The day the murderous Red Ryan shot and killed by an officer of the local constabulary might have changed this small city.  The intrepid constitution of the people rose up and celebrated the end of an era as this rouge was dispensed with.  This all along the stretch with the House of Morden.   What would the Lampel and Zierler Theater be showing that week on the newsreel?

There is no point of ole Eddy getting in a snit about the blow of ’53.  Seen dat scene, been dare.  And ‘iffin it wasn’t for good ole Jimmy Williams, where would we all be now?  Here is a guy digging and drilling, boring and coring, toiling and oiling in the lesser Enniskillen and lo and behold out comes the flow.

Black Gold

Texas Tea

Bubbling Crude

Did John Shaw draw the first barrow of the liquid below in a volume which then situated the industry here in The Valley, no girls there.   I know the sudden growth brought the ware and wherewithal for the development to city hood!  Were the Trillon group that glitzy and glamourous with and almost untouched store after the 53?

Sarnia Always I say over and under my breath and river.  Truly an intermodal crossing although the waters run fast, you would have to be one strong swimmer to cross within ten miles of your start.  No Weir can stop that water.  No Guernseys left or right here.

A nice spot to cross the water.

Slip in the Chicory Chance, I like the sense.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.

 

Up s the Down Side of Delivery

If ever you neve need to know that which is unknown, then don’t.  USPS or anything other than the UP Service.  In My Opinion these “people” need to take a read form the basic customer service booklette.  The “ette” because I’sa knows that the whole enchilada would be way too verbose for such weenies.

40 bucks is too dangerous for them to carry.  But alas they do not carry mobile Chargex machines either!  On no!.  Your neighbourhood may be too dangerous for their ilk. Oh yeah, I am in downtown while bread Splitlip nowhere.  Waaaay  to verifiable for those shorts clad weenies!

And now for the pies de resistance!  They conjure up usury for delivery.  24 bucks for a vintage Tee outa The Big Apple.  25 bucks for delivery.  And get this, 40 bucks for brokerage fees!  Whatttttttttttttttttttttttttt????????????

So I get a vintage Tee for another 80% interest charged for  uhh….errr.. I don’t know.  They claim it comes to the brokerage, read, the Ups people reading the outside of the package and “valuing it as the number claimed on the outside.  Oh and they claim the Value includes the shipping.  So now I pay HST GST PST ABC, PCB and all the other alphabet soup on each other and the shipping which is already charged by the Ups syndicate.

So better than the government , they tax the tax which was taxed on purchase and paid tax on already claiming  the tax was apportioned on the unpaid paid portion in apportionment of the accordant by laws.   Yup, hold on let me bend over.  I breathe better that way.  With my cranium up my anus.

So not only do the pretty boys in brown not take cash at your door, their depots don’t take cash.  So I a’wanna be the account rep who gloms onto the sales bonus for those bozzoi who have to pay for allllllll their Cash On Hand as a business.

So their dolla is only worth say 96 cents.  ( after the creditage)   No wonder they have to charge usury rates for brokerage.

Oh yeah one better.  If I had have had the item sent via a more expensive route ie, air: there would not be any brokerage fees!

Whattttttttt?

Yup, spend less get more screw down on the up wards.

Peed again.  Never request or send via themsa.

Get me a strong pull Paulette.  Amber, not Brown.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.

 

Fall Drawl Flails the Grail

While un-inebriated my podiatrist treats smothered in hose soak as I trudge through sodden horse fodder; that into which my demense has turned.  With lawn mower honed and topped up I have been trudging and slogging around and across the expanses of the lawn all summer.  A quick start in April, no rest in August, and now weather for growth in October.   How is it in one year I can blow snow for 7 months, have a 6 week hiatus from yard work in the spring, mow the lawn for seven months, and still have two more months of question before the snow flies again?

Am I fully satiated with the green activities? Yup!  I could give less than one cut grass blade of a rats ass if I ever push those spinning metal knives again this year.  In the year of 2 K plus a fortnight of years I expect a closer trim on the turf.  Turf trimming taxing the top of my cranium till I teeter on the verge of the berm.  In some time I may even ponder to deposit some chlorophyll enhancing material on said plot of grass.  Not until it slows down.

The wall was erected and stabilized with geo-mesh and grade A backfill.  It matches the house and has leveled my parking.  No more of the good burgers of Cambridge sending around the mockstabulary with their little cameras and thermal paper printer pooping out citations.  Score to date, The Big Bad City at 6 ½, resident here9 ½.  Nuff said.

Get out and make your wishes known. The franchise is not extended to everybody on the orb so if ya’ can, then do it a cuz’n you should.  Definitely there are options.  Those that suckle off the public teat need to be curbed not coddled.  Though those eggs are nice at times.  Ask Darrin, he can attest to the nature of the coddled; he will read poached.

In our small corner of the circle, we run at tangent to the obtuse.  Hopefully the bearded meister of’a dis stadt will be sent keister sliding into obscurity.  Running rough shod and deef to the vox poupuli, he needs to control the four walls of his residence and let the rest of us plebes get moving.  The old is out the new is in, and.  We need no legacy, our deeds speak.  We have no LRT, and 11 roundabouts are still on the table.  Has there been any audible voice?  Minimal.

Stir this pot and put your foot down in the Kah Kah.  If you are afraid to do this, then wash your tender feet and stay out of the barn. There is a stallion in the wings waiting for release.  Move aside and let the big boys play.  No ego should be so big as to hinder growth and acceptance of the new and life on the edge. 

Persevere Portia, I like it smooth and dark.  Someone said I had to mention coffee……

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.

Sobriety and Sloshing the Sobriquet

And to ponder your plutocracy closer to my pleasing you might take a moment, to bring me another Java, Joel, this I gonna be a long day.

And iffin’ I were the Philosopher of San Souci ) Alexander the Great) with holdings from the Adriatic to the Indus River.  Would I be happy at that point? Nopers.  The season is nigh over for the Jays as my darling and I made much too meager a showing at the games this year.  Hadda’ been the Bambino instead of Joey Batts tossing out taters, we mighta’ gone more.

Injury after injury, Whiner after Wendy.  We need a stalwart Sultan of Swat of our own with a body of steel.  As the Bard of Avon might have penned, Art thou worthy of my favours, or art thou a scourge on nature itself?  We hear the owners of said club announcing new technologies, huge ad campaigns, then stare blankly at the fan as they claim poverty.  Then they buy up some new company with found money.

If only we had the draw of the Papal City.  Crowds amass for no apparent reason other than reputation. Ours alas is stagnant and old in the day 24 hour new cycle its been more than a bakers 13 in years, no reputation alive.

I am sure those from my Alma Mater will dispute the mathematical mathemagica of the numbers.  But the Boys of summer couldn’t add well this year.  Old Nick is in the details.  You need both offence and defense, working in concert as a well-oiled machine.  Ya gotta hit when you are tossing.

Had we been in the Sport of Kings we would be the long-shot nag in the 12^th position who didn’t get her oats on race day. We had a good showing to the half but couldn’t get enough out of an empty stomach to finish the job.

We need these sods to muscle back on the Staff of Life and forge ahead.  I broke my pinky now I am out for three months?  Don’t we all wish that luxury.  No Ocean Greyhound playground here.  No room for ninnies in this game.  We need the Seagreen Incorruptible to run this organization.  Someone with principles.  Stand up to the committee of committees and state the cause simply.  I will fill those seats if you give me the money.

Deep pockets are not that which they don’t have.  Remunerate the runner, the seats will be covered in asses.

If you think this is mere persiflage take note of the great sports complexes in recent history.  All “empires”  require resolve, and unquestioning loyalty. Take the hundred year empire of the Umayyad Caliphate, or the New York Yankees.  Single person ownership with a desire to win, and the fan backing which follows to this day.

Winners are not losers.  Slip a little French Roast in my cup Pierre, I need a strong one this morning.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.