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 Film Fini - 2

   by Feather Touch



   Five times?  That's a bit lush.  Anyway, mountainous numbers, heavy
dragging numbers compounded by an ego already the size of Pillsbury's
number-one millstone.  Good thing, the latter, because the today's issue of
MSN thrills us with the news Billy the Kid finally has a lawyer - and there
must-needs be something more to write about, `specially if one is the
mother of all contemporary fiction artists, statistically, and the mother
of ALL writers in the very mind in which he resideth as legend.  (If
conceit doesn't come in handy once in awhile, why nurture it in the first
place?) At the same time, being kept abed whilst ye photographic marvel,
the kind that gets more incredible with use, hangs neglected on the wall is
kind of like the Beatles being imprisoned at The Ritz back in them-thar
days, with the added burden of a taciturn audience taking on the aspect of
a pet with big eyes who loves in silence, trading on one's guilt rather
than a commotion.  Today you were thrown a bone - stormy with temps dipping
to the seventies - but I swear if it's nice tomorrow I'm just gonna up and
split, pussy and all, to quote from the little Eminem number, and abandon
ye shade and ceiling fan to join the mad dogs and Englishmen in the noonday
sun, millstone-free.



   I'm that way, and I was with Alice.  Little girls are princesses,
angels; sweet, demure and priceless.  Without them, as the song goes, what
would Little Boys do?  They are to be persuaded in the mildest way that
multiplication tables and phonics are good things and their hair is to be
pampered, their clothes beautifully ironed, and their pink, silky worlds
enriched with dolls and frilly quilts.  They are not, by the same token, to
be pointlessly nagged about this or that and especially issues already
settled in their bright little feminine minds.



   Yes, my attention was total, but hadn't a tattoo been mentioned?  More
fuel for my dilemma; I wanted to triple check, ask the gently panting
child, one last time, if she was truly ready for what was about to happen
and assure the beauty she could vacate without prejudice to dream of
sugarplums and princes.  But she was a tattooed lady, able to make the
latest in contemporary statements on her own, albeit her body art was the
mark of the ballpoint and not the dancing needle.  To see or not to see,
that was the question, whether `twas better to shift my eyes the scant
inches necessary to see how her brother had previously despoiled her in
hopes of gaining ultimate insight, or keep them glued to the sensuous
swellings half concealed by her tiny bra.  It might not occur to you that
such a dilemma could be resolved by the scientific hand of cyber
technology, but that's how it turned out.  I was able to jockey the Elph to
get a close-up of her upper shoulder, of the penmanship there inscribed,
without moving my eyes the least quarter of an inch from her chest as she
performed the most intriguing of feminine acts by reaching behind herself
to unfasten the one tiny clasp.  And so it was without any further caveats
from me that she completed her task and leaned to Jesse so her forehead
rested against his, arms at her side as his hands found the straps and
eased them from her trembling shoulders.  Slowly the silk was moved,
steadily I held the camera, soft was the boy's whisper, "oh, baby," and
still was my beating heart as I decided to drop dead on the spot so as not
to have to profane my eyes by ever taking in another sight.  Then she was
bare-chested and the picture was worth a million words, so we'd better get
started.  Think sherry glasses, a cherry at the bottom, then filled with
rich cream.  Now raise the glasses to the approximately horizontal
position, and remove the vessels, the only synonym I can think of, however
ungainly.  Sure, that's not a million words, but at such a time does the
reader really want a micron by micron prose poem, words of passion, lust,
and foam, or, in our era of immediate gratification and cutting to the
chase, the story of what happened next?  Of Jesse's whispers as the child
on his lap slowly raised her arms and linked her fingers behind her neck,
arching in welcome, of his hands rising gently to her flanks, then tracing
inwards and to the wild beauty of her jutting pink nipples atop their
wondrously conical nascent mounds, of her responding whisper, "hi," and of
everything that transpired thereafter?  I rather think the latter, and
storms don't last long here in the heart of the Caribbean basin, so moving
on sounds like a plan.



   Her brother molested the little girl slowly and thoroughly, kissing her
as well as fondling her pert beauty.  After some minutes, her fingers went
to the buttons of his shirt and I tried to imagine the feelings of Alice
against the adolescent athlete's solid chest, the feelings of his taut
muscles against her delicacy, and got lost somewhere halfway in between. 
And then, wondrously, four big eyes were on me, two heads nodding it was my
turn, and four hands reaching.  Professional that!  Lack of moral fiber the
English call it; neglect of duty at the temple of diversion (the alluring
Sirens of the Odyssey).  All that leads to perdition, all of it's warm
poison coursed through every capillary of my own panting self as I let the
boy take the camera so the girl could get at me.  And forsooth and far be
it from me to wander far and gaze awide in hopes of treading on the toes of
ye English masters, ye lyric ancestors, no, not my turf.  They were into
god, and, to put it simply, because at that very moment, the moment her
tiny, slim fingers touched me, at that moment I figured it this way: since
it is patently obvious I'm be rewarded as a divine presence, I is one and
have not, again, forsooth, to expound in cadence, metered or otherwise, on
what my literary forbearers only guessed at and conjured over.  Cool, or
what?



   "It was a dark and stormy night," Jesse again whispered, the boy now
sitting on my left with his sister on his, center stage, and all of us half
naked.



   "You'd better be a framing of that torch, lad," the mate said, offering
the castaway a hand as he was boosted aboard by the crew of the lifeboat.
"We'd have never seen you without it; might have run you down in such a
pond-and-harbor dollop of a craft as you've ventured forth in, without even
noting the bump."

   "It was good of you to stop," the blown-offshore boy responded as the
helping hand turned into a shaking hand, "for, as you can see, I've run
short of petrol." In context, this was funny because it was a rowboat.

   "Welcome aboard," the mate said, and who's to say there was not a tear
in his English eye, total likeliness always much appreciated in a young
male.



   He was warmed with blankets and soup, the authorities were informed, and
the sailing vessel "Sweet Witch" continued her offing.  Neil recovered
quickly, told of his encounter with his malevolent antagonist with modesty,
and was presented with a cadet's uniform in just his size.  Their small
talk eventually trailed off and the drifter noted a tension filling its
place.  This became so palpable after awhile the boy wondered if he'd
fallen in with a bunch of smugglers or pirates masquerading as a training
ship.  "Is something wrong?" he finally asked.



   "No, Neil," Hal Brown, the senior mate said, "nothing concerning you,
and allowing for flexible interpretations of and variations in the word,
the answer goes something like this: an issue might be wrong, there, and
right, here; it's a regular riddle."

   "Well," the boy mused, "I was going to watch `Four Hundred Teeth'
tonight (here he alluded to a rising comic trio), but since you mentioned
flexibility, I might note that I am easily entertained and will try my best
to fit in as the situation warrants, also a bit of a hand at any job to be
done."

   "No," Hal said, "we're Bristol in all departments and headed for open
water, best radar on the market for all the canvas and hemp, so we've no
task to set before you at the moment."

   "Right," the newcomer murmured.

   "And we're at sea," his friend elaborated, "where it's customary to come
to the point rather quickly, before, and then laze about with a long-winded
accounting, at an appropriate later time."

   In the abstract, this made so much sense as to be obvious, but no one of
the dozen present in the cabin seemed in any hurry to offer further
details. Something was wrong, or at least conditionally so, and who wanted
anything to be wrong while embarking in few thousand tons of nothing on
mile-deep water?



   "It's our first night out," the twenty-five year old mate finally said,
breaking a silence no one seemed to want.  "And, well, that is something in
itself." He stalled, seeming at a loss for words, and, since he was
obviously a practical definition of the word "alert," his reticence sent a
chill down Neil's spine.

   "First night out," Kevin Curl repeated, the second mate parroting the
first.  This brought a murmur and nods from the company.  Ship of fools, of
that he'd heard, but outright morons, to whom the routine of a first night
at sea was something akin to unspeakable wonder?



   The third mate tried.  His name was Joseph Jennings.  "In port for a
month," he began, "and, well, during such a spell ashore, things, I guess
one could say, happen with some of the lads.  Once we're free of the costal
lanes, we, I guess one could say, relax and engage in a theatrical reprise
of various events various boys might find themselves of a mood to recount
for the entertainment and edification of their mates and we officers."

   "I know a few poems," Neil interjected quietly.

   "And glad we'll be to hear them," Hal said, "for it is the first night
of many, and we spend most reading aloud and reciting, both in smaller
groups and for the company as a whole, but, as the saying goes, `boys will
be boys,' and we find the atmosphere at sea more relaxing if the fact is
acknowledged early on."

   "And I take it," the thirteen year old said, "you plot your course using
the teeth of a two-man saw as a ruler." Depending on the delivery of the
speaker, the remark could have seemed like raw sass, but he was a nice boy
trying, under strained circumstances, to get to the bottom of the matter at
hand while retaining a light touch.  A very nice boy.

   "Tell you what," Hal suggested, "why don't you slip down the passage
way, finish drying off, and put on your uniform, and, when you return, we
will have taken a few of the wrinkles out of the way and can fill you in
all straight and proper-like."



   A boy his own age near the hatch beckoned and Neil followed the cadet.
"I'm Sammy Nelson," the lad said.

   "I didn't mean to be sarcastic with the mates," Neil said, "but it seems
out of character for them not to explain what's going on..."

   "I'd be the same," his guide said, opening the hatch to a stateroom.

   "Can you hang around, or do you have to go back?" the young fisherman
asked.

   "If you like," Sammy replied.



   "Well," the boy went on, "I don't want to put you on the spot,
tales-out-of-school, but I've always had a weakness for, you know, secret
theatrics and clandestine rituals.  Never one to quake at the thought of
Druids.  I mean, doesn't there have to be some monkey-business to go with
classrooms and chores?"

   "Then welcome aboard the "Sweet Witch," Sammy said with a shy smile as
both boys sat on the bunk, Neil with the fresh uniform in his lap.

   "And I'm right not to be afraid, very afraid, and tormented with
thoughts of potions and blood, right?"

   "Just seasickness," his friend replied, "and it seems you're immune."

   "I'm saving it for later when we're running beam-on," Neil responded,
"but the pitching doesn't bother me."

   "You'll have company when we turn south," Sammy grinned, "but by that
time we have most of our sea legs so it's over in a day or two, and life is
doubled when that happens."



   "Good," Neil said, "because for the moment it's standing still."

   "Just that it's a hard thing to tell," Sammy noted.  "You might find it
as we do, or you might be wanting to get on the radio and call in the law."

   "Not with Morse gone," the castaway said to a happy nod from his young
friend.

   "What it amounts to is tradition," the cadet began.  "Men away from
women, boys away from girls, and some fairly obvious inferences that might
be drawn and often have been, quashed as any public discourse is by
Victorian reticence."

   Beautifully stated, it made sense, as things beautifully stated rarely
did.  "Listen to the warm," is the nadir of examples, while "to err is
human, to forgive divine," is one of the more encouraging.

   Of course most things can be improved, even the Canon could be a wee
sharper.  Neil tried.  "Not to mention hypocrisy," he added.



   "Cor," his friend whispered, "and just when I thought it was going to be
miles of brambles `round Robin Hood's barn."

   "Well, a boy can hope, can't he?" the wayfarer responded, "I mean, why
would I have shined my torch, in the first place, if it wasn't in hopes of
avoiding a long, wet, cold night in a rowboat, and ever since Mate Hal
started sputtering in his tea, we..."

   "It's nothing lewd, you know," Sammy said, "not the Follies come to the
"Sweet Witch" with bump-and-grind music and boys stripping with one hand
and holding on to the ship with the other, it's more cerebral, I guess one
would say, more lifelike."

   "And sober?" Neil asked.



   "Dead so," his friend nodded.  "Philosophy, if you will; we're allowed
this, and by Jove, that's enough.  No skylarking, no drinking, no deserting
in port.  We are not abused and we are allowed, that has to be enough. 
Keeps things running wondrous smooth."

   "It was poetry watching you bringer her up," Neil whispered. 
"Everything taut and humming until you were dead where you needed to be,
then a huge thunder as you approached, not half a minute as you took her
slightly aback to lose way and haul close enough to save me the tedium of
rowing, even if I'd possessed two oars, plucked myself and my boat from the
water in ten seconds, and had her off the wind in another ten.

   "And I'm of a mind," the child continued, "to jump overboard tomorrow so
I can watch you handle her in the daylight."

   "And a dozen new cadets amongst us," Sammy said, his voice likewise a
whisper.



   "And if such a mate becomes tongue-tied," Neil noted, "well, how can it
help but set a lad a-hoping?" His friend nodded in agreement.  The reverie,
the memory of the tons of flapping canvas and protesting yardworks, the
precise check in her passage and the hard list of the sails' grip a few
instants later and immediate return of the muted grumble of safe passage;
how few had ever seen it.  Like boarding a passenger on a curb with fifty
men driving the bus, with the added challenge of two dozen short tempered
matrons on the upper deck, a dark and stormy night, and each lady with an
heirloom umbrella.  It couldn't be done, yet it had been without enough
disturbance to spill madam's tea, though had she been bracing her cuppa at
the moment, complaints would undoubtedly have ensued.

   It was a lot for a pair of thirteen year olds to share and the two sat
on the mate's bunk for some moments.  "I'd better put this on," Neil
finally said to his friend's nod.  The boy changed quickly and regained his
seat.

   "Should we go back or hang out here for awhile?" Neil whispered after
another interval of what had become very comfortable silences.

   "It might please the sirs," Sammy replied, alluding to the officers, "if
I filled you in a wee bit, and it's a fine thing to please the sirs."

   "They've pleased me," has friend responded.



   "So," Sammy murmured, "what we're about with this first-night ceremony
is a pageant in which various boys who've had various adventures stage
reprises.  It is an entertainment, an event, but it also informs the new
boys, who, if they've had any experience along certain lines, are
encouraged to reenact them, and though it surely engages our attention, it
tends to be a complete event unto itself leaving each of us knowing what
certain things are all about and where we stand with them, which is
particularly useful in a situation where much is demanded in terms of both
seamanship and academic performance."

   "I suppose it could fit a corps of Dickensian pickpockets enroute to
swarm Lisbon," Neil mused, "but I do believe other game is afoot."

   "No liquor, no plunder," the cadet nodded, "and we're not even smuggling
software."

   Again there was a comfortable silence.  "And, if you want," Sammy said
after a couple of minutes, "you can stay here.  Plenty to read and the
mates will be staying with us in the hold, so the bunk is yours if you want
to sleep."

   "I was out for the late tide," Neil responded, "as a matter of fact, I
didn't get up until noon, so I don't need to rest."



   That took care of an important point and Sammy nodded, beginning to
relish the idea of filling in this increasingly likely stranger.  "It's
more than just us, we sailors, you know," he explained.  "Take, for
example, the American West of a century or more ago.  The great cattle
drives that spurred the railroads and, along with cotton and coal, was an
elemental force in the Industrial Revolution; and just beneath the surface,
yet never alluded to even in `Shane,' was the cowBOY.  The small trunk in
the cook wagon with costumes suited to an environment where men were away
from women and boys were away from girls.  Thus the cattle drives, as, in
previous ages it was thus the monasteries, followed by thus the better men
following the sea, and, in our day, thus the Internet.  Such is the
reward."

   "And we're the reward," Neil mused, having some difficulty separating in
his mind the aspects of granting and receiving at the same time, especially
foreign in concept because he'd attended church for some years and was thus
imbued with a pattern of rewarding, as The Little Drummer Boy had been
unable to do in tangible form, and being rewarded, in turn, with vague and
contradictory rhetoric, his book lying uselessly on his nightstand for the
duration.



   "It's hard for all of us," Sammy said gently in response to the frown of
concentration on the newcomer's face, "finding out the dogma of convention
is totally wrong, not a word of truth in it, not even a guiding glow, much
less a light, much less a beacon, much less a star."

   "But it's led to many a war," Neil observed, causing the boys to touch
each other for the first time when they aped the amusing Americans by
high-fiving.

   "Which becomes a downright startling factor," Sammy continued, "when one
finds amongst the entire lot of us a degree of essential Christianity - of
actually being kinder and gentler, rather than telling others to - scarce
indeed in a brutish world where bullies have rights and the worse you
behave, the more seriously the law takes them."

   "In California," Neil said, "they spent twenty million dollars
processing a rapist who'd actually made videos of his acts.  They are
insane and they make the films."

   "We do rather quake with relief at the shout: `No land ho!' Sammy
rejoined with a nod.

   "How `bout: `Land free!' the survivor asked, earning a hot look from his
age mate far exceeding their previous digital display.

   "We sort of figured you'd earned your keep for a few days at least with
the amount of fish you brought aboard," Sammy mused aloud, "but if you want
to contribute more I suppose that would be just fine."



   "I've read a lot about the sea," Neil said, "W.  Clark Russell and
others, and especially Michael Scott's `Tom Cringles Log,' so things pop
up, especially when you think in terms of how rough the kids in those days
had it as against how soft we do, and, idle time being the devil's
playground, how the church leads the way toward a popular consensus in
favor of dysfunction for lack of anything better to do, and sows the land
with land mines, and in no lethargic and half-hearted manner, making it a
good thing to be free of the place."

   "We have thirty-two Russell's aboard," Sammy said, earning an immediate
look such as he'd just given."

   "That's over half," his friend said, referring to the master mariner
who'd in fact devoted his retirement to publishing fifty seven long
seafaring novels.



   "And yet he missed the boat," Sammy said, "because he never once even
tangentially alludes to what really happens aboard ship."

   "It may not have," Neil said, "because his issue was the sailor's food,
and from the sounds of it, everyone aboard most sailing ships would have
been so hungry so much of the time, not to mention cold, they'd have had
little interest beyond survival, and it's hard to imagine them having an
interest in that."

   "Interesting point," his friend responded.

   "It's a generality," Neil said, "because there were obviously a lot of
great voyages; yachting trips in southern waters; weeks and months in
perfect conditions with plenty of everything."

   "Plus Bangkok, " Sammy noted.

   "Cor," said his friend, and here they did giggle for a minute, having
obtained an equilibrium so precise as to be funny.



   "There's a sign over the hatch into the mid hold," Sammy said to the
neophyte, "and above it is a sign that reads: `Play shall set you free.'

   "Is that where the theater is?" Neil asked.

   "Yes," the boy replied, "one deck up from the bilge, which we keep sweet
enough, I can tell you, so the motion is very tolerable as long as we're
pitching and not rolling."

   "It still isn't bothering me," the land boy, but hardly a lubber, said.

   "Well, I'm meant to invite you, but our pageants begin where the Follies
leave off, plus, it starts at nine, so we have an hour in case you want to
change your mind or anything."

   "Can you tell me more?" Neil asked, "or is it meant to be a surprise."

   "All the new boys - new cadets - know," Sammy replied, "and how ever
unlikely your arrival, I guess you'd be classed with them.  Certainly not
doing anything for shock value."

   "Had my fill of that with the shark."

   "And I'll bet he had a fill of your oar," his friend observed.

   "Well, he said aah."

   "If I play doctor, my preference is a curious eight year old, preferably
female."

   "Have you ever tried anything like that?" Neil asked.

   "Some," his friend whispered, "but some kids get uptight talking about
that kind of stuff, you know, they like the play that sets them free, but
that's the end of it, they think it's faggy to talk about things.  Not
here, aboard, because everyone is quizzed before they're signed on, but you
didn't exactly arrive here through channels, so I don't want to be
offensive."

   "No," the slightly older boy said, "it's okay."

   "Well, anyway," Sammy said, "there's not that much of it.  The
storytelling is largely confined to the first-night pageant, and there's
some carryover for the next few days, I guess you could say until everyone
has heard everything new and interesting, and then the physical things
settles into the ritualistic, what they now call the same-old-same-old,
though on a boat like ours, it might equally be called the
same-young-same-young; in fact, when you come right down to it, it's hardly
distinguishable from our daily exercise sessions which consists of half an
hour of skipping rope in the midships hold, which serves as a gym once
we're squared away."

   "That must be a stunt," Neil observed, porpoiseing his hand to indicate
the motion of the bark.

   "When she's rolling it's more like a drunken circus," Sammy laughed,
"but the more fun for the misadventures.  `Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,
Jack skip away from the boy that's sick.'"

   "With most of them sick when you - we - turn south," the older boy
mused, setting off another set of giggles.



   "Which of the mates did you prefer?" Sammy asked when they'd sobered up
a little, "because we boys don't do much storytelling amongst ourselves,
it's something that's better with an adult presence."

   "They all seem very nice," Neil mused.

   "Well," Sammy responded, "it's Joseph's first cruise..."

   "Slick," Neil interrupted, a say-no-more decisiveness in his voice

   "This is his cabin."

   "Did I ask you to super-size?" his friend said and both thought the
Americanism worth a moment's levity.  They were nothing to do with a lewd
crew, yet neither were they extremists, so perhaps something a little bawdy
might be allowed as an exception to the rule.  Sammy took a quick look down
at his waist, then looked back at Neil.

   "You didn't have to," he said.

   More of the m-thing followed, then Sammy exited the cabin, returning in
a minute with twenty two year old Joseph Jennings.  Neil stood politely,
the athletic young officer nodding for him to sit, then moving to the berth
himself with Sammy sitting on his right and the older thirteen year old on
his left.  "Gus Renfrew, traditionally known as Chips it fashioning a new
oar for your boat," the mate said, "and, truth to tell, she's just the
thing we've been looking for for the "Sweet Witch," lighter than our
longboats, and there's just room for her on the mid hatch, which, since
she's an elegantly crafted little dickens, means we'd like to buy her, or,
if you've a sentimental attachment, lease her for the voyage returning her
safe and sound a year from now; meantime, you could use the money, not that
it's my place to suggest it, to fly home from Lisbon, or, for that matter,
to ride along as a passenger.  Jeffers, our cook says your fish are
first-rate, so you even have a head start in that department."

   "I like the uniform," Neil responded.

   "Our hope is you'll remain with us at least as far as Greece," Joseph
said, "and our academic program is fully accredited, but we don't want to
interfere as you may want to stick with your former plans."

   "I don't know," mused the boy, "a lot of kids my age have followed
bright buttons and a jaunty cap into a hail of splinters and a fiasco of
burning and drowning, rat-a-tat-tat on the drum, so, as an alternative, it
might make sense to follow said buttons and caps to the Mediterranean
whilst cruising aboard a ship laden with nice people and with a good
library."



   Well, putting it that way...



   "Then welcome aboard," Joseph said, reaching across with his right hand
to shake that of the willowy child at his flank.

   "I've told Neil a little about the first-night pageant," Sammy said.

   "Were you able to guess the rest?" the tall mate asked.

   "It all sounds a bit sensible to be real," the youth replied, "but since
all the loopy paradigms are running in circles, there might actually be a
calm at the vortex, so instead of guessing I suppose one could say I was in
hopes that whatever the rest is it remains sensible."

   "I have an inkling," Joseph said, "that if we asked you to keep the log
we'd reach Lisbon with a five hundred page bestseller ready for the
market."

   "The art of the people has always fascinated me," the boy responded,
"rendering what others have done.  I love taking pictures of beautiful
farms and landscapes, anything someone else has created.  even if the
aesthetic value is by default and unintentional, a byproduct or offshoot of
function.  Bicycles, for example, especially when it's rained and they are
parked together all sparkling and wet.  Home-built fences and sheds.  The
art is of the people, I didn't make the bikes or lie them against a stone
wall, but, snap, they become mine, all that work of others at the push of a
button.  In the same vein I would like to write, now that you mention it.
The ship and her company supply the art, but instead of just transcribing
it myself, as I do with the camera, we can all do it.  That's thirty
stories from the cadets, alone, plus the seamen, instructors, and officers.

   "And," the boy continued, "as far as a theme goes, well, Sammy told me
how you all jump-rope in the mid hold, so that might be worth a try; the
first time each crewman skipped rope, what he thinks about while doing so,
the best time..."



   Cadet and mate looked a long time at each other, then at the novitiate
who sat guileless as a doll at a tea party, twiddling his thumbs, mouth
zipped.

   "And it would be age-before-beauty concerning who was meant to begin
this literary fest?" Joseph eventually asked.

   "As long as he's able to skip the part about the rope," Neil replied,
"I've given up on that as lame."

   "Well, you had your neck out there for a moment, no mistake," the mate
observed.

   "And thank goodness so briefly" Sammy added.  "The `Sweet Witch' may not
be the fastest jammer on the sea, but she's no skowffold." It was a pun of
the rarest brilliance, so similar in structure to a punt, and by
acclimation they decided to give it a rest.

   Yet, where is the place in life for funny, lively, sassy boys?  The
frivolous ones, always with the wit and droll aside?  I wonder about this,
myself.  Alex called the Elph a toy, engaged as he was by striking images
of his eight year old daughter, Little Miss Model if ever there was one,
and of his wife and Catharine.  It got me to thinking.  Doesn't Samantha
fill that role in my life?  Attendant to the concept of that personage
dying with the most toys winning, isn't there a parallel saying he with the
best toy wins?  A convenient victory, so much so you have to go back to the
Jews inventing the god that gave them the holy land (as in holy kids) to
find a situation that would be its equal were it not for the trivial nature
of the latter.  What is the antonym of toy?  Anything productive, right? 
And the first thing you grab when you smell smoke is the photo album, at
least according to disaster survivors I've seen interviewed.  Yet the
pictures are intrinsically worthless.  Bringing us back to toys.



   Dipped in Johnson, this off of reviewing the English literary greats on
Encarta and happening to have a copy of his work (as against Boswell's
"Life of...") on hand.  I suppose I don't really need your help to make me
look good, but should the mood strike you, hi yourself off to library or
bookstore and try him for yourself.  We've come a long way, baby, in the
lingo department.  He's the ultimate look-how-well-I-write-mom
practitioner, his work a display of what passed for talent a couple of
centuries ago rather than a commitment to his subject (though, I have to
admit, his Dictionary illustrates a lesser tendency to dissemble).  One
theme I glanced at was how the great attract brickbats, and as far as I can
see the reason is that so many greats turn out to be treacling blowhards,
like Samuel Johnson.  Again, a reason to rejoice in conquering household by
household, in chambers, rather than through overt display and manic
promotion.  I will get you to stay slim, live modestly, and read to your
kids, so help me I will, and find a world of laughter if you disobey, so
close to your world it might be a little scary.  (Don't scowl, scaffold
humor is like Terret's syndrome, one can't f-f-f-f-ing help it.)



   Numbers for this week are a replay of last; huge.  More thanks.  Yes,
there is a matrix that says lots of people download lots of stories because
it's quick, easy, and free; not necessarily to read them.  But all writers
face that.  How many people who buy a book indulge in it, cover-to-cover
(most are gifts, and how many of them are read by the recipient)?  How many
subscribers to "Playboy" read a particular piece of fiction or editorial
content?  Difficult to measure accurately, and the mail indicates no one is
reading word one of anything, merely downloading for abstruse reasons of
their own (how chic is an empty C:?).  But eighty thousand a week must mean
something so one tends to hang in there.  (In the name of precision, I
should clarify.  I'm taking the file count of ASSTR and multiplying by ten
to account for the larger volume of files, and the larger site, of Nifty,
then adding a percentage for copies downloaded from commercial sites who're
posting my ms., as well as P2P, bulletin boards, newsgroups and the like.
With the exception of "Poet of Phu Bai," I place no non-commercial
restrictions on my work, nor any restrictions on minor commercial
distribution.  If someone's smart enough to make a buck off me, cool.  More
readers.  As the priest said of the altar boy, "I'm not in him (it) for the
money.")



   What I would like to be is a stabilizing force.  The one who tells you,
reader and writer, alike, flat out, you are being hoodwinked by the likes
of Heller and Vonnegut; they know, as marketers, a certain contrarian
element exists in society, those who like goofy things simply because they
don't like anything else.  They like goofy art, Surrealism, and goofy
books, Tolkein.  The authors of this trash are frequently bemused at their
audience reading symbolism and metaphor, allegory and metaphysics, into
their works.  It takes very little talent, and less work to obscure, just
as it would be easier to build half a maze than a complete one.  Again, to
reader and writer I say you're nuts and you'll get worse if you keep it up.
English is a language of the greatest lucidity and clarity, and getting
trendy with it, or tolerating it in trendy form, is a shortcut to premature
imbecility.  Try the same with psychology, and the fun really begins.



   Stories are things that happen to people, possibly animals.  The inner
clockworks of angst and conflict are mealy worms in the meal.  Numberless.
More interesting.  "Women in Love" has everyone bouncing off everybody else
in a procession of mad turmoil that's only interesting because each page
brings the possibility of some one of those someones leaving behind a
crater and pile of smoldering rubble.  It's hard to imagine a rabbit
finding more of value.  And the problem is, this leaves only me.  John
O'Hara is great, but his compass limited, no one else on the field.  This
is wondrous for the ego, but comes, you know, the requirement to say it
all, with inherent liabilities to do with, in Frost's words, "...the nature
of time and space." This is followed by: "Ants are a curious race," which
helps with perspective, but hardly solves problems on a scale survival
seems to warrant.  If only a chain of adroit words elegantly fashioned into
a literary web were the answer, I might be of use, but, darn the luck, I
reign without the homage of a single subject, so I might not be.



   You're wondering at the skill it takes to turn this stuff out at the
rate of five thousand words a day, give or take.  My response is that I
detect nothing mortal in it.  For example, we're presently dealing with a
case of first-night jitters, and there's nothing manly about that.





   "I have pictures of my family," Joseph told Sammy and Neil, "in fact, I
went on watch as soon as I'd logged aboard, so I haven't had time to unpack
anything." His companions, sensing they all needed a respite in the rising
tension of the small cabin, quickly volunteered to help.  The mate's duffle
was in the small head so they hauled forth the two stuffed bags and began
putting the right things in sensible places.  In ten minutes the task was
largely completed with but a single plastic bag yet to find a home.  Joseph
took it from Sammy and the three returned to the young officer's bunk,
adult in the middle and Neil at his left.  He held the bag in his lap for a
minute or two, then said: "These belong to Catty, my eight year old
sister." He pulled out rather less than might be expected if he were
displaying her wardrobe, but the boys nodded silently.  "And these," he
continued, brandishing a compact disc, "are pictures of two of our cousins
and herself."

   The laptop had remained on the desk with its inch-high guardrails and
Sammy fetched it for his commander who installed the CD and placed the unit
on the deck where they could see the display from a three foot distance. 
Meantime, the boys had examined the tiny filaments of the mystery girl's
bathing and sun suits, apparently designed for way wet and way tan skin.

   "Do either of you boys have sisters?" the officer asked.  Both shook
their heads (though I know readers will be nodding in approval at the
thought of two less divergences in our not-half-assed maze).

   "But there are twins next door who practically live with us," Sammy
noted, and who's to say he wasn't just trying to get a rise out of US.

   "Plus I have a cousin who's eight, Karen," Neil allowed, nothing of me
too!  in his shy voice, not trying to one-up anyone, though an intent
observer might have noted a trace of a wink for the reader.  Fear not, like
the general, "I'm in charge here." We shall not again bury ourselves in ye
multitude of subplots, so easy to open, so difficult to tie off.

   Of course, that still leaves three.  (Gotcha.)



   "Do you want to put them on before I push the Play button?" Joseph
asked.

   Sammy and Neil looked at each other, eyes smoking as they gazed back and
forth between themselves and fabric that went out at about fifty dollars an
ounce.

   "They're not as clean as they might be," their host continued, "but
after what they've been through it's something of a wonder they aren't more
liberally encrusted than they are." The basic facts of the matter Sammy and
Neil were discovering for themselves, both mature enough to understand. 
They kept nodding spontaneously causing the older male to wonder if his
charges would agree to exploring the Marianas Trench in the barkentine. 
"Well, why not ride with the winner," he mused to himself, adding: "Hal
told me there's a supply of wigs aboard, and I can get a couple if you'd
like, you know, for the pageant." Now fearful of their soft tissue, he
rapped each lightly on the head with his knuckles, and left the cabin.

   "Have you ever seen it before?" Sammy asked Neil, his voice suddenly low
and husky as he held the tiny bra to his friend.

   "Is it real?" the older boy asked, looking at his own garment and
fingering the top.

   "Totally," the more experienced boy said.  "unless it's from somebody's
nose, which seems a stretch."

   "Can we put them on in private?" the newcomer asked.

   "Good idea," his mate said, "I'll duck into the head and you can stay
here."

   "Okay," and yes, they were still nodding happily.



   The sea is a breeder of promptness and dispatch: at one's post on time
and always.  So ingrained does alertness and punctuality become, even an
officer standing down from his watch can be counted on to respond to a
random situation in a timely manner.  In fact, the athletic young mate's
traverse of this and that passageway, including his return, took less time
than it does to tell it.  It need only be added that especially Sammy, and
now Neil, hoped to be officers one day to set our tableau with maritime
dispatch.



   He tapped at the mahogany stateroom door, then opened it.  Beyond a
quaking lump on his formerly shipshape bunk, there was nothing to be seen.

   "All hands," he whispered.  This brings up a counterpoint.  At sea,
there are duties and procedures performed with the utmost, meticulous,
inch-by-inch care.  Wearing ship (jibing in a smaller craft), is one
example, and taking the strain on a tow line is another.  A third was the
sedate progress of the boy under the sheet who began exposing himself in a
most leisurely way, taking a number of beats just to uncover his alert and
handsome face.  Joseph sat to stare, the laptop forgotten for the moment as
time stood still.  A long forever went by, then there was a gentle tap from
the door to the toilet and it opened with a lubberly reluctance.

   "Hi," a voice whispered through a small crack.

   "Hi," the adult responded.



   Shorter file this time, but I'm getting the drearies.  Three days of
wind and clouds, some rain, no pictures.  Your literary orchid needs his
time in the sun; to be reassured by the weapons-grade quality of his
stainless-steel masterpiece, and another hundred images to re-touch - if it
ain't art, it's therapy - thus restoring bod and soul, with ego eminently
capable of restoring itself.  This is turning into another novel, almost a
third of the way to the basic sixty thousand words required, and it was
meant to be a tidy little short story, least I get out of practice with
same cut-and-dried genre.  Then cometh ye alluvial depredations of useable
light with gusting winds, fit weather for neither mad dog nor Englishman.
With thanks for downloading over fifteen hundred copies in two days, I am,
like Dr.  Johnson, your most h'bl & o'b'd s'v't.

   Film Fini - End File-2 xxx