Subject: TAN:  Veni, Vedi, Dedi Gremium
From: jsn@concentric.net (John S. Novak, III)
Organization: Cynics Central
Reply-To: jsn@concentric.net
Newsgroups: rec.arts.sf.written.robert-jordan

NNTP-Posting-Host: ts016d45.chi-il.concentric.net (206.173.188.57)

This rambles.
Because I'm tired, but wanted to be done tonight.
But it has nothing of a Franlinesque feel, at least.

So deal.

                  Prologue:  The Pre-Social

It so happens that this Social Report does not begin with The Social,
but rather with A Social.  Specifically, a Social in Chicago on the
28th.  It fell to me to organize this because, frankly, there wasn't
anyone else.  Pam was returning only shortly before that date (on the
27th, I think) and I was leaving for The Social on the 29th.

With a narrow window, a spotty guest list, and family obligations and
other annoyances on my mind, I elected to keep things simple.
Operating on the Snob Social Protocol, I mailed thouse people I knew
were interested, and instructed them to pass the mail along to anyone
else they felt was appropriate, or might want to go, or was otherwise
excluded.  (Which was good, since I know I didn't mail Ginter or
Gerrard, yet there they were.) 

Likewise, since I didn't really know how many people were going to
show up, and people had been telling me they might be delayed by
travel or other events, I selected an appropriate location in Kenn's
neck of the woods-- Goose Island sports bar-- knowing that it would
have ample seating and wouldn't have a problem with people showing up
at different times.

In attendance were, as I recall, myself, Bill McCarthy, Pam, Ginter,
Paul the filthy Australian meme-sleller, and the various Ken[n]s, in
roughly that order.  I don't think I left anyone out.

After all were assembled, and had munched on wings, fondue, and
assorted dinners, we left and headed to Kenn's place, as is fairly
standard.  There, we were forced to watch Will and Grace, a show whose
vaunted humor mostly escapes me.  Following that, Kenn forced us to
watch a rather odd video tape on The History of Gay Themes in
Hollywood Productions, which actually turned out to be rather
interesting, as long as I was allowed to mock some of the more
pretentious moments and people.

People generally talked and laughed, and made fun of those who had the
misfortune to be in other places, or in fact, to be other people. 

It was not the most active of Socials, as I think most of us were
anticipating the real activities that would begin in only a few more
days.  So it was that, for a Social, most of us left on the early
side.

When I got home, I packed a few books, packed a few clothes, packed a
few basic necessities (except a simple hair comb) and went to sleep.

                  The Main Event:  Day One

And so it was, bright and earlyat the crack of noon on 2000 December
29, I woke up, grabbed a quick shower, reconfigured my computer so it
wouldn't be tying up my phone lines at random trying to anticipate my
on-line usage patterns (I hate waiting for the dial-up procedure to
complete) and hit the road.

I'll dispense with a play by play of the driving, except to repeat my
long-standing hatred of stupid fucking people driving stupid fucking
four by fours.  They should all be shot in the head until dead.  I
will note that, unlike Koz and others (all of whom should be familiar
with the realities of winter driving) I had the good sense to get my
car checked out before embarking, especially during a very cold and
salty winter like this one.  Which included making sure I had a full
tank of wiper fluid (about half of which I consumed) and new wiper 
blades.

Cutting to the chase, I arrive in Indianapolis a few hours later than
I would have liked, but in reasonable speed considering the travel
conditions and the traffic.  Making my way to the Day's Inn, I noted
during check-in that the room closest the check-in booth was both
occupied, and had a large Dragon's Fang in the door.  After dropping
my bags off in my room in the ghetto end of the complex (which I have
described elsewhere) I went back to the Fang Room.  It had a sign on
it saying, in fine print, "Bang on the door."  I did so.  I was
admitted.

It was Paul's room.  I believe that someone else was already there as
well, perhaps two somebodies.  I have the vague impression one of them
was the Scandawegian.  In any event, I learned that, truly, only after
My Ass arrived, would there be any partying, as other people had shown
up to the hotel, but were not assembled.  I remember collecting Maggie
by the simple expedient of banging on her door.  I collected Rothegery
as well, by the simple expedient of staring balefully and pointing
downward to Paul's room when he appeared in his door.  Others were
collected in due course as well.  I seem to recall Pat and Anne being
among those assembled at that time.  That doesn't sound like the full
complement, so no doubt I'm missing someone.  Again.

Paul mentioned that we were supposed to check in with the Loy when we
arrived, so I let him do that.  I also passed along Dilick's cellular
number, and we determined that he was stuck on the highway somewhere.
In due course, the Loy came in his big-assed minivan and hauled us all
(those who didn't follow in the other car) to his place.  There, we
were greeted (again) by Loy, his lovely wife Deb, and Drew and
Tashenna, and Eric and Noel.  And Mark's son Eric, too, who is,
despite Loy's best efforts, a pretty well-behaved kid.

I will add now the obligatory (and truthful) comment regarding the
quality of the Loys' home, generosity, and hosting graces.
Introductions were made all around.  During the evening, the Dilicks
finally showed up directly at Mark's house, and I think Steve Ginter
showed up independently as well.  Finally, I seem to recall Alex
Goddard being there, too.

I'm going to dispense with adding, "And I'm sure I'm forgetting
someone," because, frankly, it's going to get dull if keep saying it.

We passed the evening most pleasurably in conversation, mostly
catching up, mocking people who were not here yet, could not be here,
and people who were in general not blessed withthe good fortune of
being us.

It was at this point that we collected information about who would
_not_ be showing up: Chad, kate, Hawk, Bill, Bowden (pansy-assed
wimp), Parkinson, Steeves, and Hill spring to mind, none of whom had
acceptable reasons in my opinion....  So we mocked them.  

(Hey, when you have a skill, you use it.)

It was here that we discovered that Mark's dog Missy really did _not_
like damn furriners, as she went fairly well psychotic around both
Paul and Roy.  But not, that I recall, Madhu.  My theory, to be
commented on by the medicos, is that actual Furriners have slightly
different strains of colonial symbiotes, and thus slightly different
body odors, detectable only by dogs and TNT-sniffing airport
apparati.  Said subtly different body odor then drives the dogs nuts,
because they're not used to it.

Eventually, the night wore to something of an end, as the Dilicks had
other engagements, and the Loys probably waned their home back.  We
retired back to the hotel, and I believe that that point that Mrs and
Mr Skwid arrived.  A bunch of us hung out further in the Fang Room,
and then finally slept.

As I went back to my room, I carefully hung the Do Not Fucking Disturb
sign on the door and settled in to blissful slumber.

                  The Main Event:  Day Two

Go back and read that last paragraph again.

Then you will understand the source and magnitude of my ire when, at
oh-dark-thirty (okay, probably more like 10:00 AM) the phone rang and
a chirpy voice asked me if I wanted any house cleaning.

"No," I responded curtly, "That's what Do Not Fucking Disturb means."
Had I known of Pam's later troubles above and over one from my room,
I'd have told her to go make herself useful somewhere else.  My shower
was immaculate, if plumbed backwards.

My sleep shattered, I showered, and lounged around reading some of Ben
Franklin's biography, until I got hungry and to the Fang Room.  Most
of the people from the day prior were there or assembling, and it was
then, I believe that Leah and McCarthy showed up.  Scotton was there
by that point as well.  I staked out a position in the corner of the
room, and watched people slowly assemble.  

I believe at that point we headed off to a mall.  I'm not sure
why, but I figured there would be food there, so I went, too.
There was food.  I ate.  All was well.  We split up at that point,
to amuse ourselves and reconnect later.  I spied a Gameworks above
the food court, and bee-lined it there to indulge in a long lost but
still familiar hobby:  coin operated video games.

As it turned out, hey had only one that really interested me:  one
Virtua Fighter III.  As it happened, while in grad school, I
maintained an FAQ for Virtua Figther II, and most of the moves and
characters had been grandfathered in.  I found, to my pleasant
surprise, that many of my reflexes were still hammered in, and that
the game was set at a low enough difficulty level that I was able to
run the game entirely after only four games.

Woo-hoo.

I then spied several people (Paul, Madhu, and a few others) obviously
looking for me.  I followed behind them-- right behind them-- as they
traipsed through the complex.  I am easily amused.  We stood around
waiting for the machine to open up again, and I proceeded to kick the
crap out of a little girl who had previously thought she was pretty
hot shit.

Don't mess with the old FAQ keeper, kids, because for us old fogies,
Life IS Good.

It was there that my manual problems began.  See, that game is pretty
joystick and button intensive, and as the watchers can attest, I take
that game pretty seriously, even to the point of adopting a different
stance for some opponents because I _know_ I'll need to use certain
manuevers.  There was also a lot of what looked like rapid, random
button pressing, but was actually a game-theory approach to winning
against human players that I usually executed against the computer out
of habit:  In some situations, I don't even want to know what move out
of two or three applicable ones I'm going to execute, until it
happens. That way, my stance or eyes can't telegraph it, and hitting
the buttons rapid fire in the right pattern effectively randomizes the
movement. 

(Mock me if you will, but at my height, I was unbeatable.)

But my hands hadn't had that kind of workout in years. About four or
five, to be exact.  I didn't feel it then, but that was the beginning
of tendon pain in my hand and upper arms.

After that, we reconnected with everyone else in the food court, and
headed back to the Fang Room again, where I occupied my corner
position until we headed off to Elmo's.  It was at this point, I
believe that the Chicago contingent arrived by various means-- I'm
sure that's when Pam and Kozlowski arrived, but I'm not sure if that's
when the Ken[n]s arrived. 

But by that point, we were almost all assembled, and so off to Elmo's
we went.

Which had the unaccountably bad taste to not have an area set aside
for the large reserved party.  So basically, we all loitered in the
bar area and destroyed their future business by being, well, who we
are.  The sign outside said "Famous since 1902!"  We'll see if they're
still there in 2002 after our performance. 

By and large, we were seated at three tables in our own area... with
four people at another table in the same area.  Evidently, Elmo didn't
like them very much.  Eventually, they fled, and the room was ours.
Surprising, the doors to the room were not closed. 

At Elmo's, there is only one thing on the menu worth mentioning--
steak.  And at sixty bucks average a plate (something I suppose I
could technically afford, but definitely prefer not to more than once
every few years) I figured it would be a good enough place that I
could order a rare fillet mignon, instead of my usual medium rare.

I was correct.

MMmm.
Steak.
MMmmmm...

Good steak.  
Also good onion rings, one order of which was an entree and a half in
itself.  Jesus Christ. Those became community property.  

At my table, as I recall, were Mrs and Mr Skwid, Pam, Drew and
Tashenna,Pat, and whoever else I forgot.  I won't try to recpature the
flavor of dinner conversation, except to recount that Tina compared
rare steak (in which she also indulged) to necrophilia-- both started
out warm around the edges but got colder the longer you kept at it and
farther you went in.

The Loy's, of course, Did Not Pay.  I claim credit for this idea since
I came up ith it the first night of the Social sitting in the Fang
Room, but no one was surprised when I suggested it, so it was
probablythoughtof by other people along the way as well.

Thanks, Mark and Deb.  The price of the meal was trivial compared to
your hospitality.

From there, predictably enough, we went back to the Fang Room, hung
around for a while longer, and headed off to our separate rooms.

Again I hung the Do Not Fucking Disturb Sign on the door, and settled
in for slumber.

                  The Main Event:  Day Three

This time, they got it right.  Evidently I sacred the cleaning lady
badly enough that she wouldn't deal with me.  When I woke, I showered
and again headed to the Fang Room, where much of the assembled crew
headed off to a greasy spoon near the hotel.  I seem to remember we
had thirteen, because that was an appropriate enough number.

We were seated and dealt with most professionally despite our obvious
lack of local flavor, and our tendency to draw long stares from the
clientele, some of whom seemed to be willing us straight into
perdition and damnation by the force of their scurvy little stares
alone.  Little did they know I've aleady blasphemed far more than they
could ever begin to damn me for in a lifetime of their best efforts.

It was also here, I suppose, or shortly after that Kozlowski bribed
everyone to bitch about the food-- I certainly didn't hear any
complaints about the actul food while everyone was busy scarfing it
down, and nothing looked unappetizing to me.  

The Whole Kernel Corn Pancakes and the Cottage Cheese Blintzes were
rather a bit odd, though.  

Following that, we lounged about the Fang Room _again_ until such time
as we could stand it no longer, and descended en masse on the Loys'
house and home.  I'm not even going to try to recount everything that
happened.  From my perspective (aside from Drew and Tashenna and Eric
and Noelle, who were lodging with the Loys) we (Kozlowski, how drove,
myself, Pam, and I believe Paul) were the first ones there, and the
first to see their extensively catered affair.  

Seeing how fast the place was filling up, though, and seeing the the
Loy Household had a roaring fire in a real fireplace, I promptly
parked my ass in a chair near the fire, and with only one scant
exception, kept it parked there all night.  In truth, I had eneither a
great opportunity nor a great desire to get up from it, and except for
that one incident, I was in that chair for good eight or nine hours.

See, as soon as I unleashed The Hair, which has not been cut since
about a year or so before the Vegas Social, even, I found myself with
a lap occupied by various women.  Only a fool argues with this,
especially when the first major contenders are Leah, Tina and Amy
Yost, toothesome lasses all.  So I settled back, swept them variously
into the proper reclined positions with their backs against one arm,
and the other arm under their knees, and let the party circulate
around me.

It's a good way to attend a party, if I do say so myself.  

It's also a good way to compound even further any damage to your
forearms and tendons, but more on that, later.  It was worth it,
anyway.  

Some of the highlights were Mark's T-shirt, which he wore and insisted
that everyone sign... while he was wearing it.  ("You know, Markus, I
never thought I'd say this to you, but... Bend over and assume the
position.")

Also, at this point, if I gave good lap, Pam was giving good neck,
becuase I hardly recall seeing her without her getting her neck,
shoulders, or back massaged by someone.

Somewhere in here, there were also calls to (or from) Erica, and then
Hawk/Bill/Nathan.  I could hear Erica, but the call to Hawk was pretty
much lost on me due to noise from both parties.

At midnight, I did briefly give up my sacred perch to make the rounds
of shaking men's hands and hugging the women.  When I sat down on the
bricks in front of the fireplace, various people opined that my reign
was over, thinking that the chair was the sourceof my mojo.  How wrong
they were.  I believe it was with Anne that I first demonstrated the
magnitude of their error as I asked her down from Paul's lap and on to
my own, sweeping her easily into the proper reclined position for a
time without even the benefit of the wing back chair for support.  

Things continued apace in that vein for a while, until I faked Ginter
out, and regained my rightful position.  After that, it was mostly
Leah snuggled up in my lap.  By and by, I engaged in a few backrubs
and footrubs myself, only to doscover that having had my arms pinned
pleasantly to the chair arm for so long had continued to put unusual
stress on my forearms and tendons.  It is very odd to suddenly
discover that about half or more of the strength of your hands is just
_gone_.

I didn't really want to compete or be compared to McCarthy, anyway.

After midnight, the party games game out.

There was Leah's Bondage Game, which was a variant of something I'd
sen before-- you basically tie people up with knot-theory precise
ropes, and they get to ind their way out.  Ginter and Paul, not being
stupid, managed their way out fairly quickly, even if I was afraid
that Paul would begin squealling like a piggy any moment. 

Then there was Lover's in the Park, which I'd love to describe, but
which would ruin the fun for anyone unsuspecting.  In this, I did not
participate, since it would have meant leaving the comfort of the
Chair.

And then there was McCarthy's crossed spoon and spatula game, which I
frankly had no motivation to give a shit about, since Leah was sitting
behind me, halfway on my shoulders, alternately playing with my Hair,
scratching or rubbing my shoulders, and generally convincing me that
the bulk of my attention was best spent elsewhere.  Silly assed game,
anyway.

In the end, Drew broke out the guitar, Skwid accompanied him on the
bass tupperware, and I generally annoyed them by tapping along on a
collection of Steinbeck someone had given me in the mistaken
impression that Iwas going to perform a reading.  On those few songs I
felt I knew well enough, I cursed everyone with my voice, or
alternately watched Pam trying not to drift off to sleep.

Drew really plays very well, by the way, and the "Ballad of Rex" is
very cool.

Eventually, as all good things must, this came to end.  By about 3:30
or 4:00 in the morning, even Kozlowski decided to call it quits, and
since he was my ride, I accompanied him back.  We then hung out in the
Fang Room for even a little bit longer (some of us) before I finally
called it quits and stumbled back to my room to catcha few hours of
sleep before checking out.

                  The Main Event:  Day Four

After maybe three and a half hours of sleep, I got up again and
checked out.  I saw a gaggle of malingerers, though, who seemed intent
on breakfast, so I hung around and accompanied them.  

For some dumb-ass reason, we decided on Perkins, which rivals Denny's
in its dubious quality, indifferent staff, and unspeakable blandness.  
We seemed to scare the waitress.  I'm not sure what they did to my
biscuits and gravy, but they might as well have made them from alum
powder and ground up saltine paste for all the flavor they had. At
least the bacon was decent and the orange juice unobjectionable.

I seem to remember making a nun go pale, too, but I don't remember
what I did.

Finally, refueled and ready for the road, most of us had to go.  For
real.  Not back to the Fang Room, but just... go.  Home.  Bummer.  With
that, and with fond farewells, I did just that.  I followed the
Kozlowski Kar about as far as halfway to I-65, then decided that he
drove like old people fuck, passed him, gave a loose salute, and
pelled him off like a layer of dead sunburn.  A few hours of mostly
80-85 MPH travel later, and I was again approaching the fond embrace 
of the City, with little strength in my hands, no motivation to return
to work, not particularly well rested, but certainly relaxed.

Thankfully, I had the next day off as vacation, as well, to do a few
chores and generally will myself back, however poorly, into a
work-like attitude.

                  Epilogue:  The Return

Someone recently remarked in another newsgroup that one definition of
engineering is a job in which you have the certain and secure
knowledge that without you, every fucking thing would fall apart and
fuck up.  I would add to that that it is also a job in which all of
this is true, and that you perform your job while management hires
gorillas to hang from the office ceiling and throw their own massive
fecal produce down upon you.

Now, the plant was shut down for all the days between Christmas Eve and
New Years Day, inclusive.  From the perspective of the plant, I was
only away one day longer than anyone else.

Nevertheless, when I showed up, there was already a yellow-sticky on
my chair and sixty (60) fucking pieces of e-mail in my mailbox.  The
yellow-sticky was the most important, revealing that:

1) They changed the frequency plan of half my gadget.  
2) We have a design review on Thursday.  Surprise!

I would like to take this dignified epilogue to point out for my own
satisfaction, however, that I am The Man.

Why?

1) I fucking knew they were going to do this.  I even knew which area
they would target-- mostly because I had stated in no uncertain terms
that if they dicked with the other half, I would walk.  Consequently,
I've been dragging my feet on that section, knowing that I could do no
productive work.  At least I don't have redo something.  I _hate_ that
shit-- if we had better systems people (like, say, me) this wouldn't
be an issue, goddammit.

2) My recent decision to go back to school is already paying
dividends.  I have two very stupid orientation thingies to go to, this
Thursday and next Thursday.  I found that out over the holiday
shutdown.  Amazingly, and with no planning on my part, these
orientation sessions overlap both the design review and the next
annoying staff meeting that makes me grind my teeth so much.

My Get Out Of Overtime, Free card also appears to be a Get Out Of Some 
Annoying Meetings, Free card.

"Sorry, no can do.  I have an orientation for grad school.  You
remember, the thing you encouraged me to start?  I'll drop a packet
off about an hour before the meeting, updated with the changes you
want, and you can give it for me.  I'll be taking a few hours of
personal."

"I win again, Lews Therin.  How I hate you."

--
John S. Novak, III		jsn@concentric.net
The Humblest Man on the Net