Path: mit-eddie!rutgers!njin!princeton!phoenix!sksircar From: sksircar@phoenix.Princeton.EDU (Subrata Sircar) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: SF (was Re: music) Message-ID: <11776@phoenix.Princeton.EDU> Date: 28 Nov 89 02:42:10 GMT References: <43102@bu-cs.BU.EDU> <1774@bucket.UUCP> <11766@phoenix.Princeton.EDU> <11768@phoenix.Princeton.EDU> <43424@bu-cs.BU.EDU> Reply-To: sksircar@phoenix.Princeton.EDU (Subrata Sircar) Distribution: alt.callahans Organization: SPAMIT Lines: 25 The door slams open, and a figure in sweatshirt and jeans stumbles in. He grinds to a halt, looks around sheepishly, and closes the door to prevent more wind and weather from sweeping in. As he moves towards the bar and into better light, it becomes evident that he is about 5'5", dark-skinned, mustached and bearded, and unsure of what exactly he's doing here. Pulling a crisp, clean dollar bill from his wallet [Editor's noted: I love fresh money] he greets the bartender with, "Hi Mike. Sort of leaned against your door a little too hard while I was lurking, and decided to come in. How about a lemonade?" Mike smiles and hands him his lemonade, and he leans against the bar and slowly sips away. When the glass is about half-full, he stands up and wanders over towards the fireplace. As he catches sight of the line, he stops and stands for a minute, framing the words of his toast clearly. "Here's to the friends I have met, the friends I still have, and the friends I have yet to find. May I give to them as much as others have given to me." <*CRASH!*> Subrata K. Sircar, Prophet & Charter Member of SPAMIT(tm) sksircar@phoenix.princeton.edu SKSIRCAR@PUCC.BITNET Life is a fatal, sexually transmitted disease. It's also heriditary - if you don't have one, chances are your children won't either. Path: mit-eddie!bu-cs!cerebus From: cerebus@bucsf.bu.edu (Tim Miller) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: A toast Message-ID: <43441@bu-cs.BU.EDU> Date: 28 Nov 89 04:02:37 GMT Sender: daemon@bu-cs.BU.EDU Distribution: alt Organization: Boston University Lines: 40 The flames in the fireplace flicker, fanned by the cold wind blowing through the open door. The wind whistles around the obstruction of the figure that steps quietly inside. He, or it, is garbed in a long black cloak; it flutters about his ankles in the wind. He closes the door without a sound; indeed, the only sound so far has been the whistling of the angry winter wind. Nevertheless, all eyes are upon the figure in black. The low murmur of conversation falls dead. In the dim light of the fireplace, the cloak is black as pitch. The deep hood obscures the face within. Looking upon that face is like lloking upon the Void itself-- utter emptyness; infinity. It glides across the floor towards the bar; no footfalls are heard, not even the whisk of fabric as this figure moves. The only sound is the crackle and snap of the fire. A dollar bill is produced from some hidden pocket and is placed without ceremony on the bartop. It is as if the cloaked arm passed over the bar and the bill materialized there. A root beer is produced; no order seems necessary. The mug disappears within the hood as the figure toes the line and emerges empty. The mug is raised high above the hooded face as the first sound emerges from that inky blackness, merely a whisper in that silenced room: "To friends past." The mug tumbles in a high arc, tracing its path in tiny droplets of root beer that clung to the glass. All eyes follow it to its inevitable destruction in the fireplace; eyes fixed on the shards as the fire flares briefly, consuming shattered glass. All eyes return to the line where the figure has vanished, leaving no trace of his having ever been. Timothy J. Miller cerebus@bucsf.bu.edu Path: mit-eddie!bu-cs!austin From: austin@bucsf.bu.edu (Austin Ziegler) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Home for the holidays -- The Aftermath (?) Message-ID: <43447@bu-cs.BU.EDU> Date: 28 Nov 89 06:57:18 GMT Sender: daemon@bu-cs.BU.EDU Organization: Boston University College of Engineering Lines: 46 Unlike last time, he does not make a flashy entrance. The wizard just simply appears in front of the bar, nearly knocking over a little bear. "I think this time, I'll sit down." He does so, but sits in mid-air. The bear is quite incredulous as he walks under the wizard. The wizard sees the unicorn in the corner and floats over and talks with him. After some time, the wizard decides to go over to the bar again and order something. "Lets see...I think I'll have a purple cow. I haven't had one of those in a long time." He puts down his dollar bill, and drinks the purple cow slowly. He floats up to the line, and stands up. All attention now turns to him. "Hello, again, this is Magyk. How many people out there had a good Thanksgiving weekend? Well--one moment." He disappears with the cup still in his hand. He reappears and then makes a tiny gesture. The robe he wears disappears, revealing Austin. Today, he wears jeans, tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt, in addition to his thick glasses. "I hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving. You know, my fears for Thanksgiving away from home were founded, but they were all for naught, it turns out. You see, my relatives were some of the nicest people one could ever meet. They made me feel at home, and they fed me quite well...far better food than I'll ever get at the dining facilities at Boston University. "Not only that, but I had a few long-distance talks with my parents, and even though it did not replace them for Thanksgiving, it helped. Oh. One other thing. We got snow, and that made it even better. "Why am I telling you this? Because this is the place where I can make a toast to anything I want, and people will listen. They may not agree with me, but they still listen. So, now my toast. "To friends, both seen and unseen, on IRC, at Callahan's, and in plain view of me. To family, both immediate and extended. There is little better than the love that one finds in a family. To love, and to the hope that I find somone to whom I can pass my love." He throws the glass, a light, easy toss, this time. It falls about two feet short, bouncing ... once ... twice ... three times, when it shatters into a million shards. A gesture and the robe returns. The hood rises above his head, and he sits back upon the air once again. "It will be a while before I leave, my friends." He floats over to the unicorn, and calls over the cat and talks with them. As he floats over, you think you see a tear forming under his eyes... -- Magyk (austin@bucsf.bu.edu) 700 Commonwealth Box 2094, Boston, MA 02215 "The Hammer has fallen." -- Niven and Pournelle, _Lucifer's Hammer_ Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!uunet!philmtl!philabs!ttidca!hollombe From: hollombe@ttidca.TTI.COM (The Polymath) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: A Note on the Wall Message-ID: <8020@ttidca.TTI.COM> Date: 27 Nov 89 22:59:39 GMT Reply-To: hollombe@ttidca.tti.com (The Polymath) Distribution: alt Organization: Citicorp/TTI, Santa Monica Lines: 28 The quiet guy in the corner takes his empty glass to the line for a toast: To e-mail! Someday we'll all get a working version. He then scribbles a note on a scrap of paper and posts it on the wall near the dart board. It says: Dear Jane, Thanks very much for your mail. My reply bounced. Sorry about that. -- The Polymath P.S. to everyone: I make a good faith effort to reply to all e-mail received (except flames -- they depend on mood). Lately about 50% or more seem to bounce. If you don't hear from me, I'm not ignoring you. My idiot mailer can't find you. Sorry, Mike. I won't clutter your wall again. (Walks back to the corner chair). -- The Polymath (aka: Jerry Hollombe, hollombe@ttidca.tti.com) Illegitimis non Citicorp(+)TTI Carborundum 3100 Ocean Park Blvd. (213) 452-9191, x2483 Santa Monica, CA 90405 {csun|philabs|psivax}!ttidca!hollombe Path: mit-eddie!mintaka!snorkelwacker!apple!rutgers!njin!princeton!phoenix!zimerman From: zimerman@phoenix.Princeton.EDU (Jacob Ben-david Zimmerman) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: SF (was Re: music) Message-ID: <11785@phoenix.Princeton.EDU> Date: 28 Nov 89 06:06:54 GMT References: <43102@bu-cs.BU.EDU> <1774@bucket.UUCP> <11766@phoenix.Princeton.EDU> <11768@phoenix.Princeton.EDU> <11770@phoenix.Princeton.EDU> Reply-To: zimerman@phoenix.Princeton.EDU (Jacob Ben-david Zimmerman) Distribution: alt.callahans Organization: Princeton University, NJ Lines: 29 In article <11770@phoenix.Princeton.EDU> jmdoyle@phoenix.Princeton.EDU (Jennifer Mary Doyle) writes: >>>>>How about some SF puns? The shortest distance between two puns is a >>>>>Heinlein,after all. >>>>This is turning into a real Myth. I think I need some Asprin... >>>Either that, or some Lynn-iment. >>Hearing the beginnings of yet another punfest, I groan Asimov closer to >>the bar. Mike, God's Blessing, if you would. >"We really should write these down. Let's call a Clarke." she said, as a huge >Brin spread across her face. "It Kurtz me to see these wonderful puns lost >forever." > JB glanced back at Jen on his way to the bar, and grimaced as he Spider Robinson of the puns he'd been saving. "Mike, I dunno what we oughta do with Jen," he said as he collected his drink. "Maybe we oughta Farmer out as a torturer. She'd be jailed for those puns otherwise, and I for one wouldn't Springer. I wonder if we oughta even let remain in de Camp." He ducked as the big Irishman calmly produced a seltzer bottle and let fly at his head. The stream followed him down, however, and when it had subsided among gales of laughter, a wet, flat bedraggled afro appeared from beneath the bar, followed by a grinning and dripping JB...who had managed not to spill his Blessing. >Jen-- JBZimmerman! -- ___________ | MTV is the lava lamp of the 1990's. || | -An unknown MTV comedian || ||acob Zimmerman!+> INTERNET === | BITnet Path: mit-eddie!mintaka!think!bbn!usc!jarthur!estokien From: estokien@jarthur.Claremont.EDU (Eric Stokien) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: Some appropriate lyrics (Was (Re: Life?)) Message-ID: <3287@jarthur.Claremont.EDU> Date: 28 Nov 89 21:20:09 GMT References: <4114@celit.fps.com> <11730@phoenix.Princeton.EDU> <9170@microsoft.UUCP> Reply-To: estokien@jarthur.UUCP (Eric Stokien) Organization: Harvey Mudd College, Claremont, CA Lines: 12 Well all I can say about Callahan's being a crutch, is that it's purpose was and is to allow people to communicate better on the way to telepathy, and there is no wimping out in that action. And inner space is going to be important too if all of us people are going to learn to live with each other on this tiny world. So Mike, give me a Monaco, like I drank in France, and I propose this toast. "To understanding" "May it come to all of us." but now to Bio. Seeya guys whoosh!!!!!!!! Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!usc!brutus.cs.uiuc.edu!lll-winken!bu-cs!austin From: austin@bucsf.bu.edu (Austin Ziegler) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Greetings from Jilara Message-ID: <43511@bu-cs.BU.EDU> Date: 29 Nov 89 00:16:50 GMT Sender: daemon@bu-cs.BU.EDU Distribution: alt Organization: Boston University College of Engineering Lines: 55 The wizard appears again, this time with someone. He walks over to the corner and sits. He listens... Call me the Ghost of Callahans, one of many, I'm sure. Call me Jane, or Jilara the Exile, or many other names. I lurk in many times and places, this only one. Maybe in 1840's California, or the Civil War, or even a strange meeting of Mountain Men, or medieval folk. Ever an Exile, I lurk by firesides, savoring the warmth of fellowship. Have you ever read the Ancient Mariner, my friends? You see before you the modern embodiment, a woman with a swashbuckling aura, nonmatching earcuffs, large glasses, flowing blond hair---and haunted eyes. I see people take two steps back when then truly look into my eyes. There is death reflected there, eyes that have seen too much, experienced too much, and people sense that. I like your fireside because it makes me think of Valhalla, or what I would like Valhalla to be like, if the Powers that Be are gracious. I have been through much, and the weatherbeaten aura that clings to me is earned, I assure you. I have not been in good shape, lately, Post-Traumatic Shock they call it. In other times and places, it could be called combat fatigue. They tell me I have to be phenomenally strong, or I would not have survived and kept my sanity as I have, down these 35 years. But it hasn't been easy. I've given meaning to an empty existance by acts of daring-do, and always being there when people were in need. There are folks alive because of me, but sometimes they spit on you for your help, feeling obliged. Believe me, playing superhero earns you a lot of hate. I have no family---all dead, except a distant brother 28 years older whom I barely know. A lot of dear friends are dead, too. And love comes not easily to the Ancient Mariner---my eyes scare too many people, for they see too much loss in them, want only to run away. I'm strong, and I'm alone. I have been learning that I probably can't ever be like all of you people---to me, "security" is the period of waiting before the ceiling falls in on you, again. There is no security in my world. Only exile, and stops by firesides where there are good folks, like here, who ease my heart a little, dispell some of the chill. Security--- that lies in contemplating my death, when I shall cease to feel anything. I spent my Thanksgiving with the Mountain Men, swapping yarns. Good enough. We laugh too loudly, and paint other faces atop our own, afraid of what people will see---and fear. I give you all a toast, with this good Oban unblended scotch, my favorite. "To Love of Friends, the only thing that makes our passage here endurable, and to Survivors---with the hope that folks will understand that surviving is sometimes the hardest thing you can do." CRASH! The wizard, Magyk, says "Glad you could join us, Jilara. Here, you will always be welcome." -- Magyk (austin@bucsf.bu.edu,@bucsb.bu.edu,engc8vc@buacca.bu.edu) 700 Commonwealth Box 2094, Boston, MA 02215 "Your mother was a hampster and your father smelt of elderberries!" -Monty Python and the Holy Grail Path: mit-eddie!bbn!usc!brutus.cs.uiuc.edu!lll-winken!bu-cs!austin From: austin@bucsf.bu.edu (Austin Ziegler) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: Greetings from Jilara Message-ID: <43513@bu-cs.BU.EDU> Date: 29 Nov 89 00:24:10 GMT References: <43511@bu-cs.BU.EDU> Sender: daemon@bu-cs.BU.EDU Distribution: alt Organization: Boston University College of Engineering Lines: 16 In-reply-to: austin@bucsf.bu.edu's message of 29 Nov 89 00:16:50 GMT Ummm...sorry, Jane... You guys...I forgot to post Jane's email address. She cannot post to Callahan's so she asked me to post for her. Her email address is jane@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM (Jane Beckman x2637) and it was my fault that I didn't put that. Talk to her. She's really a neat person. Really. I'm impressed. Now back to our regularly scheduled toasts... -- Magyk (austin@bucsf.bu.edu,@bucsb.bu.edu,engc8vc@buacca.bu.edu) 700 Commonwealth Box 2094, Boston, MA 02215 "Your mother was a hampster and your father smelt of elderberries!" -Monty Python and the Holy Grail Path: mit-eddie!bu-cs!cerebus From: cerebus@bucsf.bu.edu (Tim Miller) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: Toast Message-ID: <43527@bu-cs.BU.EDU> Date: 29 Nov 89 02:11:18 GMT Sender: daemon@bu-cs.BU.EDU Distribution: alt Organization: Boston University Lines: 42 Posted by request of the author who mailed it to me; pleas address all replys appropriatly: Return-Path: Subject: Re: A toast Newsgroups: alt.callahans References: <43441@bu-cs.BU.EDU> Date: 28 Nov 89 09:43:37 PST (Tue) From: jane@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM (Jane Beckman x2637) Over by the fire, a ghostly figure lurks, and raises her glass to the phantom of the night, understanding his world and his toast too well. She calls herself the Ghost of Callahan's, sometimes, lurking in the warm firelight to warm the chill of her soul. (She can't post onto this warm little group, only email). Her face seems relatively young, but she's weatherbeaten, and her eyes are ancient beyond her years, and there is a bleakness that radiates, despite the swashbuckling style she affects, with her black leather and billowing sleeves and nonmatched earcuffs. She smiles a weary smile. "Gods keep you, friend. I understand your toast. Call me Jane. Call me Jilara the Exile. I have many names, in many places. I think we have walked some similar planes. I am alone, who has seen too much, and even the warmth of friends cannot warm the inner reaches, where too much death and loss and chaos have nibbled at my being. A Toast: to Exile, and we who walk a lonely way few can understand. And to true bushido, the code that keeps me going!" CRASH. The unblended scotch in the glass flares for a moment, blue with golden sparks... If there is a Valhalla somewhere, a friend of hers would enjoy the sentiment, and savor the liquor with pleasure. Several friends, actually... She settles back and crosses her booted feet. Her eyes, haunted by many ghosts, watch the fire, lost in its blazing. No one sees her... ---Jilara the Exile (a.k.a.) Jane Beckman 907 Sharmon Palms #D Campbell, CA. 95008 "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most..." ---Ashleigh Brilliant. Path: mit-eddie!rutgers!ucsd!ucbvax!ucdavis!vega.ucdavis.edu!ez000691 From: ez000691@vega.ucdavis.edu (0040;0000002718;0;530;142;) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Weariness... Summary: Another toast (probably no puns) Keywords: crash, tinkle, geez-I'm-running-out-of-singles Message-ID: <6071@ucdavis.ucdavis.edu> Date: 29 Nov 89 02:29:40 GMT Sender: uucp@ucdavis.ucdavis.edu Reply-To: ez000691@vega.ucdavis.edu (Shadow) Followup-To: alt.callahans Organization: University of California, Davis Lines: 61 (There's something inherently friendly about third-person narrative...) "My turn to pontificate, eh?" he says, placing another single on the bar. "Okay, Tom, set me up another one of these ice waters with a twist of lemon, if you please. And for heaven's sake, don't anybody stop talking and listen to me. I'm about to run off at the mouth." He glances around the room, mildly surprised. "No, I'm still here. I haven't vanished completely, nor faded into the dark, but there was a bit of a technical problem which resulted in my crouching sullenly in a corner, non- participative, for a time (and Thanksgiving had nothing to do with it). Upon my triumphant (?) return, I find, in addition to a gawdawful slough of music puns, a good many gentle toasts from gentlepersons. "I owe a particular apology to a Ms. Jane Beckman, to whom I promised a voice which has yet to appear. On her behalf, as well as on behalf of all those who cannot speak through timidity or unreasonable system regulations, I raise my glass," he drains the glass, "and toast... "...to Weariness. "So many of you are so drawn, look so tired. If I look a little wispy 'round the edges myself, there's the reason. Sympathy requires -- nay, demands -- that I be somewhat subdued, recovering from an overdose of what is not exactly unhappiness but is something more than dissatisfaction from many of you, my friends and acquaintances...Families. Holidays. Lovers and friends. These are subjects for rejoicing, ordinarily. But what begins as a murmur swells into a tide of sympathy, as more and more glasses end their trajectories in the parabolic pit of fire Mike kindly provides us and so many of us are moved to speak, concurring, 'Yes, I feel the same...'" He pauses, thoughtful, and absent-mindedly slurps an ice cube. "Have you ever wanted to help, not one or two close friends, but half a hundred near-strangers? 'Let me help' -- words prized above even 'I love you' in a well-known episode of a certain nameless television show..." He grins, embarrassed. "Okay, you caught me. But keep that fire burning, boys; we'll drink another round before the night is through. And not to weariness--" with an effort, he hurls the glass into the fireplace, where it shatters, "--one more, Tom -- if we have anything to say about it, right, my friends?" Abruptly he sobers, grin disappearing. "Pardon my waxing somewhat rhapsodic. 'Somewhat?'" he adds, ruefully. "You could write a bloody soliloquy with some of that nonsense! Once I get started it's rather difficult to turn me off sometimes. Let's leave it at this, before they start flashing telethon numbers across the bottom of the screen: We are here. In particular, I am here, though I hope many of us feel the same. And the toast is just the beginning. See that little box down there?" With a gesture, he indicates a .signature on his foot. "Lots of us have them, and I for one am willing to use mine. The tradition here has always been that, once someone has begun talking about a problem, we help however we can. More often than not, that's by just talking. "I'm here. Lots of us are here. Don't just toast and vanish into the night. Let us help. It's why we're here," he adds simply, then empties his glass and steps back to the line. "To empathy," he announces, and the glass arcs high. "And to what it produces." He sits, and gazes anxiously around. "Well? Am I really off base here? I can't stand public speaking -- one never knows just how big a fool one has made of oneself until one has finished, at which point it is already too late for one...oh, for crying out loud, this is ridiculous. English can be a most infuriating language at times, you know?" With that, he slips back into the shadows flickering over the room, and there is silence, for a time. Shadow -- From the only slightly twisted mind of... "In case we decide to ez000691@vega.ucdavis.edu surrender to them, Number One."