conversation,  food,  language,  word use

seamus never disappoints

always in-person when the opportunity allows, you should, you really should try to meet with him whatever the occasion. You just won’t be disappointed. And so, here we are, there he is. Who, exactly who is holding court at this gathering? The jury is out on that for the moment. The conversation moved beyond the point of that mattering probably before it began, sort of a spiritual creation of ideas articulated in the singularly peculiar mix of minds and ways of thinking, the cool balance of yin and yang as settled as cornflakes during shipping, that renders all judgement neutral. No ideas spoken here are new.

James M Hendrix
James M Hendrix

None of them. We’ve merely brought them to our forum, the pub that is not really a pub, to speak and be spoken about, agreed with, acknowledged, ignored at worst. Things get said worthy of any scholarly record, any humorists notebook, clergy’s sermon sketches, pornographer’s napkin. But Seamus, forget what he said about writing up a nice account for the company newsletter. It’ll never happen.

Things get said worthy of any scholarly record, any humorists notebook, clergy’s sermon sketches, pornographer’s napkin.

The guy doesn’t even own a computer, still uses a beeper instead of a cell phone. But that’s okay. If you could see past his physical frame, the spotted teeth, the missing canine, the cluster of coarse fibers immediately around heavy pea-sized skin tag hanging off his neck below his left ear that he recklessly ignores along with everyone’s cursory examinations between steady contact with his steely eyes, you see his head on fire. His hair is black, not red, and tempers the passion of his words when he speaks, otherwise it would be too much to take in. Presentation is everything. But everything he says with conviction, absolutely founded and built on the solidest moral granite from the quarry of her holiness’ angels, you get the sense that he longs for your approval of what he has been going on about for the last twenty-four minutes between fresh pints.  The fact is, of course we agree. But the signal must be more than a nodding of heads. Can he get an amen? Probably. Let’s just say it’s tacit. His pleading is not to you so much as to the universe for whom you sit as proxy and for whom you represent with complete authority by virtue of burly squeeze of your left wrist as he slurps down the final foam, rests the mug on the soaked coaster then fiddles with his scratched up Omega. “Gollyfook’s sake! Will you’s look at the time?”