Ravings of a Textual Deviant

So far, three of my coworkers have called in sick—including my supervisor—and it’s not even 9:00 AM yet. I’m not breathing anyone else’s air today.

In which the hapless and negligent Chronicler attempts to catch up the Reading Public on recent (and not so recent) events. Players are encouraged to add their commentary in, appropriately enough, the Comments section.

Mr. Laughton and Mr. Carl, still reeling from the dinosaur attack of the previous night, made mere cameo appearances for the rest of the trip up the Rio de la Plata. The more resilient members of the group enjoyed the fresh air and the sight of said tyrannosaur trailing the ferry as it moved deeper into the Uruguayan jungle. Many curious fauna were sighted, including giant armadillos, giant anteaters, and yet more river dolphins. At a stop on the non-dinosaur side of the river, the group went exploring, and Dr. Hu encountered a very curious specimen of avian life. It squawked at him loudly, as did its offspring. Mrs. Anderson, ever ready to react to a distress call, rushed into the jungle in order to rescue the doctor from unknown perils. Instead, she nearly ran him over as he was slowly backing away from the large, irate bird. The two then decided to attend the flora instead, as it seemed considerably safer. Still, the journey was relatively uneventful in comparison to prior waterborne excursions.

Eventually, the steam launch crossed the border into Brazil. Upon arriving in Brasilia, they proceeded directly to the American Embassy in order to pick up their next destination. Unfortunately, they discovered that, as the country no longer exists, the Ambassador was not at home to visitors. Furthermore, their travel papers were no longer valid. And to add insult to injury, the Ambassador was nowhere to be found. Naturally, the first task was to get everyone’s papers in order, as the Princess Imperial likes a nice, orderly country. Dr. Hu solved his problem handily by asserting his Chinese nationality, at the same time bribing coaxing the location of the former American Ambassador out of the clerk. The rest of the team proceeded on to the Canadian Consulate, where they proceeded to visit Ambassador James. A nice, civilized luncheon was arranged, and the entire team made the acquaintance of Mrs. James and young Mr. James. Young Mr. James was particularly taken with Miss Kingston, which disturbed her greatly. The Ambassador was also able to issue provisional USNA papers to most of the group, although he was unable to assist Mrs. Atwood (now from the DRA) and Miss Carlyle (now from the Texcali Republic). Undaunted, Mrs. Atwood took advantage of her connexions in Montevideo to obtain provisional Uruguayan papers for the two of them.

And so, travel documents in order, Team TransAmerica set out bravely and with great determination, staunchly standing in queues that might cause less stouthearted adventurers to weep in frustration. First, they waited in a queue in order to get a number to wait in another queue, three days hence. Then, they waited in the second queue, only to be given another number at the end of the day. A less optimistic party might wonder if the Brazilian bureaucracy was deliberately slowing up the queue, simply because Brasilia Imperial had yet to report in.

In the mean time, Miss Carlyle managed to get herself kidnapped by some of Mr. Finnegan’s more southerly business associates. A frantic but fruitless chase ensued, until finally, Our Heroes were forced to take desperate measures. They contacted their European sponsors, and sure enough, Miss Alexia appeared directly. However, as Miss Carlyle was not considered integral to the team, she and her partners were unwilling to undertake any sort of recovery effort without additional compensation. The team thanked her for her time, but decided to call upon more earthly resources first. A telegram to Mr. Cavatelli in New York provided them with contact information for some of his own more southerly business associates, who were more than happy to modify their imminent plans to include a rescue attempt.

Alas, after a tense night of waiting, Miss Carlyle did not magically reappear on their doorstep. Miss Alexia was once again contacted, and she agreed that, for an option to purchase an extra ten percent of the land should they win, she would see Miss Carlyle returned. Never one to let an opportunity go to waste, Mr. Laughton also asked that a “message” be sent to the Bostonian consortium of “businessmen.” Mere moments later, Miss Carlyle knocked on the door, spinning a tale of terror, bad manners, and her unlikely escape after an attack on the house where she was being held, ending in a trek across the whole of Brasilia.

To add insult to injury, they subsequently encountered the intrepid and ornate Miss Penelope Fletcher-Finch in the hotel lobby. Mr. Laughton, succumbing to the inevitable, took it upon himself to invite her to dine at a charming little restaurant near their hotel. His erstwhile companions crowded into a table at the front window of a restaurant directly across the street, and observed the proceedings with great interest—particularly as Mr. Laughton gave the very convincing appearance of a gentleman enjoying himself. Miss Fletcher-Finch departed the next morning, as she’d had no difficulties with her own paperwork. One can only imagine it must have been the benefit of her press credentials.

Relieved that they could now direct their full attention to dealing with Brazilian bureaucracy, Our Heroes betook themselves to the foreign Ministry to queue up like true champions. Eventually, after a few more obstacles were cleared, they were allowed into the hallowed halls in order to procure their papers. They ran into a slight bit of difficulty, which resulted in Dr. Hu paying a fee to practice medicine in Brazil in order to sign a certificate or two, but left with their heads high and their papers stamped.

Naturally, the next order of business for them—and a great many other visiting foreigners—was to hire transport out of Brasilia and onward. The river was crowded with riverine transport of all kinds, from steam-powered paddle-wheelers to tiny rafts. An unknown party took advantage of the chaos to fire an incendiary device in the general direction of Team TransAmerica’s boat. Fortunately, it missed them, but it did hit the steamship directly behind them, which turned out to be carrying Great Britain’s Team Mercury. Another water rescue ensued (sans river dolphin audience, this time), with Mrs. Atwood again going overboard. Fortunately, rather more attention was paid to the small details of tying off ropes and attaching them to life preservers, and Mrs. Atwood and the entirety of Team Mercury were plucked from the river dripping but unharmed. Dr. Hu was left to save himself from, making a spectacular leap (presaging those seen in what would become Hong Kong action films) from a burning vessel. It will not surprise Our Readers, therefore, to learn that everyone was quite relieved to arrive at the portage and the next boat, where Teams Mercury and TransAmerica parted on very polite terms, after exchanging a bit of information.

Our Heroes happily clambered aboard the vessel that would convey them out of the Empire of Brazil. Unfortunately, said vessel’s engine was an experimental Italian design, and it developed some mechanical difficulties shortly thereafter. Said difficulties became the subject of exuberant and presumably obscene discussion in Italian, with much frantic gesturing and waving about of large, heavy tools. The team’s offer of assistance was declined, and there was no way to tell how long it would take to fix the bothersome thing. Undaunted as always, Team TransAmerica opted to take a shore excursion, packing a picnic and following an ancient stone road to an even more ancient stone pyramid, carved all about with curious pictographs. A large monolith stood atop the flattened top of the monument, and though the climb was steep, our would-be picnickers were persistent. The top of the pyramid afforded a lovely view, at least until one walked ‘round the other side of the monolith, where the body was.

The deceased turned out to be that of Aníbal Carmona, Dr. Hu’s passing acquaintance on the Brasilia Imperial Ellipse team. The unfortunate Senhor Carmona’s heart had been removed, most likely through the large incision just under his ribcage. Further investigation revealed the bodies of two of Carmona’s compatriots, Senhors Alfonso Tomas and Miguel Barroso, in a similar condition at the base of the pyramid, opposite the side that the group had climbed. As the sound of native percussion began wending its way through the jungle, Our Heroes opted for the bettor part of valor, and quickly decamped back to the boat. Miraculously, the engine had been reassembled, with only a few allegedly unnecessary parts left over. The little vessel once more took off downriver, not even pausing for the flurry of poisoned darts that flew at it as it pulled away from the riverbank. One unfortunate sailor was struck by three darts and expired shortly thereafter; Mr. Laughton was struck by a single dart, leaving him paralyzed and comatose for much of the remaining trip back to Montevideo. Luck was with him, however, as well as with Dr. Hu, and Mr. Laughton eventually recovered both control of his faculties and such sense as he is known to possess.

Mrs. Atwood and the rest of Team TransAmerica were welcomed back to Montevideo—all too briefly—by Dom Mendoza, who was happy to provide accommodations for the night and arrangements for the ferry to Buenos Aires. The day-and-a-half trip proved more eventful than one would expect, mostly on account of the visit paid by a two-hundred-foot-long sea serpent bearing a message to Dr. Hu, from the Palace of the Emperor of the Middle Kingdom. The message was brief and to the point; and the good doctor was happy to convey it to Mr. Laughton, at whom it was directed. “You will stop referring to me as the Emperor’s…anything,” he informed Mr. Laughton in the very sternest of tones. (And to give the gentleman credit, Mr.; Laughton’s inflation of the good doctor’s curriculum vitae has been toned down remarkably since then.)

Upon arrival in Buenos Aires, the team’s first stop was the United States Embassy…which turned out to be the Embassy of the Texcali Republic, as they discovered on arrival. The Ambassador, a former Texas Ranger, was happy to provide bona fide travel papers to Miss Carlyle, provisional papers to Mrs. Atwood, Miss Kingston, and Mr. Laughton, and something that looked good for USNA citizens Mr. Karl and Mrs. Anderson. He also advised them of the difficulty of making contact with the former U. S. Consul in Punta Arenas, as he had a passion for hunting, and was frequently out of the office on account of it.

Semi-legitimate travel papers procured, Our Heroes hied themselves to the train station in order to make travel and shipping arrangements to Puntas Arenas. Happily enough for them, no border crossing would be required, as that part of Chile had been acquired by Argentina in the Great Southern War a couple of years ago. Team TransAmerica was assured that most of the fighting was much further north, and there was nothing to worry about on that count…never mind the reports in the newspaper of disruption of rail service by Paraguayan guerillas in Brazil. They procured some space in a secured warehouse, and leaving Mr. Karl and Mrs. Anderson behind to guard the baggage, went on to enjoy a genuine Argentine supper. After returning to the warehouse with food for their compatriots, Mr. Laughton, Dr. Hu, Mrs. Atwood, Miss Kingston and Miss Carlyle settled in for night’s rest at the Sanitary Hotel.

The night’s rest was broken only by a couple of gunshots, which Mr. Laughton, Dr. Hu, and an improperly-attired Mrs. Atwood went out to investigate. Fortunately, there appeared to be very little in the way of an incident; the guard at the warehouse had shot at a prowler. After checking on their companions—who were safe as houses—the trio returned to their well-scrubbed accommodations until morning.

Several expensive train tickets later, the group found itself in a spare but comfortable second-class compartment on a train heading nearly as far south as one can go, and still remain on dry land. Time was spent on pleasant pastimes such as whist, Chinese lessons, and admiration of scenery. Miss Carlyle produced a pair of knitting needles, and under Miss Kingston’s direction, began work upon a pair of woolly pink socks, an activity that Mr. Laughton and Dr. Hu found unnecessarily disconcerting. “She could make a Scarf of Strangling,” he suggested. “As gifts for people one doesn’t care for.” Mrs. Atwood (making a hash of her own embroidery) observed dryly that the difficulty, of course, is working the piano wire in. It was about this time that Mr. Karl discovered that his wallet was missing…along with his travel papers of varying legitimacy. It was determined that the wallet had likely been stolen at the train station in Buenos Aires, and there was nothing to be done for it but telegraph ahead at the earliest opportunity.

That evening, they had the pleasure of dining with an antique Jewish gentleman from Buenos Aires, one Leo Meyer, and his very large and well dressed grandsons, David and Shimon. Mr. Meyer confessed to being an avid fan of the Ellipse, and had seemingly-endless questions about the team’s experience so far. He then engaged Mr. Laughton on an extended conversation about the difficulties of transporting bananas over long distances, and the possibilities of utilizing the refrigeration technology invented by that nice gentleman in New Orleans. Of course, New Orleans presented its own sort of difficulty, but presumably, there are heirs, Mr. Laughton pointed out, who might be inclined to sell the patent rights. As night came on, the many and varied passengers betook themselves to their various sleeping cars. Alas, their night’s rest was not to be undisturbed. Our Heroes awoke to the sound of thunder…odd, that, on a clear moonlit night, especially what with the lack of lightning. Upon becoming rather more lucid, Mr. Karl recognized the sound as that of an immense cattle stampede. In fairly short order, the train was surrounded by a few thousand head of cattle…with glowing red eyes. The cattle blocked the tracks both fore and aft, and began bumping up against the train in unison, in a patently un-bovine-like attempt to topple the cars.

Much screaming and scurrying about ensued, exacerbated by the appearance of an enormous bull right outside Mrs. Atwood’s window. It looked about in a manner far more intelligent than that of the average herd bull, and began snorting and slavering with great excitement upon spying Miss Kingston. Mrs. Atwood retrieved her firearm, gathered her teammates about her, and stormed into the gentlemen’s second-class sleeping compartment, all a-twitter as she attempted to explain the situation. It did not take long for the determined bull to once again find his target, and David and Shimon calmly opened the window against which the bull had pressed itself and emptied their .45-calibre revolvers into its tossing head. Almost immediately, the train began to lurch forward, making rather excessive use of the whistle and suffering an occasional bit of impact damage. Eventually, the train was able to work back up to its usual traveling speed, and if the next day’s meals contained rather a lot of very fresh beef, what of it?

Quote(s) of the Game(s): “Those dice are in a time out.” —Mrs. Atwood’s player, in reference to recent misadventures.

“If you want me to do the thinking and the talking, you’ll have to teach me Chinese.” —Mr. Laughton, to Dr. Hu

“We must get them on another nationality’s soil and bribe them there.”—Mr. Laughton
“I knew there was a reason I hated politics.”—Miss Kingston

“We who are about to dine salute you.”—Miss Carlyle

“If the Princess Imperial asks for a display, you’d better be able to produce.” —Mr. Laughton, to Dr. Hu

“So long as he keeps coming across with diamonds…”—Mrs. Atwood, coyly
“How quickly we forget our tea set.”—GM

“Did he [Mr. Cavatelli] give you a name…address…violin case?”—Miss Kingston

“Do Catholics believe in karma?”—Mr. Laughton
“I think that what matters is whether the vampires believe in karma.”—GM

“How far are we behind everyone else?”—Mr. Laughton’s player
“As far as we know, we have no idea.”—Dr. Hu’s player

“Actually, all we need is a goat. And some twine.”—Mr. Laughton

“I wasn’t planning on using my feminine charms, my good sir. I was planning on using cash.”—Mrs. Atwood

“I’m just going to sit here and blink for a few minutes.”—Mrs. Atwood’s player

“This is Italian, not Chinese.”—Dr. Hu, upon being asked to read a diagram for a boat engine
“Chinese is harder.”—Mr. Laughton

“Can I squat and take a 20?”—Mr. Laughton’s player

“There was a bull…it looked sort of possessed…and it wanted a redhead. That’s what I’ve got out of this so far.” —Dr. Hu

As I’d solved most of my logistical problems the previous week, the second yoga class at the hospital was easier to teach. Many of my students opted to participate whilst seated in chairs this week, mostly because of back pain or discomfort with sitting on the floor. No problem, I told them. The important part is the breathing. I made sure to give plenty of stretches that could be done equally well from a chair or the floor, and I also gave modifications for those poses that were done standing up or lying down.

However, once I had unrolled my mat and gotten set up, I noticed that the class was somewhat larger than last week. Several of the staff members also opted to participate, which I thought was great. Everyone was much less restless this time, too; there was very little of the talking and giggling from last time. In fact, a new staff member came on shift inn the middle of the class and walked in on us. He started talking and asking questions, and half a dozen of my students turned around and shushed him. Not only did he comply, he even did a few of the poses with us before he moved through to his station.

The best part for me, though, was that before the class, one of the patients had been complaining that she didn’t feel well and didn’t want to participate. After a few minutes of watching, she gave a “what the heck?” shrug and joined in. After class, she went on at length about how glad she was that she had decided to take the class after all.

Reason for submitting Trouble Ticket: Reason for submitting TT? I’ll tell you the reason for TT—the damn system doesn’t work!

“One guy worshipping a potato in a hotel room in New Jersey is not a religion.”—Douglas E. Cowan, an expert in emerging religions at the University of Missouri-Kansas City

The last few years, when I have attempted to make Thanksgiving plans, they never turn out as expected, and more often than not, I ended up disappointed. A few weeks ago, it occurred to me that the simple solution is not make plans at all. It’s working out very well indeed, so far. I haven’t had to buy plane tickets, plan a menu, or get the house ready for an influx of guests. I don’t have to worry about what the weather is going to do, what my schedule will be, or what I’m going to wear. I don’t have to concoct and rehearse answers to awkward questions that relatives inevitably ask at family events. Overall, I’m feeling very relaxed about the upcoming holiday.

Of course, if I were making plans—which I am not—the one thing I would do is something that worked well last year. Several of my friends and I got together and we all brought our leftovers for a potluck supper on the weekend. If I were going to make Thanksgiving plans—which I am not—that would be it. I’d say that people should probably plan to show up around 1:00 PM or so, because I am definitely planning on attending my usual Saturday yoga class that morning. (That’s not a Thanksgiving plan, per se, so I feel fairly secure in making it.) I’d make sure to mention that it’s a very casual event. I’d make lasagna, and maybe another side dish and a dessert…if I were making plans, which, of course, I am not.

It seems that meditation is brain exercise.

I arrived at the hospital where I’m going to be teaching yoga in plenty of time to have my TB test read (”totally negative”), change clothes, and scout out the location. I’m teaching in the actual ward, and to say that the space is limited is and understatement; I spread out my mat in front of the nurses’ station, and had my dozen-or-so students scattered down three hallways that met up right where I was seated. No yoga mats…no blocks…no way to dim the lights…and if I hadn’t brought my CD player, there wouldn’t have been music, either.

It didn’t matter.

My students are all women; the youngest is eighteen and looks twelve, and the oldest is probably somewhere in her late forties or early fifties. One of them was a hurricaine evacuee. None of them had any previous experience with yoga; most of them were rather out of shape. I immediately chucked the class I had mentally prepared and pulled out every modification I could think of that didn’t require props. I decided to start as simply as possible, with a breathing exercise. While I was telling everyone else to focus on their breathing, I was trying to figure out what we were going to do next.

I have no idea how, but I did manage to give an hour-long class, essentially making it up as I went along. Only two or three of the students were able to do every pose, even with the extreme modifications, and they were all generally more talkative than I’m used to at my gym. Still, when we finished, there were a lot of smiles. And as I was leaving, one of the staff members asked me if I’d be available to teach a class for them—for pay!

I think this is going to work out very nicely indeed.

Me: That’s going to be even more of a pain in the ass than we thought, isn’t it?
Technical Writer: Yes.
Me: I don’t have enough ass for that much pain.

“The change control process is changing. I’m told it’s in a controlled fashion.”

***

“The more things change, the more they change some more.”