Once upon a time, many many years ago, in a galaxy far far away…

There lived a young nobleman’s son.  This princeling was not exactly heir to the kingdom, mind you.  Maybe just to an earldom or some other such title. 

In any case, our young nobleman’s son, being of age, was sent away to be seasoned in the service of a foreign prince.  And after having slain a dragon in Outrecote (a land known to be infested by these mythical beasts), he found himself a companion-in-arms, underwent many adventures that need not detain us here, and returned home some years later.

There he entered into the lowest ranks of service in the army, over which his father served as a member of the commanding council of generals.  For though he had slain an Outrecotian dragon, the local soldiery did not give much truck to fancy foreign titles or the transfer of glories from parts unknown; they respected only promotion through the ranks and years of service locally. 

He volunteered first as a steward in his local regiment.  This required little more than answering the call of the fife and drum, showing up at muster-role, and getting twenty habitants of his hamlet to testify that he was fit to serve.  As the kingdom was at peace at the time of his enrollment in the ranks, he did not then have to serve in battle to prove his mettle.

Soon after he volunteered for service, he received a call from his command sergeant, asking him if he would be interested in a promotion to second lieutenant. Not knowing any better, and eager at the chance to prove himself worthy in the eyes of his superiors, he agreed to apply.

The application process required, unbeknownst to our hero, a rather unorthodox test of arms.  He knew that he had to prepare himself to tilt at the lists, but was given to understand that it would be but a paper contest, making a flowery speech in front of the assembled damsels and accepting the plaudits of the crowd.

This was not to be be.  For there were darker forces at play, though our hero did not yet know it.

Nevertheless, the young nobleman’s son prepared his flowery speech, and arrived at the lists with his charger in tow, ready to take on all comers in any contests that might arise.  Now, at the lists there were the following contestants: the command sergeant, the sergeant major, two staff sergeants, two corporals, and two other stewards.

And a lieutenant general. It was the presence of the latter that should have tipped our hero off.  It was, more particularly, the fact that the lieutenant general sat herself next to our hero in the lists that should have sent alarm bells ringing.

A word about the method of tilting in use at that time is here probably in order: instead of head-on, knock-down bruisefest, each contestant was to mount his charger, run as best he/she could at a fixed target and, with his lance, snap the brass ring from off a mounted dummy.   The assembled sergeants would then determine, on the basis of the contestant’s command of his horse, whether he snapped the ring, etc., whether the contestant had “won” and thus deserved whatever laurels were available.

The contest started off with the usual hum-drum parade maneuvers; the calling of the role, and the announcement of the order of contests.  It was at this point that one of the staff sergeants formally asked the command sergeant for a change in the order of procedure, specifically to have the new contestants try their feat of arms at the end of the day. 

This was ruled out of order.

When their names were called, therefore, our hero and the other steward were called forward, took their chargers, and ran hell-for-leather for the brass ring.  Both handily did the deed, dismounted, and retired to the lists to await their fates.

The second staff sergeant then formally requested of the command sergeant that the contestants be asked to leave the field while the sergeants’ council made their determination.  When asked why this was necessary, the second staff sergeant replied only that it would be more “respectful” to all of those present.

The stewards retired some little distance from the field.   After a few minutes, the command sergeant came personally to fetch them, saying that the vote on their promotions had been delayed until the end of the day.

This, as it happens, was a lie.  Though our hero did not know it.

When he returned to the lists — the second steward left altogether, as he had other engagements elsewhere in the hamlet — the order of business proceeded, though with the following unusual developments:

1.) The command sergeant suggested that a portion of the afternoon’s gate receipts (there was a crowd at the afternoon’s entertainment, surprisingly enough) be donated to the poor.  This was voted down by everyone else, except for a corporal.* 

2.) A corporal, which is to say, the corporal, the one who had voted with the command sergeant to disburse a small portion of the day’s receipts to the poor, formally challenged the sergeant major to a test of arms, related to certain matters of honor pertaining specifically to the latter’s stewardship of the gate receipts. The exchange grew somewhat heated** — despite the presence of the lieutenant-general, who offered more than once to step in and settle the dispute by some means other than a test of arms — until the command sergeant suggested that the matter be tabled until the next scheduled contest.

Until the end of the meeting.  At that time, just before the sergeant major made the formal motion to end the contest, the lieutenant general asked for a point of personal privilege.  This was assented to.  The LG then asked each and every one of those present to retake the vote on the tilting performance of the stewards, and to do so “with an open heart.”

She repeated this, emphasizing that she was personally asking those present to reconsider their votes, and to do so “with an open heart.”

There was silence in the stands for a moment or two.  Our hero excused himself, as discreetly as he could.

He stepped away from the stands, and though he was as far as he could reasonably be, yet still he could hear snippets of the rising tide of imprecations spilling out from the reviewing box:

Corporal 1: I don’t see what that has to do with anything…

….

Sergeant Major: That isn’t relevant to this discussion…

…

Command Sergent: Please, please, one at a time…

…

Staff Sergeant 2: I don’t care.  We took our vote, I don’t see why we should take it again, no matter what you say.  

Corporal 1: I’m a loyal subject of the earl, as loyal as anyone here, but I still don’t see what that has to do with anything…

LG (shouting): HIS NAME IS FITZEARL.  Are you people dumb?

Corporal 1: You said that already, I don’t see the point.

LG (not shouting quite so loud): I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were bad at math.  The earl’s last name is earl.  That is 2.  “Fitzearl” means “son of the earl.”  That is another 2.  Can you make 2 plus 2 equal four?  Or is that too difficult?

…

Not long after this last comment, the command sergeant called our hero in to inform him that he had won his spurs, and could now claim the title of second lieutenant.

Our hero’s adventures will continue in a few weeks, when he attends his first all-company mustering out in the Bay Area, in preparation for what is expected to be a more-than-usually bloody campaign season.

*The stewards and the lieutenant-general were not allowed to vote on this matter, according to certain arcane technical rules of army protocol.

**Heated enough that the sergeant-major at one point asked our hero to test the temper of her sword.  Since she did not have the sword then in her possession, and moreover, since it was implied rather strongly by the accusing corporal that said sword had been purchased with regimental funds in express contravention of army rules, our hero declined to inspect the sword in question, then or ever.

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Step 1: My dog gets out.*
Step 2: A neighbor looks after it while we’re away.
Step 3: Some weeks later, I bring the neighbor a pie as a gift for looking after my dog.
Step 4: Said neighbor, for no particular reason I can see other than to keep it all going, returns the pie dish, along with a braised lamb shank.

This has all the trappings of a potlatch. Any suggestions on the next exchange of gifts?

*The dog was out for not-very-defensible reasons.  For more details, ask me off-line.

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The first time around?  297 pages*.

The second time around: 16 sheets short of a regular ream.

*The floor is now open for Rain Main references.

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When the restaurant asks $60 for the prix fixe vegetarian option, you know you’re in trouble.

I did not patronize this establishment.  Nor did I patronize the establishment down the street, which featured hostesses dressed in ’20s drag, a cocktail menu, mannequins and kimonos strung from the ceiling, and the kind of revamped wood ceiling mostly seen on midtown autobody shops. Instead I patronized my old “neighborhood” bar, which features rather more dj-ing than Portuguese — which in turn probably says nothing except that I left on the first, exhilirating, rush of the gentrification wave. And not after the tsunami of biotech cash had overhwhelmed what had once been a poverty-stricken waste of deindustrialization.

As I remarked to a friend of mine, it is disorienting and somewhat ghastly to be a tourist in a town you think you know.

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So I had dinner in a hotel bar tonight.

I know, I know.  I got exactly what I deserved. Decent but not overly exciting food and a thoroughly predictable wine list.  It was, after all, a hotel bar.

And yet, and yet, between the guy in the corduroy jacket, porkpie hat, paisley tie and “Bushmill’s with one ice cube, please,”* out for a night on the town with his lady, and the guy with the off-the-rack Thomas Pink shirt, wide medium-tone brown leather belt and jeans, who ordered a Boddington’s, out for a town with his lady, well…

Let’s just say I felt a little too much like an extra in a Whit Stillman flick.

*I had to inform this gentleman that, sadly, this being a Catholic town, they did not serve Protestant whiskey.  He was given a shot of Jameson.

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I used to travel a lot when I lived in Texas.  Out of all my trips from that period in my life, I never ran into anyone I knew at the airport.

I travel less now that I live someplace decent.  And yet when I’m in the airport I run into people I know all the time. 

More disturbingly, I have now begun to recognize the particular shape, available concessions, etc. of various terminals through which I fly.  Do I reall want to be this person?

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So I volunteered to be on a committee.  Basically for the purposes of maintaining my reputation and credentials, mind you.  Certainly not out of any high-minded ethic of “giving back to my profession” or some other such horseshite.

And for this what is my reward?  To be saddled with reading not one, but two Loic Wacquant books. 

Ay madre de dios.

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Terminal B at SMF on a Thursday evening.

And that’s before the overnight + two plane changes. 

Thanks g*d for carryon.

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You volunteer for an awards committee, and then it turns out that you know personally at least two of the nominees.  This may require recusal on my part.

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When you don’t have anything in your stomach, or when what is in your stomach consists mostly of shredded vegetables, your tolerance goes down.

Not that I would know, mind you.

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