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News and Views

Dammit Pantera, this beer is warm!

4/29/2019

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In an attempt to demonstrate to the intermediately-sized human that there is some music that is too yaaaaarrrrgghhh!! even for her tastes, I called upon Alexa to give it some Pantera. She obliged, selected 'Walk', and off Pantera went. And so did the medium human, who, to my immense surprise, started air-guitaring and head banging. Yikes. Amongst other things, it got me thinking about what exactly it is that parents do for (to?) their children. And this frankly genius moment from my youth. 
<<<<<<

“My mother, the three-titted, six-fingered witch, the whore who fucked her brother and her minstrel. You look for her in the royal palaces, next time you’re there. See if her face hangs there. No. She is gone, taken from history as if she never was. And I, a prize to be married off for the best price, accused of whoring myself to Thomas Seymour! So valuable, as a virgin at least, to my brother or his keepers that what I want is as nothing.” The tears flow down her cheeks. “Bring him back, Guy Fletcher, so that just once, I can say quite what is in my head, in my heart. So that I can say to him, ‘Edward, I love you, it matters not who you are or who I am. Edward, I love you, the one who loves me despite that I am a princess, and not because of it. So that he can hear those words which I have thought so often and never said.”

Northampton turns to de Winter. “And you, Sir, who are you?”
“George de Winter, My Lord. Son of the Baron of Sheffield.”
“And I can count on your loyalty?”
“You can. As you can count on my friend’s.” De Winter gestures at Longshawe. 

Northampton’s eyebrow rises. “I see. To whom do you report? Your father did not speak of you.”
“I am in the service of Lady Mary, My Lord. She does not expect me to write a dispatch to her at every chance.”
“So… the Protector’s man, and the heir to the throne’s man. Let us hope that we can work together.”
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    Andy Richardson

    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
    I summon up remembrance of things past,
    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
    And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
    Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,
    For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
    And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
    And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:
    Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
    And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
    The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
    Which I new pay as if not paid before.
    But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
    All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

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