...a pause I can only hear in my head, sorta like a click in those african languages, except silent, then the t? As I try to explain it, I realize my chin kind of nods, when I do it. Apparently to emphasize the silence. :)

That is exactly it.

I think we need a new term for Pete.

Adorapeeve.

I think we need a new term for Pete.

Sweet Cheeks.

Fay rules.

I'm not getting into the Pete naming, as I've no doubt his loom reaches to NC.

So, how many posts should one have during a period of time in order to be considered a lurker? Because I got to post so little in more than a year, I should probably write a proper delurking post in this thread, right? But in the meantime:

the Wandering Gypsy Buffistas

For Beverly, indeed from WX:

Victor: We are evidently a nomadic web community...

Jacqueline Zahas: I'm imagining the Buffistas wending our way from site to site in colorful wagons pulled by shaggy ponies. Dangling from the wagons is a wild, noisy assortment of bells, pots, pans, and bootleg OMWF CDs. A sea of dogs and cats dances around the wagons, nipping at the ponies' heels -- DXM's stupidest dog in the universe, Victor's ferret, Beth's nutty cats and Isabella and Amber B's kitty in the sink. And, though no longer permitted out in the non-virtual world, Malik and Smokey are running wild around our carts here. Resplendent in our corsets, ballgowns, and Bruins and Mariners gear, we wander the web, always in search of the Phoenix Board, our Mecca, our Jerusalem, for which we all long and in which we all believe, though few among us have ever actually seen it. We eke out a meagre existence crafting screencaps and porn; at night we dance wildly with platinum-haired photophobes, and conjure up magnificent feasts of everything from challa French toast to digestive biscuits to white chocolate bread pudding to Velveeta fudge, all out of thin air. We descend in a horde on an unsuspecting site and decamp just as quickly. Restless, wandering, porning away in our incomprehensible dialect.

I like the idea. I just hate the actual nomadism. Where is our board of milk and honey? Where?

Descriptions of some of the individual Travelers: Daniel the screencapper, squatting in a corner of an especially cramped and equipment-filled wagon, hunched over a dusty screen, poring over tapes, waiting for exactly the right moment; Googling Betsy, the seer, she who sees all, finds all, and knows all; Gigolo Hec; FayJay and Trudy, the pornmongers, hard at work crafting their wares in the Porn Wagon (always shaking and strangely lit, with odd indescribable noises emanating from it at all hours, rattling down the road with a trail of slash in its wake); the shimmering, hyperreal presence of the Canadians, who live one day ahead of the rest of us; and the Spoiler Whores, taunting us with their coy remarks and shamelessly flaunting their whitefonts in front of everyone.

Nilly, the Historian, keeper of the scrolls, she who has become a verb. And Miracleman, the Unholy Fool. And Mejia, who so closely studies the entrails of shows just past and scrutinizes the portents of what is to come.

DXMachina: JZ, are you referring to the penguin, or someone else's dog? Because my real dog is off playing with Malik and Smokey.

JZ: Ah, no, then, it's Miracleman with the stupid dog. But yes, your dog is there too. All of 'em are. All Buffista animals past and present, with the exception of Clovis the Devilbunny, who sits in a little wire birdcage in Jilli's lap, where he can't do more than growl at the rest of us.

scrappy: Hec is not only the Gigolo for our nomadic tribe, he's the stylist as well. John H. can be He Who Communes With The Mighty Chip. ita for protection. And Jon B can serenade us to sleep around the campfire with Theremin music.

Miracleman: If'n ya listen real close, late at night, you can hear the coyotes (*pronounced "kai-yoat") a-howlin' at the moon. The moon that is *always full*. And, if'n ya know *how* to listen, ya kin hear 'em talkin'. They're sayin' "Don't those damnfool drunk carvaners know how ta read a *map*?"

The phantom Buffista caravan has been travellin' these parts fer nigh unta a hundred years. Even though they only left last Saturday. They all blame Gudanov fer that.

But in the cold night of the high desert, ya kin see their ghostly forms windin' through the scrub. And ya kin hear them singin' their eerie song...

"Porn, porn, porn, porn. Porn, porn, porn, porn..."

"SHUT UP! Bloody Buffistas..."

[Edited to include the whole quote in one post.]

[Edited because the former post was cut and continued in this one, and I wanted the whole quote in one post.

Goodness, can't I even *quote* without needing a multiple-number of posts and an edited explanation which already threatens to be longer than some whole full posts of other people? Maybe that can be my sorta delurking post: Hi, I can't even write "what they said" without needing 17 paragraphs, some parentheses and some hand-wavings. Sorry.]

Thanks, Nilly. I hadn't seen that post before.

Brilliant, Fay.

My mind reads -t's real name. I do that with a number of people. The brain does an instant name swap.

Thank you, Nilly. That was glorious. I got goosebumps reading it.

ah, screencapping. Good times, good times.

ah, screencapping. Good times, good times.

I only wish the description of your wagon in the caravan didn't so closely resemble our dining area.