The Journey Forum

[Lula]

You're crackin' me up Ed!! Too funny

[larryfromnextdoor]

andalae, pronto, are-e-ba!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[jrnyman28]

Jman....I always considered you a good dude. But now I am not sure what you are on about or why you are even persuing this. I wasn't aware you were involved?

Thanks Andrew.
The reason I am involved is simply because Fred brought a solid point and he is being mobbed about it. There are extremes on this board and people seem to think in black and white. Apparantly if I cannot make a comment about wishing aids on someone or sucking the corn out of my shit than I must want MR to be like BT. As some have pointed out, there is a line and at times it gets crossed. I do not care much about how people choose to post. As I said, I accept MR for what it is. But I think there should be more respect for people's opinions. Look at AR's responses to Fyre's posts. Instead of even commenting on the content of Fyre's post, AR simply slaps him down with what he perceives is a humorous insult. And both AR and Carlitto have become progressively more aggressive, abusive, foul, whatever over the past few weeks. They are testing the limits. And it really sickens me to hear that there are people who agree with Fred but are 'afraid' to say so on the board. You know I rarely ever PM you, I am not the type to 'tattle'. I felt it was necessary to keep my feelings public. I am not afraid of the posts that come back at me.

If you or anyone else has a problem that has NOT been delt with, then please share it so it can be delt with. Then get back ON TOPIC please.

None of this thread is on topic. And most others are not either. So I am not sure why that matters. What is being talked about here is not a "problem", it is a suggestion. Deano (and others) certainly livened up this board. But honestly, I think more people are joining here because of the unfortunate events in recent Journey history and the way BT is handling them. But I think even more people would like to participate here if not for some of the crap you have to endure. Why should anybody have to have a "thick skin" to participate on a message board?

I used to come here and read every thread and every post. I have been active on this site for like 4 years now. I have been a part of the fighting and a part of the support. This place has changed. There is more activity but less content. I know only read a handful of threads. I still try to read all the posts within them so I know what is being said, but I end up skipping quite a few because there is nothing in them but verbal flatulence.

It's your party Andrew and I am glad to be invited. But I feel the need to go outside for a cigarette just a little more often now...

[jrnyman28]

Isn't it interesting that people on the internet can be anything they want and then you meet them face 2 face and they are not the same. I've talked to Dean in pm's, yeah, he can be crude at time but that is his way here, in pm's he's not like that, least not with me. I think some need to over look things more, not that some of the crap is nice or pleasant but that is the way it is here. You like it or you don't. I happen to have a love/hate relationship with this board. You can't say its not interesting here!

So why can't Deano be more like his PM persona than is online persona?

And for the record, I agree that Deano is a good guy. He offered to help me out with something a while back and I truly believe he was sincere. I thanked him for the offer but declined. That moment is the reason I do not "complain" much about his online persona. Deep down I believe he is a good guy. I have also "talked" to TNC through PMs and think the same of him, he is a good guy as well. I have not been attacking them or even specifically pointing fingers at them. I have used them as examples though. I hope they don't take that personally. But honestly, If Deano decides to leave this board so be it. If he has 'followers' who will leave simply because Deano did, so be it. Much like Journey before Perry and after, there was a MR board before Deano and there will be one after. There might even be a few new people who join. But I do not believe in telling anyone to leave, or that they do not belong "here". And that is a message that is presented here often.....

[Red13JoePa]

but their frontmen weren't as well known or as closely associated with their signature sound as Steve Perry was to Journey. What I meant by household name was that anyone who listened to top 40 radio in the early to mid '80s knew that Steve Perry was the vocal force of Journey. Especially after Street Talk was released and the We Are The World Event.

Sorry Sherrie but lots of people don't know who Steve Perry is. Yeah I know. It's as much a shock to me as to u. I've had friends who were big fans of Foreigner & Styx, knew the lead singers, could name & sing several hit tunes, but altho they recognized the name "Journey" couldn't remember any songs. Then, when I sang Faithfully & Open Arms, they went oh yeah, I like them too. When I mentioned Steve Perry, they said who's he? The biggest shock of all was that they remembered Oh Sherrie as a Journey song & that was the song by "Journey" they remembered most. They were very shocked when I said that was a Steve Perry solo song. Oh well.

I've said exactly this before but loons doubt it. Even Monker the non-loon doubted it, but it's the ugly truth they don't wanna face whilst mocking Neal's throwaway comment about how it would be nice to be a household name once.
Truth is, SP god bless him he's an awesome frontman, was little more a household name than neal.

[Red13JoePa]

Please...you guys are acting like a bunch of sheep without a shepherd. He does this every month or so. He lurks to see how many will beg him to come back. He ALWAYS comes back...he's too narcissistic not to.

Not the case, and Dean can do what he wants, but right now, I think about 5 oversensitive members have totally soured him.

Keep this in mind. When I first started posting I went at it with Dean over tapegate. BIG TIME.

That dustup was a doozie, indeed.

[Red13JoePa]

I used to come here and read every thread and every post. This place has changed. There is more activity but less content. I end up skipping quite a few because there is nothing in them

Agreed. And I say that realizing full well how little time and resources Andrew probably has to devote to deleting crap.
Instead, I blame poster discretion.

[fred_journeyman]

That would never happen, because there are too many individuals like yourself here who for some ungodly reason prefer the Dark Ages to the Enlightenment.

Sigh...okay, I'll try to explain what I meant...during the Dark Ages, the arts, including literature, song, music, manners, respect all of it pretty much went out the door. It was only because of a few monks and priests who collected AND guarded the literature that they could get their hands on, that the Dark Ages ended at all, thus opening the door for the Enlightenment. Did I mean that BT is enlightened? Of course not. What I meant was that here, people seem to enjoy wallowing in the sewer (Dark Ages), while over at BT, they do not (Enlightment). That's all I meant.

And, for the record, I'll say this one more time: if people want to swear and use foul language, that's up to them. What troubles me about it (and the ONLY thing that troubles me about it) is the FACT that as soon as that begins happening, quality debate gets thrown out the window as the threads are too often sidetracked while one person insults another person, who insults another person, etc.

Apparently, I'm now seen as:
1) A whiner
2) Against Free Speech
3) Hypocrite
4) Holier than thou
5) In need of getting laid
6) Having no sense of humor
7) Sick
etc., etc.,

Dean, on the other hand is:
1) Funny
2) Irreverant
3) Funny
4) Possessing a great sense of humor
5) Highly intelligent
6) etc., etc., etc.

Now, those who have taken the time to get really PO'd about all of this have some explaining to themselves to do. Here I am - ONE PERSON - who is asking for people to acknowledge that there just MIGHT be a better way to communicate and I am verbally assaulted for it. Deano, on the other hand can come in here and wish AIDS on someone and he is essentially excused - "That's Deano." "Yeah, that was out of line, but DANG that Deano is funny!" etc., etc.

Fred...are you fucking nuts, dude? You refer to BT as "the Enlightenment"???? Listen...I try to keep an open mind about things, and I honestly think you made some good points (although, I think you're taking this shit WAY too seriously). I was with you 100% that the AIDS comment Deano made simply doesn't belong here, or anywhere else, period, end of story. That said, Dean brings a whole lot to this board, whether you like the guy or not. This board is about Journey, and some of the best Journey music I've gotten off of this board has come from Dean!

Just save the "enlightenment" shit when referring to BT. Which threads did you find so "enlightening"? Was it the "Who is with me on the Augeri Wiggle" thread? Was it the "I love Stevie Awesome" thread? Was it the "Let's send out positive vibes to Stevie Awesome" thread? Was it the "I won Stevie Awesome's shirt" thread? Was it the "positive energy for Augeri part 2" thread? Was it CJ's daily "rules" posting that "enlightened" you? Perhaps it's the daily "H2H" threads that you find so "enlightening"? BT is a disgrace of an internet forum. Sure...everyone writes in a manner that follows proper etiquette, but really, who gives a fuck. You can scour a week's worth of postings on that site and not find one single thread that says anything! It's the only internet site I've ever visited where nobody is allowed to have an opinion without CJ and her minions emailing you a cease and desist order!

Honestly, if this place is really that offensive to you and your sense of righteousness, and you truly find BT to be such an "enlightening" place, there is a pretty obvious solution to your source of frustration. Stick to BT so MR doesn't offend your senses, and you'll feel more "enlightened" (by the way, that's the funniest shit I've ever read about BT...thanks for the 15 minute laugh!) I just don't really see the point to hanging out on a board that you find to be a vulgar cesspool.

John from Boston

[jrnyman28]

Apparently, I'm now seen as:
1) A whiner
2) Against Free Speech
3) Hypocrite
4) Holier than thou
5) In need of getting laid
6) Having no sense of humor
7) Sick
etc., etc.,

Dean, on the other hand is:
1) Funny
2) Irreverant
3) Funny
4) Possessing a great sense of humor
5) Highly intelligent
6) etc., etc., etc.

Now, those who have taken the time to get really PO'd about all of this have some explaining to themselves to do. Here I am - ONE PERSON - who is asking for people to acknowledge that there just MIGHT be a better way to communicate and I am verbally assaulted for it. Deano, on the other hand can come in here and wish AIDS on someone and he is essentially excused - "That's Deano." "Yeah, that was out of line, but DANG that Deano is funny!" etc., etc

The definition of "irony"...

[A Fire Inside]

Thanks Andrew.
The reason I am involved is simply because Fred brought a solid point and he is being mobbed about it. There are extremes on this board and people seem to think in black and white. Apparantly if I cannot make a comment about wishing aids on someone or sucking the corn out of my shit than I must want MR to be like BT. As some have pointed out, there is a line and at times it gets crossed. I do not care much about how people choose to post. As I said, I accept MR for what it is. But I think there should be more respect for people's opinions. Look at AR's responses to Fyre's posts. Instead of even commenting on the content of Fyre's post, AR simply slaps him down with what he perceives is a humorous insult. And both AR and Carlitto have become progressively more aggressive, abusive, foul, whatever over the past few weeks. They are testing the limits. And it really sickens me to hear that there are people who agree with Fred but are 'afraid' to say so on the board. You know I rarely ever PM you, I am not the type to 'tattle'. I felt it was necessary to keep my feelings public. I am not afraid of the posts that come back at me.

None of this thread is on topic. And most others are not either. So I am not sure why that matters. What is being talked about here is not a "problem", it is a suggestion. Deano (and others) certainly livened up this board. But honestly, I think more people are joining here because of the unfortunate events in recent Journey history and the way BT is handling them. But I think even more people would like to participate here if not for some of the crap you have to endure. Why should anybody have to have a "thick skin" to participate on a message board?

I used to come here and read every thread and every post. I have been active on this site for like 4 years now. I have been a part of the fighting and a part of the support. This place has changed. There is more activity but less content. I know only read a handful of threads. I still try to read all the posts within them so I know what is being said, but I end up skipping quite a few because there is nothing in them but verbal flatulence.

It's your party Andrew and I am glad to be invited. But I feel the need to go outside for a cigarette just a little more often now...

Dave, I think you're probably the most level-headed poster on this forum.

[Carlitto H@kk]

And both AR and Carlitto have become progressively more aggressive, abusive, foul, whatever over the past few weeks. They are testing the limits. And it really sickens me to hear that there are people who agree with Fred but are 'afraid' to say so on the board.

In my own defense and in my own words...
CRAP!

Do a search under my name and you'll see I've posted the same way ever since I joined.
I am not following anyone's leads or testing any limits.
I type like I think 90% of the time and what you get is wht you get.
I've been accused of being a "Deano Wannabe"...
Why? Cause I can talk brash sometimes?
You think Dean has "All Brash Comments" copyrighted?
Dean is capable of handling things on his own and doesn't need any help from me or Ed.
I, for one, hope Dean does come back because, for every ugly, mean post he puts up, 10 quality/hilarious/informative posts go up as well.
All these hurt feelings... again, CRAP!
As for folks being affraid to speak up, I've had dissagreements w/ alot of folks here but have lso mended bridges and had fun with them thereafter (TNC, Wyngz, Matty, Larry...)

Don't lump me into your complaints with Andrew until you've talked to me first.
that's what PMs are for and I am VERY reasonable and easygoing.
Ask anyone...

[fred_journeyman]

Hey Dave,

Funny isn't it how everyone wants to shut down my freedom of speech?

By the way, that line "I am not seen as" should read "I am now seen as"

I changed it in my post.

[fred_journeyman]

In my own defence and in my own words...
CRAP!

Do a search under my name and you'll see I've posted the same way ever since I joined.

Gee, I'll put that at the top of my list of things to do...

In reality though, I've read quite a few of your posts in the past and even commented on them, but I don't recall you using such foul language in your posts to get your points across. I mean, heck if you want to that's up to you, but unless my memory is completely off, it seems to be that you've been much more above board while posting in the past, as opposed to simply ranting. Your choice. Must be all that pent up frustration from not being able to swear and use foul language at BT.

Don't lump me into your complaints with Andrew until you've talked to me first.
that's what PMs are for and I am VERY reasonable and easygoing.
Ask anyone...

Uh...sure. I haven't received one PM from you and I assume it's because you're too busy trying to impress people. You've made some pretty interesting accusations and comments about me, all because you simply either cannot or refuse to understand what it is I'm trying to say. You haven't even TRIED to understand what I'm trying to say. You have joined the GANG and adopted their mentality. That's fine, if you want to, but for goodness sakes, don't come unglued on this board and then say that you're easy going. That's ridiculous.

[fred_journeyman]

Dave, I think you're probably the most level-headed poster on this forum.

I completely agree with that and Dave and I know each other from the VH-1 days. He was as steady as steady goes and still is! NOTHING ruffles his feathers that I've ever seen. Nothing. That's something I would like to emulate.

[AR]

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day.

I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye—es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Yale News.”—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. they are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. to the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. my house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. the one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hotel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. it was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. it was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.

“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

“I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.

“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”

“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. To-morrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”

“I’d like to.”

“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”

“Never.”

“Well, you ought to see her. She’s——”

Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

“What you doing, Nick?”

“I’m a bond man.”

“Who with?”

I told him.

“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.

This annoyed me.

“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”

“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”

At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”

“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”

“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, “I’m absolutely in training.”

Her host looked at her incredulously.

“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”

I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”

“I don’t know a single——”

“You must know Gatsby.”

“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

“Why CANDLES?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”

“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”

Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.

“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”

We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.

“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you DID do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a——”

“I hate that word hulking,” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”

“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”

I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read ‘The Rise of the Colored Empires’ by this man Goddard?”

“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”

“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we——”

“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”

“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and——” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”

“That’s why I came over to-night.”

“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose——”

“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.

“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor——” I said.

“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”

“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.

“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”

“I don’t.”

“Why——” she said hesitantly, “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”

“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away——” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”

“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”

“I wasn’t back from the war.”

“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”

Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.

“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”

“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”

“Very much.”

“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘all right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”

“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I KNOW. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”

The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.

Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light.

Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the SATURDAY EVENING POST.—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.

When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.

“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”

Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.

“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”

“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament to-morrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”

“Oh—you’re Jordan BAKER.”

I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.

“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”

“If you’ll get up.”

“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”

“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing——”

“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”

“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”

“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.

“Her family.”

“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.

“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.

“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white——”

“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.

“Did I?” She looked at me.

“I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know——”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.

I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”

“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”

“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”

“It’s libel. I’m too poor.”

“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”

Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumors, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage.

Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York.” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.

I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Moose]

Hope you're happy, Fred, Monker, McNeil, Moose, Rich, etc because I talked with Dean tonight and he has no desire to post here now.

I’ve gotta tell you, AR, that I haven’t exactly lost sleep over this matter. That being said, you really think that Dean will leave this site due to, as you put it, “5 oversensitive members have totally soured him”? If that’s the case, who is the sensitive one? Dude, give me a break. You know damn well he’ll be back. He needs the attention! Plus, for the record, I tried to make nice and PMed him with an apology a while back and he blew it off, so fuck it! I think the double standard on this board is kind of humorous.

[Moose]

I am saddened by what is going on here with Dean. The ones who wanted to have "polite discussions" better look at themselves. They post alot of not so nice shit here as well. And now all of you "nice polite discussion" people have angered me to no end now. As a result of what you have done, the rest of us on the board have to suffer.

If you don't like what Dean says, then skip his posts and don't reply, damnit ! It isn't that hard to do. YOU have the option to not even read or post a reply. Instead what you do is gripe, complain, whine, have a temper tantum, etc, to get your way.

And now two of whom I consider friends will not be sharing any more boots or information with us. Thanks a hell of a lot your shits........... I was so looking forward to what will be happening in the next few weeks. And hearing from AR and Dean was part of those weeks. And you crybaby fuckers ruined a good thing............. Piss off and go to another board.......... [/b]

Gay

[yulog]

And both AR and Carlitto have become progressively more aggressive, abusive, foul, whatever over the past few weeks. They are testing the limits. And it really sickens me to hear that there are people who agree with Fred but are 'afraid' to say so on the board.

In my own defense and in my own words...
CRAP!

Do a search under my name and you'll see I've posted the same way ever since I joined.
I am not following anyone's leads or testing any limits.
I type like I think 90% of the time and what you get is wht you get.
I've been accused of being a "Deano Wannabe"...
Why? Cause I can talk brash sometimes?
You think Dean has "All Brash Comments" copyrighted?
Dean is capable of handling things on his own and doesn't need any help from me or Ed.
I, for one, hope Dean does come back because, for every ugly, mean post he puts up, 10 quality/hilarious/informative posts go up as well.
All these hurt feelings... again, CRAP!
As for folks being affraid to speak up, I've had dissagreements w/ alot of folks here but have lso mended bridges and had fun with them thereafter (TNC, Wyngz, Matty, Larry...)

Don't lump me into your complaints with Andrew until you've talked to me first.
that's what PMs are for and I am VERY reasonable and easygoing.
Ask anyone...

[Granny]

Hope you're happy, Fred, Monker, McNeil, Moose, Rich, etc because I talked with Dean tonight and he has no desire to post here now.

No more bootlegs for the rest of the board, no more information. And especially after next week with what is going to be going on, that will be a huge loss here. All just because there wasn't enough "polite discussion" aka same boring shit.

Enjoy your polite Steve vs. Steve vs. Jeff debates; When will Perry come back stuff.

And before you say he will be back, I'm not so sure.

This forum's loss.

AR,

I am saddened by what is going on here with Dean. The ones who wanted to have "polite discussions" better look at themselves. They post alot of not so nice shit here as well. And now all of you "nice polite discussion" people have angered me to no end now. As a result of what you have done, the rest of us on the board have to suffer.

If you don't like what Dean says, then skip his posts and don't reply, damnit ! It isn't that hard to do. YOU have the option to not even read or post a reply. Instead what you do is gripe, complain, whine, have a temper tantum, etc, to get your way.

And now two of whom I consider friends will not be sharing any more boots or information with us. Thanks a hell of a lot your shits........... I was so looking forward to what will be happening in the next few weeks. And hearing from AR and Dean was part of those weeks. And you crybaby fuckers ruined a good thing............. Piss off and go to another board..........

So now what do we do with the 'FAB FIVE'. ..This infighting is getting very tiring and boring! Even tho' Dean can be crass and rude at times,(he has picked on me many times) you have to admit he is funny and entertaining and yes intelligent...He added much interest on this forum and gave us lots of info. which we all wanted to hear..If THOSE FIVE don't like what he posts, why can't they just skip over them? I do agree that some of those pics belong on the SEX, BOOZE AND SPORTS thread, just in case children might be lurking over their parents shoulders...why can't this happen? Just to make peace with some of the posters here...ya know the old give and take...JMHO Please, stop the complaining, whining and acting like 7th grade school GIRLS...I have 2 grown daughters and thats how they acted when they were in 7th grade...anyway, I agree with CRL.....Granny

[fredinator]

Please hang in there, Deano!! If you go elsewhere, would you let those us who enjoy your posts know where you go? Your posts are great, too, Ed!! Please don't you leave-- Noble either!! I think Fred has taken Monker's crown as Chief Bore, with Moose, McNeill and TVL right behind!!

Nancy

[yulog]

Apparently, I'm not seen as:
1) A whiner
2) Against Free Speech
3) Hypocrite
4) Holier than thou
5) In need of getting laid
6) Having no sense of humor
7) Sick
etc., etc.,

Dean, on the other hand is:
1) Funny
2) Irreverant
3) Funny
4) Possessing a great sense of humor
5) Highly intelligent
6) etc., etc., etc.

Now, those who have taken the time to get really PO'd about all of this have some explaining to themselves to do. Here I am - ONE PERSON - who is asking for people to acknowledge that there just MIGHT be a better way to communicate and I am verbally assaulted for it. Deano, on the other hand can come in here and wish AIDS on someone and he is essentially excused - "That's Deano." "Yeah, that was out of line, but DANG that Deano is funny!" etc., etc

The definition of "irony"...

Fred, that was pretty funny. i liked it ,hey i got number 5 and 7 from from a couple of posters here anyone else been told they were anything on the top list?

[Andrew]

Ok - here's the state of the nation.

Deano hates me. But you know what - ANYONE wishing aids upon other people is not going to be a friend of mine. Everyone is owed an apology for that comment.

This board will never be as santized as BT.

Fred wants me to ban him from the board to remove his temptation to post. Fine.

Deano's username is active again, but whether he choses to post is up to him - I'd like an apology to all first.

[jrnyman28]

And both AR and Carlitto have become progressively more aggressive, abusive, foul, whatever over the past few weeks. They are testing the limits. And it really sickens me to hear that there are people who agree with Fred but are 'afraid' to say so on the board.

In my own defense and in my own words...
CRAP!

Do a search under my name and you'll see I've posted the same way ever since I joined.
I am not following anyone's leads or testing any limits.
I type like I think 90% of the time and what you get is wht you get.
I've been accused of being a "Deano Wannabe"...
Why? Cause I can talk brash sometimes?
You think Dean has "All Brash Comments" copyrighted?
Dean is capable of handling things on his own and doesn't need any help from me or Ed.
I, for one, hope Dean does come back because, for every ugly, mean post he puts up, 10 quality/hilarious/informative posts go up as well.
All these hurt feelings... again, CRAP!
As for folks being affraid to speak up, I've had dissagreements w/ alot of folks here but have lso mended bridges and had fun with them thereafter (TNC, Wyngz, Matty, Larry...)

Don't lump me into your complaints with Andrew until you've talked to me first.
that's what PMs are for and I am VERY reasonable and easygoing.
Ask anyone...

Talk about sensitive. I am sorry you feel this way Carlitto. Again, like everyone else I have mentioned, I have nothing against you. But your posts have changed some IMO. Maybe not to the same extent. But they have. And you are right that Deano has contributed a lot to the board...both good and bad. But the fact the he gets away with so much (for whatever reason) pushes the limits just a little further out, allowing for more posting in the same vein. I never said you were following his lead. But the boundaries are getting pushed back further. And yet again, I only used you as an example...it was nothing personal.

[jrnyman28]

Hey Dave,

Funny isn't it how everyone wants to shut down my freedom of speech?

By the way, that line "I am not seen as" should read "I am now seen as"

I changed it in my post.

That's what I thought, but I wouldn't correct it unless I asked you.
Oddly enough we have been here before....there really IS nothing new on the internet!

[jrnyman28]

Dave, I think you're probably the most level-headed poster on this forum.

I completely agree with that and Dave and I know each other from the VH-1 days. He was as steady as steady goes and still is! NOTHING ruffles his feathers that I've ever seen. Nothing. That's something I would like to emulate.

Not entirely true, but like you I have learned that I should not get emotional over what is written on a forum page. Hell, according to Reardon I have cancer. That is when I knew I had acheived a certain level of "status"!

[jrnyman28]

If THOSE FIVE don't like what he posts, why can't they just skip over them?

I know I was not listed in the FAB FIVE, but I don't think anyone has asked that Deano (or anyone else) not post.

I do agree that some of those pics belong on the SEX, BOOZE AND SPORTS thread, just in case children might be lurking over their parents shoulders...why can't this happen?

Seems simple enough. And I think only AR is protesting because he sees nothing wrong with his sig. Yes, it is tame, but I preferred Jessica Alba!! :D However, it is still a provacative sig which could lead to talks not all 'parents' want to have with their children just yet.

[Andrew]

I used to come here and read every thread and every post. I have been active on this site for like 4 years now. I have been a part of the fighting and a part of the support. This place has changed. There is more activity but less content. I know only read a handful of threads. I still try to read all the posts within them so I know what is being said, but I end up skipping quite a few because there is nothing in them but verbal flatulence...

I kinda agree. But I do hope that like all things, it reverts back to better times. Every now and then there is a melt down, which is disappointing as this forum consumes so much of my time.

Perhaps it has out-lived it usefulness?

[jrnyman28]

Ok - here's the state of the nation.

Deano hates me. But you know what - ANYONE wishing aids upon other people is not going to be a friend of mine. Everyone is owed an apology for that comment.

Ever notice Deano either hates someone or loves them. And it is so easy to fall out of his graces. It is a shame he is holding a grudge.

This board will never be as santized as BT.

Thank god for that.

Fred wants me to ban him from the board to remove his temptation to post. Fine.

That is too bad because before this little escapade (which seems to have resulted soley because some people could not understand what he was really asking) he had brought thought provoking posts to the board.

Deano's username is active again, but whether he choses to post is up to him - I'd like an apology to all first.

I think it is possible Deano would apologize...he does it all the time. And I would like to see him come back.


But I do not expect anything from him. Many here seem to want him to come back only because he shares live music with the board. Talk about selfish. And just because he did share does not make him any more important on this board than anyone else. In fact I could not believe when AR made a similar boast about belonging here more than Fred. I say again...EVERYONE should be welcome here!


Thanks for the update and the level head 'Drew.

[jrnyman28]

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

Was I actually supposed to read all that?

[Andrew]

Ever notice Deano either hates someone or loves them. And it is so easy to fall out of his graces. It is a shame he is holding a grudge.

He's a passionate guy and I can appreciate that and I do like Deano. He knows that too - I see thru the gruff exterior and know he has a lot to offer - but this situation depresses the hell out of me. He simply cannot be reasoned with when it comes to asking him to respect my wishes and post with a little more restraint.

I'm pretty sad about this whole affair. It has definitely taken the shine off recent events.

I simply can't understand why this forum has to sometimes descend into this kind of back and forth mud-slinging. I just don't get it. Agruments are one thing and Journey boards will always have those.

But this week of posts does not reflect well upon my site and this board in general and that has me very upset.