And So Dear Friends, I Must Confide

As veils of sleep draped over my eyes, I overheard a snippet of conversation in the Dublin Centre for Community Seomra Spraoi. I was rather perturbed by an errant sentiment from a Local:

"I say my good fellow," he articulated at an ensnared aural recipient "if you book someone for the book fair, make sure they are of high calibre and not one of these American bands bumming about Europe playing one or two shows a week."

Mayhaps he knew not that I was enthralled in my book just cubits away. Mayhaps he realized my proximity and was meaning a nudge, a bit of a poke, as it were, into the ideals and hearts of we steam-driven storytellers.

So I say, good sir, whoever you may be who made this quaint remark: Go Fuck Yourself. If you want a continent with no Calliope of the Future, move to Antarctica, but beware, we have a scheduled gig with the emporer penguin and their army will slowly and rubberily trample you into oblivion.