Grogblog: n. A symposium of well-educated, hygienic writers who have chosen to temporarily eschew the otherwise isolating medium of the internet; a forum at which both ideas and ideals of a high-minded nature are shared and discussed intelligently in a convivial setting. Small amounts of low-alcohol cider or heavily watered wine may be imbibed to give flavour and energy to the conversation.
Which just goes to show not only how misleading dictionary definitions can be, but how low, how corrupt a being is your average bloggist. Here is a rather more accurate picture, rendered by a shocked witness during the activities of last Friday night.
And that was just within the first hour or so. And believe me, it requires no small effort to procure a pig in a wimple at short notice on a weekend (how vile, how apt to depravity, and yet: how industrious).
Surveying the scene at the Lincoln Hotel, dodging the occasional spray of effluvia and casually hurled abuse, I quickly realised that that even the debauchery of the last such event paled by comparison. Even I - a regular at Furry conventions - could no longer stomach the beer-stained homunculi that comprise Melbourne's blogging community, and made to leave.
But then I was offered the opportunity to slow dance with the be-wimpled pig. After that, it was on.
The first rule of Grogblog is that you don't talk about what happens at Grogblog (so is the second rule: bloggists can be uncreative, at times). But who can begin to describe the horror of nerds let loose, anyway? And who would believe it? I can only hope a partial role call will suffice: the familiar faces of Russ, Leggsie and Ben were prominent that night - veterans of many a Grogblog, these hardened, bitter word-beasts made good in quenching their appetites for destruction, when booze or pumpkin soup were not available; Bruce revealed to me much that was hidden about Ian McFadyen, and all of it bad; herbal physicist par excellence James explained the secret to immortality, promptly forgotten; Engels explained the frightening intricacies of his name.
TimT refused to accept my sovereignty over Rhodesia, merely due to its lack of existence - poor form, I felt; Armaniac refused to believe I wasn't Tim Sterne (the confusion is understandable; for future reference, I am the one with the whatsit who does the thingy); and ns refused to let his various nemeses phase him.
Add to this a cast of thousands, who I apologise for not listing here and/or not talking to on the night. But that's their own fault for not cornering me while I could still hold down a conversation - I may be twice as intelligent when drunk, and ten times as handsome, but I tend to forget names. As so many angry girlfriends can attest.
As the Lincoln began to show distinct signs of wear and tear, some glutton for punishment suggsted karaoke, an idea the acceptance of which I can only attribute to extreme inebriation and a secret desire to cauterwaul Fine Young Cannibals songs in public. And so, wits dulled but flick-knives still sharp, we made good our escape, leaving behind only the cowering bar-staff and a couple of former opposing right- and left-wing political bloggists who had seen The Deer Hunter and felt Russian roulette was the only expedient way to settle their differences. And though the stagger to the karaoke bar via the alley behind a porno theatre proved long and fraught, we took turns riding on the back of the nun/pig, and all was well. Until the actual singing began.
All credit for an evening of fun, frolics and fisticuffs should go to Russ: organiser x-treme. By which I mean to say all bills, warrants and notices of arraignment should be adressed c/o Knotted Paths. Good show old man; now best leave the house, I've just given the fuzz your details.