A Saint Crispian's Celebration!

12/31/03 - Milano's Agoura Hills

Party and spoils courtesy of J. Chris Seaman
Photo-Report by Hench

Ahh, I LOVE the smell of Napalm in the morning. The only thing I love more is the smell of money and beer in the evening. Thanks to our brave and successful leader, the Honorable Captain Seadog, both were provided in generous amounts to members of the St. Crispian's band of brothers. Having conquered the armies of HNT lawyers, Harry the King made sure some of the spoils of victory were lavished upon the Dukes, Earls, Knights, and yes, even the foot soldiers like Hench! "The fewer men, the greater share of honour." Along with the bounty which we reaped, there was song, spirits and a sense that "Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, from this day, to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered."

Sergeant Ed Call and Private Hench - on first watch. Actually, the magic show is about to begin. Hench is going to make the beer disappear, and for his next trick, he's going to make another beer disappear.

Captain Seadog awards spoils to Bob Nagle. Mr. Seaman was not only kind enough to allow an "outsider" like Helen Safonoff to join us, but generous enough to buy her a wee dram of his private reserve, cask-strength single malt scotch. Helen didn't see the warning label on the bottle: CAUTION - contents highly explosive!

Sima Mishail - after she gets her check, but before the vodka kicks in.

Vodka kicks in. If there's a canary missing, check the cat Alex Mendoza, he looks real guilty. Either that, or he just got his St. Crispian's spoils.

Speaking of kicking in, let's check back with Helen - Yep, that scotch is some good stuff.

If he wasn't smiling, you'd think Alex Corbett was getting a mugshot, not remembering "with advantages, what feats he did that day."

Captain Seadog: "By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive." Sergeant Call (upon awakening): "Offending soul alive? He must be talking about my battle with Raoul Kennedy again."

Janet joins in the fun as Mona arrives. She'll be smiling in about three seconds when Chris hands her the envelope. Smile Alex.

I'd say you can tell Doug Roche got his spoils, but he always looks this happy when he's at Milano's.

"Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red."

Our minstrel. And a fabulous celebration. After nearly 1,400 days of battle, it's been a long road, but "This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whilst any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

Thank you Mr. Seaman. Oh, and "Once more into the breech dear friends once more, or close the wall up with our English dead!" - "In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English. Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!' "