EGG HARBOR TOWNSHIP, NEW JERSEY–Time/Space Continuum travelling enthusiasts were given reason to celebrate this week when famed wormhole explorer D.B. Cooper was sighted over a New Jersey strip mall.
“This has reignited interest in Cooper’s work and we are confident that Mr. Cooper made this appearance to garner attention to our upcoming TARDIS race.” Said Eunice Macklethwait III, president of the London based Quantum Travelling Club.
D.B. Cooper, last seen falling from the sky over rural Pakistan in 2005, completed his fifty seventh midair appearance at 3:20pm Tuesday, September 14. Many are saying it was his best.
Lionel Musgrave II, a longtime D.B. Cooper fan excitedly took readings of anti-matter and sampled ectoplasm near the Egg Harbor site. “This was great. A very understated and subtle free fall. It is a testament to his growth as not only a time/space traveler, but as an artist.”
Musgrave has been witness to several Cooper Falls.
“I was there for St. Petersburg in 2001. I was there for the ’94 Antartica fall. I have got to say that Egg Harbor, while off the beaten path, is a great choice. An inspired choice. Have you tried the Italian food around here? To die for.”
Cooper’s journey began November 24th 1971 when he jumped from the back of a commercial airliner to explore a Time Rift. Many shamans and physicists agree that unknown to Cooper, the rift had become corrupted in part by mysterious rays from Mars and the nightmares of children. It is widely speculated that Cooper then would have faced the judgment of Time Lord Xazthus, Sovereign Ruler of Sector 2814.
In the text considered authoritative on Cooper’s travels, Fall From Grace, author Dr. Victor Maze writes:
“After facing Xazthus and having his soul weighed and found wanting, Cooper was condemned to ever fall through open space and infinite time.”
Spectators in Egg Harbor remain gathered near the strip mall, days after the sighting, with high hopes for another glimpse at the world’s most handsome and damned time traveler.
Blaster fire crackled through dark space. The little corvette was out raced and out gunned, but was giving the Mount Olympus Imperial Cruiser hell yet.
Inside the corvette were Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena still locked in conflict over who should be awarded the Golden Apple but forced into an uneasy alliance as the rest of the Gods exiled them from the heavens.
“Cursed be ye three until you come to some peace!” Said Father God Zeus.
Now they fled across the galaxy as a ragtag rebellion with Imperial Gods in hot pursuit.
Athena clenched at the control panel as another blaster impact shook their embattled ship.
“We’ve got to jump ship! Its our only hope!” Said Hera.
Reluctantly, Athena agreed and turned on the autoturrets and set a course to crash into the Cruiser’s bridge.
“Open hailing frequencies to Hermes!” Said Hera to the ship’s computer.
A moment’s silence was followed by a voice mail prompt: “Sorry I can’t take your call right now–but leave your name, number, and a small devotional sacrifice of a goat and I’ll get right back to you in a flash.”
“Damn that Messenger God! Always busy biding someone else’s business!” yelled Aphrodite.
“Computer!” said Hera.
“Who are you calling now?” from Aphrodite–
“Hail Herpes.”
“Oh no. Not him.” said the Love Goddess shaking her head.
With a cuncussive “Bamf!” appeared Herpes, Brother to Hermes, and second fastest God in the Multiverse. A large sore glowed on his lip.
“Hey ladies. What’s shaking?”
“Get us out of here!” Athena directed at him.
“You’re yummy.” He leered. Before she could hit him, he scooped them up in his arms and “Bamf!” they were gone.
Moments later, on the bridge of the cruiser, a Lieutenant called out: “Sir, we’ve lost our bridge deflector shields!”
Showing his first glimmer of battlefield insecurity, the Commander feigned control as he directed: “Intensify the forward batteries, I don’t want anything to get through!”
It was too late already.
The flaming, now vacant corvette roared towards the bridge’s observation bay windows.
“Intensify forward fire power!”
His XO admitted it before he, “Too late!”
The Goddesses stood in an endless desert and looked up just in time to see the flash of explosion in the evening sky.
Herpes smiled crookedly looking like a dog expecting a treat for fetching slippers.
Aphrodite kneed him in his syphilitic coin purse. Athena threw sand at his eyes but he was gone in a bamf.
“Well, he saved us didn’t he?” Hera shrugged.
“Yeah, but I feel like I’ve got a yeast infection coming on.” said Aphrodite. The other two scratched in union.
Hera’s tricorder read that they were on the desert planet of Tatooine, one of King Priam’s territories along with Troy and Marvin Gardens. She figured that if they didn’t find shelter soon before the twin suns went down, they’d freeze to death in the night or get shot by the maurading Tusken Raiders. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” she said.
Paris skimmed along the red rock crest of Beggar’s Canyon in his T-16 with the first sunrise at the horizon and the second just below–giving him great position to surpise nesting Wamprats in rocky crags.
He loosed another blaster round and down went another, almost a meter wide wingspan twirling like a singed moth to rot on the canyon bottom. “I got one!” He howled.
“Don’t get cocky.” responded his onboard computer.
He arched up over the crest in a swirl of red dust, leaving four families of Wamprat to mourn their loved ones.
Tiny Tim, the littlest of Wamprats held his mother close to him until he could feel her breathing shake her and then cease. He didn’t cry. He knew she’d want him to be strong.
Paris saw a Sand Crawler inching along its treads towards the south and he barrelrolled into a low dive towards it.
He flashed a communication plink toward the mobile city and it plinked back: “Buy?”
and he answered: “Good prices?” and of course the mantra-like response from the Jawas: “Best Prices On Planet!”
He hopped out the cockpit as the Jawas lined up their wares. Paris had in mind to pick up a couple of sex-bots without his father King Priam finding out and the Jawas were the best synth-pimps on the sandy rock he called home.
“Hey. What’s you got in terms of some ‘entertainment’ bots?”
“Oontini!” screamed one to another with an excited arm waving motion.
Down came Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena from the ramp prodded along by a Jawa controlling their restraining rings.
“They sure look rough. That the best you got?”
The Jawas crowed back and forth chittering with anger.
“We usually look a bit better than this.” said Aphrodite.
“You see how you look after a night in the desert and being thrown in the cargo hold of a Sand Crawler.” said Hera.
“Sure. I bet you’re all real beautiful by Anchor Head or Mos Eisley standards. But, I’m sorry to tell y’all. I’m royalty okay? A prince.” said the Prince like a priss.
“Ooooh, big deal.” said Athena.
“Cool it, Thene…” warned Hera.
“No. I’m sick of jerkoff mortals thinking they’re God’s gift to womanhood. Screw you pal!” The War Goddess lifted her hands and with little effort snapped off her restraining belt and the necks of each Jawa assembled. She absorbed what little Mana their souls gave her and transformed–strengthened by bloodlust and the Spirit of Nike, Goddess of Victory.
With a flick of her finger she tossed the Sand Crawler and the Jawas’ bodies over a sand dune where they eaten by The Almighty Sarlacc, The Great Pit of Carkoon.
“And now, my ‘Prince’, you shall experience the true power of the dark side…” Athena’s raised hands began to glow blue with electricity but Hera pulled them to her side.
“Wait!”
“What is it? Let’s destroy him, plunder his kingdom, and then kill everyone on this planet. It smells like Dewbacks here.”
“Can’t you see any other way to solve a problem but through violence?” Hera pleaded.
“She is the Goddess of War afterall.” Aphrodite chimed.
Paris’ stomach clenched. Few mortals had tried to buy Goddesses as sex slaves and lived to tell about it.
“Athena, I think Hera has an idea.” said Aphrodite lovingly. “And I know what it is.”
“Well please indulge me.”
“We’ve been trying to settle who is the most beautiful right? Well here is a simple Prince to help decide!”
Hera nodded “That’s right. Who better than this naive little pissant, uncorrupted by norms and expectations of civilized culture?”
“Look, Tatooine may be remote,” Paris said “If there is a bright spot in the galaxy, this is the farthest from it, but I’m no dummy.”
“Perfect,” said Athena. “A dummy who is confident in himself.”
Paris puffed out his chest confidently.
Thus sang the Goddesses Three, in lilting voice and graceful of spirit: Thou pure spark of life
from great silence deep
you childe of stillness and time–
Thou art the heart of earthen vessels
mere mortals true but of hearts like seeds
to which the cosmos calls like deep unto deep.
Though craggy and cracked, each pot
has greater origin and destiny than
any might imagine.
To thee of wasted powers we plead:
who is the fairest of them all?
A sad race these mortals be,
what strangeness abounds in humanity!
But their greatness lies like secrets in their
shared myths, songs, their fireside stories.
They write of gods and mortals
and presume to know of each:
their difference and their likeness
and that the twain shall not meet.
They sing of lovely young maidens
and continue to mistreat those they ‘love’
strange hearts of hypocrisy and low souls
though their minds wish to soar above.
What pipes and timbrels!
What songs they sing
such gaity and madness a simple rhythm bring.
Yes, their words seek greatness
and poems and songs are uttered
but silence is prefered between lovers
and words their affairs only clutter.
Stranger in a strange land,
O wandering race–
of all you wrongly think you know
please tell us from your razor’s edge:
Who is the fairest of them all?
O animal of contradictions
of lies and self deceit
who has come to see even
simplicity in living as some monastic feat
who pines for one to kiss
but finds in loneliness a bliss
who kick against the goads
yet seek solace in travelled roads–
O double minded tell us if you can:
Who is the fairest of them all?
You who look to yonder wood
with hopes that if you harbor good
that you will bloom again after dying–
In hopes that like the evergreen
that life could not truly be as mean
to exempt you from heaven despite your trying
What if you were to be lost like tinder
and burned like boughs?
You’d no longer worry for where
a loved one’s soul goes-
But hubris ties you to dream of worlds to come.
And this remains your cross to bear.
O unhappy boughs
bid the spring adieu
and rejoice in each morn’
its own world anew!
O sad race,
We gods would wish you more happy love
more happy, happy love!
Yet you pant by streams of water.
You beg for more at a feasting table.
All breathing human passion
is a blistered tongue pleading drink
from a finger dipped in water
when thou rest in pools of coolness
at the bosom of all Creation.
Tell us lover of illusion:
Who is the fairest of them all?
Put aside thy gory gifts
thy rank auguries and tithes
stand up from thy altars
put down the sacrifice knives.
Look onto thy neighbor
and heed first their cries.
You trouble your hearts with infinity
and try to read the skies-
for shame you who would be goddesses
content in devoted sheep guise.
O prince among Kings of Unclaimed Crowns:
who is the fairest of them all?
Mortal, when mountains are laid to waste
and thrown into the sea
one truth will outlast you, your citadels,
and onto eternity.
When your gods are seen for idols
and even your very self as idol also
there stands one truth
extinction will forego–
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Now tell us Passing Shadow, O Vaporous Air:
Of us Three Goddesses, who mark you most fair?
Paris was a bit shook up to say the least. He had really been looking forward to spending his morning buying a sex-bot and taking it out to his friend Wedge’s abandoned adobe hut behind the Pod Racing arena, and now he was being confronted with existential dread.
He asked to be excused for a moment and he walked into the desert.
There he fasted for 40 days and took enough peyote that the ‘angels’ attended to him.
Then, in his weakest moment, Athena, Aphrodite, and Athena came to tempt him.
Said Hera:
“Vote for me and I will give you all the herds of cattle in the world. You can then have meatloaf every day.”
She showed him grazing cows that were just aching to be ground up into chuck. Said Paris:
“A person doesn’t live by meatloaf alone, but also by a lot of ketchup.”
Said Athena:
“Vote for me and I’ll make you the chief leader of all galaxies’ armies. You will be the most mighty and feared General since Grievous!”
She took him in a vision to look upon ranks of Post Order 66 Clones that would be at his command. Said Paris:
“Away from me woman! For it is written: There is only One Admiral Akbar and He alone shall you serve.”
Said Aphrodite:
“Vote for me and I’ll hook you up with anyone you want to get freaky with.” Said Paris:
“Like hot chicks to have sex with?” Said Aphrodite:
“Yes, and–” Said Paris:
“You! I vote for you! The one who’ll get me sweet sweet lovin’! Yeeeehaw!”
Paris shot his blaster into the air as Hera and Athena shook their heads in disgust.
“I shoulda guessed.” Said Hera.
“Yeah. We shoulda asked that guy on Dagobah.”
h0m-R came home to to a housewarming party of the termites who had moved in the night before. There was mariachi music being played by a gaggle of cockroaches dressed as geese, glitter covering everything, Lindsay Lohan digging through the garbage, and h0m-R’s husband Glenor Glenda Glengarry Glen Ross standing in the middle of it all looking frazzled.
“Boy what a day I’ve had.” said h0m-R.
“What’s that? You like my new haircut? Thanks for noticing, h0m-R.” said Glenor.
“I’m sorry if I seem distracted. I may have caused the end of humanity. Oh! kabobs!”
Glenor signalled the mariachis to stop and the termites took a break from their dancing to nibble on Glenor’s clogs. “What’s all this about humanity’s demise?”
“I sang a song of sixpence until I sang down the Deus Machinas’ straw houses of wakefulness. In their divine slumber they dreamt of how nice it would be to be rid of humans and now I feel horrible.” He sighed heavily and sunk into a quickly disappearing wooden chair.
“There’s still humans?” Glenor asked. “I thought they passed quietly into extinction after the Pancake Breakfast Tragedy.”
“They had.” said h0m-R, ”But unfortunately, some life inspiring genetic material was left in a McDLT box that had once kept the cold side cold and the hot side hot. The box was put into the hands of a gun loving seal and during a NRA meeting the speakers simultaneously threw red herring while relaying the fantasy of protecting one’s seal family from a home-invading seal clubber. Wham! the hot and cold sides became lukewarm and kazaam! a restart to the human species.”
“That was a pretty special seal.” Glenor said with awe.
“Yeah and when I was done invading his home and clubbing him to death his pelt made a great coon-skin cap….Glenor, I feel horrible about this whole thing. You’ve got to help me figure out how to change the GreatTechs’ omniscient minds about killing off the entire human species!”
Glenor and h0m-R let the party continue without them as they retired to the veranda for some mint juleps and Orange Julius.
Glenor: I don’t even see why you want to save these humans anyway. You’re HyQ! h0m-R: I have a little bit of human in me! Glenor: You had a human appendix and had it removed after it got infected and threatened to kill you. h0m-R: Yes, but I had it reattached to my coupling unit. And being human is more than just body parts. Being human takes place in the heart. Glenor: Even if you have an iguana/parrot hybrid heart? h0m-R: Especially if you have an iguana/parrot hybrid heart. Glenor: I’ve almost got an idea. (he takes a big glup of mint julep) Okay. I’ve got it!
Glenor stood up and jumped on top of the patio furniture which was rapidly turning into sawdust beneath his feet. “You go and convince those clock-work Gods to show grace to humanity by revealing the complex wonderousness of humanity in the only way possible!”
“You mean I go and tell them an epic tale of a sailor soldier returning home from war to his beloved family?” h0m-R excitedly clapped his hands together like a gun-crazed-seal at the ends of the gun lobby’s marionette strings.
“No. You show them porn!” Glenor ripped off his shirt to show off his external iguana/parrot hybrid heart. “After all, when it comes to finicky and tempestuous gods, you’ve got to razzle dazzle ‘em!….
Give ‘em the old razzle dazzle
Razzle Dazzle ‘em
Stream ‘em a vid with lots of flesh in it
With a Swede who’s moaning passionate
Give ‘em a crowd that’s mewing ‘poke us’
Bead and pearl ’em
How can they see with DNA in their eyes?
What if your new age gods are all fitful?
Just give ‘em a jockey who takes a fistful!
Razzle dazzle ‘em
And cram some porn in their eyes!”
“That’s a horrible idea! Porn is a disgusting blight upon the multiiverse!” h0m-R said, while watching porn on his TV, laptop, iPhone, cell phone, and imagination.
“Well, I’m all out of ideas. So you’re on your own.”
That night, h0m-R walked the city streets with a saxophonist following him playing “Yakety Sax”.
“Can you please not play that? I can’t hear myself think!” He screamed.
“Sorry.” The saxophonist said and began playing ”Baker Street”.
“That’s better.”
H0m-R and the saxophonist made their way to the Museum and inside found a retrospective of Ad Reinhardt and the saxophonist made a sad “waa waa” noise and children staggered about holding their aching heads. On the second floor near the hard-to-find bathrooms with new hand dryers which got more comments and enjoyment than anything Ellsworth Kelly could ever dream of, there was a room whose dimensions could not be measured.
Sitting inside were eight women who looked very small due to the infinitely high ceiling being vaulted. The saxophonist began playing Icehouse’s “Electric Blue” sax solo.
“Who are you?” h0m-R asked.
“We’re the Muses!” they said in unison.
Thaleia: Hi. I’m the muse of comedy. If you ever talk to Larry the Cable Guy, tell him I have a special place in hell waiting for him. Melpomene: Oh! May my name be never remembered! I am the muse of tragedy. Woe! Erato: Hi there, sailors. I’m the muse of erotic poetry….but now mostly just drunk dirty talk. Terpsichore: And I’m the muse of dance. I have never been to Minnesota. Polymnia: Sacred music is my game. You can thank me for coming up with the idea of having dreary church hymns with eight verses that go on so long that you miss the first half of the football game. Ourania: And you’d better thank your lucky stars for me–the Muse of astrology! Get it? Thaleia: That’s horrible. Melpomene: Almost as bad as Larry the Cable Guy! (stabs self) Kleio: And I’m ‘history’….Well, actually, Melpomene is. Get it? Ha! Thaleia: You know, I give up on all of you. Kalliope: And I am the Muse of EPIC POETRY. h0m-R: Epic.
So the h0m-R told the Muses of his predicament and asked them for their help and favor. The Muses came together in a huddle and put their togas literally together and their minds together figuratively. It was decided that h0m-R would be assigned a muse’s patronage and aid and succor and inspiration.
Kalliope addressed h0m-R, and making use of grand sweeping gestures, announced: “You will be assigned Euterpe, Muse of Flute Playing!”
“What the hell?!” said h0m-R.
“Cool.” said the saxophonist.
“Who are you anyway? Get outta here!” h0m-R screamed. The saxophonist walked glumly away playing the sax solo from Spandau Ballet’s “True”.
“This must be a mistake! Who is this Euterpe?”
Kalliope pointed at the door that was closing behind the saxophonist. “That was Euterpe, the mighty and Most Powerful and Revered Muse Of All.”
h0m-R wept.
“Boy did I screw up! There’s no way she’s going to help me now!”
“Tragic, isn’t it?” asked Melpomene from a spreading pool of blood.
h0m-R left the Museum with an overpriced coffee table book from the gift shop titled “How to Placate the Gods”. He flipped open the book and saw: ”Chapter One: Razzle Dazzle ‘Em” and thought about it for a moment and then looked at Chapter Two where he found written: “Tell Them an Epic Tale of a Sailor Soldier Returning Home From War to His Beloved Family.”
Sleep is something humans have often taken for granted. Anyone who’s had a touch of insomnia has awoke to the simplest and grandest pleasure we fleshy folk got. I knew a fellow who once chose to be medically placed into and kept in REM sleep for fourteen years. A neuro-bot would occasionally check in on him to see if he wanted to wake up and he declined repeatedly saying-”I just want to see the end of this dream through.” He finally woke up to attend his mother’s funeral and then went directly back to sleep. He got so good at dreaming that he in his dream chose to sleep. A neuro-bot once gave him a critical look during a visit and the fellow asked her “Isn’t all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?”
Anywho, it was because of sleep that I heard this story. It was during a time long ago–just around the time that music had been re-discovered. You must have been just a glimmer in your birthtube’s DNA stock, but I was already to an age where I was lying about my age and old enough to know that nobody believed me.
You see the GreatTechs, or Deus Machinas as some ‘believers’ called them had decided that they wanted to take a nap. They tried everything they could: possessing different bios, inhabiting varied avatars, hiding in wormholes, being incarnated as actual opium plants….nothing worked. They decided that they would try the old human trick of having a lullabye sung to them.
So they sent out a dream message to all creatures–bio, synth, neuro, hyQ, Cy, bot, android, and daemon–asking for the finest singer bard to come to their dimensional plane to help lull them to sleep. Well, many came to their aid. A program with the voice of Garrison Keillor and the sensibilities of GWF Hegel came and almost succeeded. A college freshman who had just found the writings of Marx had just about lulled them to sleep but an inopportune TXT message from an Ex stirred the GreatTechs into an emotional tizzy.
Then came h0m-R. He was a blind burlesque who thought he’d give the lullabye a try.
He came before them and sang the song of the ages. A story/song of such beauty and grace that the GreatTech could not but help but have their universe-controlling consciousnesses tranquilized and comforted. This was not the story of Ulysses S. Groan. That comes later. No, the lullabye he shared was the most sublime song ever to be composed and barely was able to fit into sound at all for the grandeur of it was fit only for the wet dreams of angels.
It’s peanut butter jelly time, peanut butter jelly time, peanut butter jelly time
(Chorus:)
Where he at 4x
There he go 4x
Peanut butter jelly 4x
Do the peanut butter jelly, peanut butter jelly,
Peanut butter jelly with a baseball bat 2x
(Chorus)
Now, break it down and freeze 4x
(Chorus)
Now tic tac toe (uh-huh)
Tic tac toe (let’s go)
Tic tac toe (you got it)
Tic tac toe (let’s ride)
(Chorus)
Now, freestyle, freestyle, freestyle, freestyle, freestyle, your style 2x
Where he at 4x
There he go 4x
Sleep is a danger than humans often overlook. Anyone who’s had a touch of the ‘oversleeps’ has awoke to either guns blazing, appointments missed, snakes hissing, trains quickly approaching, or an embarrassing wetness. Yes, sleep is a hazard to anyone. When do you think vampires and repo men most often strike?
When Deus Machinas sleep, trouble is magnified greatly as it happens. You see, these modern gods had a nice little snooze and dreamt how nice it would be if humans didn’t exist. When they awoke (not without a nasty case of morning breath) they decided to terminate all humankind from every universe bubble in the multiverse.
As you can imagine, h0m-R couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible.
Have a sit with me. There. Don’t it feel good to get off the ol’ dogs?
Enjoy that feeling. Once I’m done with, you’ll be the last to have that. Feeling.
Your servo droid says zie feels, and while zie does–its not exactly the squishy kind we know.
I’ll tell you this story only because I’ve forgotten some of it and don’t know most of it and
telling a story is the quickest way to figure it out. You, my lovey, have the hard part of hearing. I never did have too much problem hearing seeing as how I’m deaf. My eyes have gone out from me too so tap me on the hand if you fall asleep and I’ll talk softer not to wake you.
Of course I could have written this down. That would make the most sense, sure, but I’ve dedicated my life, my regen-life, and my clone reboot to not making sense. There is much too much sense in this world and with you looking to be the last bio around–there’s only going to be more sense for you to fight against.
When I first heard this story, I was in no way ready to hear it. That’s the way it is: stories change your world in a way that you couldn’t have been ready for anyway. Its hard to say what I thought of it then because the words I would have used then, I don’t have now and the ones I got now I realize aren’t adequate. Its a story that can’t be told and I’m an old fool to try. But I’ve always been attracted to fools for just that–trying the impossible.
I once saw someone do something impossible. Or it was right before and after they did it. Maybe everything can happen at least once. If you happen to be there for that once, you believe it. If you weren’t there and you believe it, its a miracle. If you weren’t there and you don’t believe it, you’re right not too ‘cuz it won’t never happen again. So if you ask me if I believe in miracles, I’ll tell you I only believe the ones I seen.
Now this story has got some things in it that we ain’t got now: Like gods, God, blimps, uncontaminated air, properly functioning Cyborgs, an expanding universe, and a consistent speed of light. Its also got things that never have been: a talking mutie-dog named Argos (his name was Zeike in reality), a spoon/fork hybrid named Spork (who could imagine such a thing), and a man named Homer. There’s also some true things in it, but I want you to ignore those parts as much as you can because nothing will dull a mind–especially a bio one like ‘truth’.
So the way I tell it is the way I tell it. When you tell it–if you tell it–it had better be different.
If it goes unchanged through you, it’ll be for nothing. When you eat your nutrio packets do they come back to you unblemished, or have they been transmuted magically and readied for the sanitation droid? Well in the same way, that’s what all stories do when they go through bio. “The wet stuff”. That what the thirteenth-gen android culture that lived in the floating cities called us. And they didn’t mean it kindly either. Well, I always was partial to my body–no matter what form it took. I’m not a little sad to recycle it.
Anywho, this story has a beginning. And I’ll get to it. It is said that its a story about a feller named Ulysses S. Groan. I think its not so much about one feller of any name, but that the name it goes by most. You tapped me a while ago, so I guess that means you’ve been sleeping a goodly portion and that’s just fine-it’ll give you good rest for the exciting parts.
Thanksgiving is now behind us, putting us squarely in ‘The Holidays’ now, which can mean only one thing: Santa Clauses coming To Town… LOTS of them.
On Saturday, December 12th, 2009, beginning at 11:30am, hundreds of Santas of all stripes will converge at an as-yet-undisclosed location to begin a day of fun known alternately as ‘Santarchy’ or ‘Santacon’.
If you’ve never attended a Santarchy, we highly recommend it. There’s just nothing like roaming the city dressed as Santa Claus in a big, red Santa mob, singing carols, handing out candy canes, and popping into pubs for a quick sip once in awhile.
For more information on Santarchy/Santacon Seattle, check out the Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=168342134116, or go to http://www.trisantacon.com/, where you can get info about the Seattle, Portland, Vancouver, and Bellingham Santacons. Be sure to check back at those sites closer to the day of the event to get information on where to meet and how to catch up if you miss the start.
And if you need a Santa suit, you might be surprised at how inexpensive they actually are. This time of year you can find them at lots of major retailers, or whip up something yourself from old clothes, fabric, or odds-and-ends laying round the house. And although Santa is the primary character roaming the streets on Santarchy, you’ll be sure to find some elves, and maybe reindeer and other known Santa associates.
We hope to see you out on December 12th for Seattle Santarchy!
It is snowing in Seattle and has been for a week. Initially it was idyllic, brightening the gray Seattle winter. But now it has turned to muddy ice and slush and going outside is a messy occupation.
Thus, let’s journey back to warmer sunnier memories, my trip with Courtney up the Washington Coast on July 4th.
We took a ferry from Anacortes and met some wind.
My hair reminds me of those toy trolls.
Sometimes I close my eyes and I go here.
Inside Port Angeles. This band has groupies.
Some sort of Beauty Queen, perhaps sponsored by The Flying-O Truck Stop. Those yellow shoes really ties the outfit together, don't ya think?
Walking on the boardwalk in heals is an ambitious pursuit and entertaining to walk behind.
This fellow was tempting fate. I think his name is Travis.
Fools in love!!
Someone had fun illustrating the dangers of electricity.
If this were my mother, I'd be a different person.
The man and baby on the right got style.
Then we went to some hot springs and met a naked hippy. a hot and heavy couple, some Minnesotans and this woman who just loved to hike. Oh, the sweet smell of sulfur!! It brings me home.
Here are the Minnesotans. Beth and Liz invited us to some Tex Mex! Although in the photo it looks like Liz is grilling sticks.
You know, taking our own picture, awkward style with one arm pointing the camera towards us with little or no accuracy.
Time for some wine on the beach! Biatch.
Playing in the sand, in case you couldn't tell. We were making mazes for miniature sand crabs.
Some people never learn.
They think that the world is ruled by ‘math’ and ‘statistics’.
For example: you can’t predict the outcome of a baseball game because there’s WAY too many factors involved-i.e. screamed chants from the fans, the prayers of a sick boy in left field nose bleed seats, etc.
Haven’t you people heard of “chaos theory” and “random acts of kindness”?
Besides, isn’t it a little misogynist to completely rely on the masculine assumptions of rational reductionism? The modern project of control and oppression through the privileging of narrowly defined “acceptable knowledges” is bullshit man, so when Nate Silver tells me that there is nearly a one hundred percent chance that my next fart will result in a teaspoon of anal leakage, I tell him that I’m gonna trust my gut.
Sure, I’m in the middle of making out with that girl I met at Friday’s last week during my cousin’s work party and she’s just gone down to the kitchen to grab another beer and will be back in a second, but I think that this is a perfect time to just let out this fart that I’ve been holding all night.
It will probably be a nice little silent and mostly odorless fart. She’s been drinking a bit and won’t even notice if there was a smell anyway. Probably. That’s my guess.
Nate Silver’s breakdown of my bowel situation might have a cool statistical accounting for every factor including columns labelled “Nachos”, “Seven Beers”, and “Two Gin and Tonics”, but you know what? I failed
college algrebra and I’m still doing pretty well for myself.
Oh! And guess what? When I said that the new James Bond movie “Quantum of Solace” would suck before seeing it, I didn’t need no stupid pie chart. I trusted my intuition. And who got the last laugh on that one?
So, as I begin to push and bear down on my sphincter, I do so knowing that humanity will never be programmable, predictable, compartmentizeable, for the human soul is a mysterious thing beyond knowing.
