On a good night there’s something to be said for 100 people in 100 rooms doing 100 things with an astronaut that doesn’t feel his place is in the stars but in the desert with the craters and the cacti and digging in the earth for remnants of past civilizations that may have been something special or mundane, depending on the rigidity of their timepieces and hairdos.
Sandals worn on the surface of the moon will scrape away skin if left to fester in radiation. I’d get those scabs looked at — they may very well indicate a more severe condition, limey. Yes, I called you a name based on your citrus intake. I know you’re not from Great Britain. Even Lesser Britain (which is…what? Canada? That’s not very nice).
I’d like to take this opportunity to invite all of you to enter the sweepstakes for putting the heads of your enemies on platters and talking trash to the honky gentlemen down parking your cars over at the valet union shack. Could you give me a robot for one paycheck, or will it have to be two? Oh, you’re saying a robot costs more than I make in a year? Then screw you, buddy! I’ll make my own. A robot convention would be a sight to see. All those gangly robot metal arms whipping around without a care for whatever flesh may encounter them. Robot buddies never give each other a nanosecond to even worry about such formalities. A few bumps and scrapes on their iron hulls are telltale signs of friendship and not a note from the doctor (or mortician) as would be the case with a human. That’s why robots and humans can never truly be friends.
Just because it happened to you doesn’t mean it’s interesting. I was telling a story to a behemoth that had escaped his bonds below the surface of the planet and he was just yawning, gulping down worlds as if by accident, laying waste to entire civilizations as if they were his personal playthings. Really, they were just dust in his very big room.
Anyway, back to what I was saying about hotel stays. If you’ve got Pete Townsend visiting from his mother’s house in wherever he’s from and whatever he’s doing, he’s totally not invited. That cat can swing a guitar, but keep him away from the furniture. He may not wield the destructive force of a Keith Moon and his ten megaton toilet ruining company, but he’s got his chops down, regardless.
I was hoping to get a better grasp on what tuna’s doing for the Fourth of July, but someone just told me it’s September already. How does this keep happening? Well, no bother. I’ll just keep my boots on and my coat handy just in case. Like the weather and politics, you never know which way the wind’s going to blow — only where it’s blowing now. And that kind of blows. You know what I mean.
If I clicked on that gadget with the little fingers that keep halting water from flooding the cities, would the dam burst, or would the fingers just get prune-laden? I have a hard time believing that the sun can keep us sheltered from space. It’s like a giant (albeit moving) target in space, with all sort of little targets whirling around its embrace. The Solar System is like a colorful mobile in the behemoth’s nursery, and we’re all twirling toward its gaping mouth a little closer every day. Every month, you get a sticker to put on your calendar that says “You’re THIS close to being devoured by the behemoth! Do you have your affairs in order?”
It’s nice to have a reminder, in any case.
You know, I haven’t written in this thing since we lived in Long Beach. That was months ago. Not many, but time passes, as aforementioned, more quickly than any of us think. Unless we’re waiting for inspiration to strike or sitting in a jail cell or watching reality television marathons. How would I know how to react to space invaders that bring you to them instead of coming to visit without an invitation? I have a doll head stuck to the roof of my mouth and I keep it handy to scare away street urchins that ask for spare change and bus tokens. It’s a pretty realistic-looking doll’s head in that it looks more human than plastic or porcelain. Plenty creepy. It’s true that most of us (myself included) find this disturbing, but is it more disturbing than polio? That’s up for the scientists and ghost hunters to decide.
[Image by Robert Glen Fogarty]