ivan Posted October 21, 2014 Author Posted October 21, 2014 Methinks the Distinguished will be the first Put Against the Wall when The Revolution comes Quote
ivan Posted October 21, 2014 Author Posted October 21, 2014 Meanwhile the merely Proficient are the Little Eichmanns of our erstwhile Professional Age Quote
G-spotter Posted October 21, 2014 Posted October 21, 2014 You'd make a good teacher. Those who Can, Do. Right? Quote
layton Posted October 22, 2014 Posted October 22, 2014 Yes, but what does Marzano have to say? Does NGSS line up with CCSS? To which TPEP criterion are you trying to demonstrate that you are "distinguished", in the brief moments your admin may spend in your room? Most importantly, please read this for our next book study: Kill yourself for knowing that Quote
ivan Posted October 22, 2014 Author Posted October 22, 2014 i just want to be on the Winning Team when we score The Big One Quote
ivan Posted October 23, 2014 Author Posted October 23, 2014 A den of zombies at dawn Faces folded and blank to the clattering of zills The dead awake and stumble out into the day Severed and severe this dreary land Alone outside the limits of living things It tilts and tumbles through the frozen Vault of the timeless sky Who keeps the keys for the fool’s mouth and Has he lost them? Who wrings out the dregs Of days gone by? Who will turn Out the lights when the world ends And why? Quote
Choada_Boy Posted October 23, 2014 Posted October 23, 2014 Follow the sheep As the wolf drives the sheep to slaughter Stand with the wolf As the sheep at each other Crumbling at the roots Fearing of the wolf Love your fellow sheep As you march straight in to death Follow the sheep to unity. Quote
ivan Posted October 23, 2014 Author Posted October 23, 2014 "He who believes in the wolf, becomes a snake." Quote
Choada_Boy Posted October 24, 2014 Posted October 24, 2014 Homo lupus lupini est Homo homini lupus Man is Wolf to Man Men feed on each other Claws rend flesh as the pack descends Quote
KaskadskyjKozak Posted October 24, 2014 Posted October 24, 2014 Homo lupus lupini est Homo homini lupus Man is Wolf to Man Men feed on each other Claws rend flesh as the pack descends Yeah, the Walking Dead sure has gotten dark the past few episodes. ;-) Quote
Pete_H Posted October 24, 2014 Posted October 24, 2014 True fact that wolves are the 8th most popular subject of bad internet poetry. Quote
Fairweather Posted October 25, 2014 Posted October 25, 2014 Non illegitimi carborundum est I've never thought of Ivan as an industrial-strength abrasive. More like Soft Scrub. Quote
ivan Posted November 23, 2014 Author Posted November 23, 2014 to-do list: - get back w/ liz - get life sorted out - solve pi - get some red on me - eat more walnuts _______________________ pagan games w/ modern gadgets the fire transformed and canned in gleaming things for their faceless habits _________________________ oh the power of potent kool-aid how it courses through the veins of every revolutionary heads will fall and bodies roll lives destroyed such a terrible toll when a pact with rabid bullshit is made ____________________________ pilgrims in an unholy land ___________________________ every guy here a gallic hillsman kitted out in flesh and ochre as ready to be led as the proverbial deaf helmsman ____________________________ Quote
ivan Posted April 24, 2015 Author Posted April 24, 2015 holy shit, it was a long'un today! Conversations with Dr Maturin Preface One summer day some time ago, I don’t remember how long exactly, I found myself, as the poet put it, rambling n’ roving n’ following my footsteps, compelled, as Ishmael before me, to walk away from the dreadful noise of a bustling city, down to the water’s edge, where the tide quietly crept in and out, eternally irreconciled to the worries and drama of soon-dead men and their ubiquitous machines. There, in a leafy park, perched upon and piercing the sea-cliffs, I came upon him. He was a curious fellow, kitted out quite strangely – short pants untied at the knees, a most wondrous shirt without a collar, open and bare at the neck, soiled with all sorts of shit, made of rough fiber from god know’s what material – green tinted circular glasses, thick and appearing almost home-made out of bits of wire and for what purpose I have no clue, as they didn’t appear useful for anything except perhaps looking cool, like some poppy-mad scientist ripped out of the 19th century. I took him for a hobo of course, albeit one that might well recently have raided a theatre and composed his outfit from the curios and cast-off costumes of a pantheon of characters after they’d strutted and fretted their hour upon the stage then gone off to more gainful employment. Well versed in city-manners, and irked of course to find my sleepy little paradise invaded by a stranger, especially a stranger so odd at this, I at first followed that most important of civilized behaviors, I paid him no attention at all, avoiding eye contact and pretending instead he was some species of exotic inanimate object, devoid of all interest to me, save the obvious one of not walking into so as to preserve my own sanctity. But as I shuffled by, passing him slowly to starboard, I could not help but notice he showed equally the same indifference to me, focused instead solely and religiously even upon a blade of grass, perched between two fingers and thrust inches within his bespectacled eyes – he rubbed the blade slowly and methodically, peering deep into its tip, which I then perceived to have upon it a tiny creature of some sort – a lady-bug perhaps, whatever – does it matter? None to me of course, but for this unusual fellow it was the very Mona Lisa, a most powerful muse which he studied from every angle, puzzling over its purpose and geometry, the object I then could hear of a steady, hushed prose – the language I could not quite catch at first, but as I began to stare, all civilized notions now clearly gone from my mind, I took it to be Latin. I couldn’t grok a word of it, but it came on and on as if the torrent of a whispery waterfall. Was he talking to the creature? Lecturing it? Describing its dimensions and asking it for confirmation? Was it his friend or his student? A god even? An osprey, as adrift high in his own lonely world as I in my more meager one below, then cried out, raucous and loudly, keening his empty belly I suppose, or maybe just to pass the time, the sky after-all, big and beautiful as it may be, still ultimately as boring and big as everything else around it. The immediate effect though was for the bug-watcher before me to come suddenly alive. He started, the grass in his hand and its humble insect upon it quickly lowered as his eyes darted to the heavens to find the source of that sudden shriek. Confounded as he was by the low trees about us, he bound right past me, knees and elbows akimbo, causing me to step aside as he raced toward the clearing of the grey sandy beach, looking up in all directions, craning his grimy neck this way and that, searching. “Did you see that?” he called out, dropping the grass and rubbing his dirty hands together, then wiping them off on his festering garment. “Can you tell where that came from?” The Latin was gone now – he spoke in English for sure, but with an unfamiliar accent so strange that at first I didn’t quite believe I knew what he was saying. As the locks and tumbles in my slowly turning brain made the connections though, I too looked up and dodged about a bit until there, just below a scrap of cloud, I caught the fish-hawk, tumbling into a sharp dive, racing down into the sea. I instinctively pointed my fingers toward it, and the hobo followed my rapidly down-reaching arm towards its object, he grasping and recognizing the plummeting creature just as it crashed into the water, then beat back out of it in a flurry of cacophonous waves, a salmon clasped in its cruel talons, tearing back into the sky to take his thrashing meal off to a safe place to rip it fin from fin. “Oh, what a day it will be when men can fly too! With such speed, with such agility, with such ease!” the stranger opined, excitedly as he walked upon the strand, half-turned towards me in politeness but clearly far more fascinated with the departing bird than me who had pointed him out. “The philosophers all say it is the merest hubris to think so, that homo sapiens hath no place in the heavens, his arms too slow, his muscles too meager, his bones too thick, but I am quite convinced, as the sun shall rise precisely at its appointed hour every morning after night, that soon we too will wander up there and find things too lovely to contemplate! What engines will we create, what forces we will encounter, surely I do not know, but clearly we will accomplish it.” One cannot live in a city and not grow soon accustomed to the most bizarre of individuals and their broken, demented behaviors, and necessarily therefore grow callous and uncaring, but even so, this fellow had me – someday man will fly? Jesus, haven’t the Wright brothers been in their graves for a full century now? Hadn’t I climbed out of a monstrous aluminum bird just the other week after vacationing in Argentina, where that awful bitch had done me in for the final time? He had walked up to me, close now, in a friendly fashion, showing no threat, only heart-felt sincerity and interest, like a child really, so I could not bring myself to bash him as a mere bum, to ridicule him for the worm of madness that no doubt had bored into his brain long ago and left him a common loony, albeit one with a fascination for bugs and birds and for cool, shaded glens on the shores of both a sea and a bewildering city. “Uh..well…I think I recall this week’s the anniversary of the Apollo mission – that giant leap for mankind, as they said, happened when I was a mere lad of 3 or 4. Going to the moon isn’t exactly routine these days, but surely we can go back there if we want to.” He swiped the ridiculous pair of glasses off his sweltering face and proceeded to clean them on his nasty, oily shirt – off-handedly like, unaware of it even, as if a natural habit, for I had become the subject of his laser-focus – his eyes, predatory as the receding hawk’s, gazed keenly and hungrily in my direction, taking me all in at once – my shoes, my hands thrust into my pockets, the exhalation of breath, my very soul it seemed. A look of deep astonishment had crept over his stubbly cheeks, his mouth half-open and gaping, his body language suggesting both interest and disbelief. He seemed to be having as hard a time comprehending me as I had of he. “Surely you would not pick on a poor paddy and play school games with him! If men had found a way to fly but a few feet off the ground in the past few decades I would have seen it in the appropriate periodicals, yet, while I am certainly no great astronomer, those good fellows I know who are assure me repeatedly that the great Luna herself is a good bit further off!” he concluded with a wry smile that fueled my bi-polar relationship with this odd tramp – said relationship at this point was but a few seconds old, but it had already gone through several cycles of delightment and disgust, detachment and discourse. It was, I was to find over the next many joyous months, to be the constant thread of our relationship. I did not know it then, but I had found a friend who would mend my broken mind. It would not end well of course, but then what human endeavor, in the final analysis, ever does? Chapter 1 You probably should stop listening to me now if you’re put off by Rod Sirling kind of shit. I suckled at the breast of the Twilight Zone and was probably poisoned by it – a man does himself few favors when he peers deep into the pink of the existential world – the meat within the machinery is ghastly, mottled with sorrow and horror and really only able to be dealt with in the extract – I stumbled in the woods on a walk once and speared myself on a dead limb – when I sucked up the pain and pulled my gored leg out of the stubby spear of the stump, I couldn’t stop staring for a while at the pulsing, living steak below – what had me was that it WAS me – that cut of flesh might as well be shrink-wrapped and sitting in some refrigerator somewhere for sale – a totally alien thing only of value perhaps if I was hungry, but this…this was the living me, the agent that made the mangled aspirations of my mind attainable. Truthfully, I didn’t like it. I don’t want to be that. I want to be a brain in a jar, but I want my jar to contain the possibility of pleasure – the feel of wind in my hair and on my face – I want to be a robotic Spock, but I still want to be able to get jerked off in the shower. I want to be in the world, but also out of it. I want to be able to choose. The thing is though, this fellow before me was not of our world. Or rather he had been of our world, but long ago, before us, when it was his world, and a very different one – simpler perhaps, but with the same awful veins of darkness and foolish madness that shoot through our firmament today. What worm-hole of time and space that had somehow sucked him up and dropped him down in that dark park, my own private refuge that he had invaded, I do not know nor imagine I ever will. I guess it doesn’t matter? I would like to understand of course, if only to prove to myself that I am not crazy – that he WAS there, and he was of the past, that I hadn’t just suffered a stroke or been possessed by inthaki – but it is not to be, and I must either make my peace with it or pour myself several more drinks and try to nap it off. “Are you okay?” I asked, after a few moments had gone by but his interest had not wandered, that look of astonishment remaining on his half-smiling face. I continued “Do you need some money? Have you eaten recently? Do you feel unwell?” All shocking questions for a god-fearing city-boy to ask a bum I know, but if you’re in in for a penny, you’re in for the whole pound, so the street-hustlers say, and I figured, as I had already broken the cardinal rule and starting talking with this guy, and could easily beat his pale, perspiring form to a pulp if need be, there was no harm in offering or showing him a bit of the milk of human kindness. The dingy portraits of long dead presidents in my pocket were of no more value than Martha Washington’s dirty panties to me really, not after the weeks I’d weathered of late, and if they could give some poor guy some comfort, they might as well. “No matter, no matter” he replied, impatiently, motioning for me to follow him over to the shoreline to sit down and look out over the water “with the blessing I’ll have shaken my most recent bout of the marthambles before long, and as to my belly, well, as you can see, this furnace has little need for fuel, given the frail frame it is to heat. I’m sure it will be set sharp by the afternoon, but for now it is my mind that calls out to me for sustenance. Come let us converse a while, you claim knowledge I’ve only known mad-men to exclaim, and as I’m a doctor, it is my duty to Hippocrates that I hove you to, and try to get at the leaks in your caulking. As we sailors say, I’ll have you ship-shape by nine bells or spend the rest of the day holy-stoning the weather-deck!” The claim to the sea I was sensitive to – no great seaman or navigator, I’d done my stretch out there on the big salty as a youngster - a recruiter sold me an even bigger lie than the world I was trying to escape had been telling me, and one thing leading to another, I spent the better part of four years re-stocking Coke-machines on the fucking Teddy Roosevelt as she made racetracks in the Med, bored out of my fucking mind and hating everything more and more everyday – the sea, the land, the meat-popsicles that seemed to infest every teeming bit of both, the bitter birds in their azure sky. My life had been bent to bells – my daily rising begun with bells, my call to begin my utterly meaningless job on board this mammoth man of war by bells, my retreat into a packed, cramped, fart-riddled hole below decks by bells too. But never more than 8 bells mind you. Nine was just fucking crazy. “No ship I was ever on rang so many bells at once,” I offered, even as I sat down on the scraggly, salty-grass just above the tide-line and consented to let this wild-haired man with his dexterous fingers massage my skull, feeling for bumps and exalting at each one as he discovered it. His glasses were back on, and he raked his eyes over me through the crude green lenses with a professional air, commenting here and there in Latin once again. “And I can’t say I ever needed to sand the decks down either, but then they weren’t exactly made of teak. Wood on air-craft carriers went out with the dodos, I’m afraid.” The doctor (I guessed it was okay to consider him as such now, since he said he was one - the bizarre outfit and deportment aside, I’d only let a doc put his hands to me in such a way, and surely not a bum) had been clearly distracted as he attempted his diagnosis, but at this he assumed that shocked demeanor again and burst out: “Ah, the dodo, such a wondrous bird! Many a happy hour I’ve spent reclined amongst them, watching them come and go. Such peace, such an amazing example of the natural world’s mysterious course and purpose, the delight of a natural-philosopher for certain – how came they to lose their faculty of flight we must wonder – why would a creator cancel the effect of that most marvelous of creations, the avian wing? Why restrict them to the terra firma once again where common sailors can kick them and kill them so indiscriminately, and more often than not, not even to make a meal of them – fie, and for shame, those fore-mast jacks! I have to let blood out of them fort-nightly, so unbalanced their bodies become after forcing all that flesh into them!” At this I had to push his prying hands away and scratch my own head compulsively, suddenly afraid this mad-hatter’s malady might infect me too if I let it, through the lice perhaps that no doubt had embedded themselves in his hideous clothes. My only consolation being that, with a neat home like the one they’d found, why would they ever want to leave it? “How could you have seen dodos, they’ve been dead for ages?” I asked. “Nonsense, we really should get you into the shade, you seem to be suffering from some nascent ague, though I detect no primary febrility. Now, good sir, I assure you, why it was just weeks ago the Surprise put into a snug cove and filled her holds full of them, for want of salt-pork and green things had us all in a low way I’m afraid– with the blessing thankfully they carried us back to port unharmed. And while I did greatly disdain the slaughter at the time, I had to concede it was necessary, and noted with a latent satisfaction that we’d only diminished the herd by half when we left. For all their dedication to the flagrante delicto they’ll make up the culling in due course I’ll wager, and if no more…ahem…surprises lay in their future, they’ll not miss their stays.” A bit of a grin crept across my face, the first hint of humor I’d felt since The One Who Won’t Be Mentioned had gone away, stealing my cat and my half-bottle of whiskey along with my power of laughter. It occurred to me that each of us regarded the other as the same, quite mad, but harmlessly so, and worthy of care, even if it was a somewhat detached form of it. “Surprises? Can a medical man make so pitiable a pun?” “I must confess, I am no hand with a clench – thankfully though I can recognize the deficiency better than my particular friend, who has not the decency to realize how pitiful his are. Alas, one can not correct a captain.” “Nothing worse to be confined aboard a floating prison for months on end with bastards who have no inkling of an education.” I observed, reflecting back on my own hot-bunking days. The monotonous card games, the same fucking stories over and over and everyone one the same to begin with – broken homes, glory days that were really bald-faced lies, grim hopes - no future, just a Big Dark at the end of the line – maybe – if we’re lucky – but what sailor is? “You have me exactly! A body fed no food eventually dies, but a mind given no stimulus for months on end goes on and on, with only itself to tear at, and yet incapable of dissolution no matter the amount of self-destruction it does. Oh, the doldrums are a mean, mean sea to cross!” It occurred to me that this rare sort of street-urchin was rather more well-spoken then any I’d encountered before, and that, though he clearly had some notion of what it meant to be at sea, he nonetheless managed to routinely mangle his nautical terms. “The doldrums are no body of water, but rather a body of wind, or rather the lack of it, I suppose. How long exactly did you spend out there,” I asked, motioning out to the sea-scape where, far-out in the offing, the scrap of cloud had collected a host of companions that were darkening and engorging and scudding our way, “and what was your business?” Looking somewhat embarrassed and taken aback he sneezed a little bit as he replaced a tin containing some strange substance into his pocket. “Alas, though I have spent more years upon the waves than many an able seaman, those same jack-tar’s have had no end of mirth practicing upon my inability to learn what might be the horse, or the cat, or any other of the menagerie of farcical and yet no-doubt useful man-made beasts on board. I am something of a failed salt I’m afraid – though I have circled this earth several time I should think, and upon a proper ship too, a square-rigger of three masts in the King’s service and teeming with a professional crew, I must confess I have not succeeded in acquiring much of the jargon sadly necessary to manipulate such a machine. I seem perpetually to be ‘unable to win my anchor or ship it tight’ if I do, as those grog-addled lads say.” “Failing to become a proper sailor is much the same as failing to become a proper crack-whore.” I said with a bit of a chuckle, though his eyes looked blank and I knew he did not follow. “Why would you want to, is the question!” “There are a myriad of natural wonders upon that blue sea of course, and that I suppose is the reason for me, and my business as you rather indiscreetly asked. Normally I would not deign to answer so uncourteous a question, or any question at all, really, but as your fever appears to have receded somewhat, and until you are speaking normally again, I’ll humor you as a measure of mendicant. I took to the sea to escape a rather unpleasant situation by land, which I will not speak of though the Devil might demand it, and found, after absorbing the sickness and the fear and the worry of it, that I rather liked it – the freedom, the clarity of mind and purpose, the endless horizon and the whisper of water and the singing of the rigging in a gale.” I gave a bit of a grunt and noted, “Well the first part you say is common enough, and was the same for me too. I can’t say I ever agreed with the latter bit though, though again I wasn’t aboard some racing yacht, certainly not one belonging to some king. And what king might that even be these days? Shit, hasn’t England had a queen since the Big One?” The doc grabbed my wrist and put an expert thumb to the pulse, pursing his lips ever so slightly as he counted quietly in something that wasn’t English and didn’t sound like Latin either, puzzling over what I’d just said. “Hmm, poor fellow. My prognosis was inopportune I see. There’s a mort of madness still in you. I really should bleed you, I think I have a lancet somewhere in my pockets.” He fumbled in his bizarre gown, gripping and feeling at every nook and cranny of his person, like a degenerate octogenarian turned stripper. I used the opportunity to stand up and brush sand off my ass, cocking my head up at the sun and sniffing at the breeze, trying to get the sense of the weather and whether it would storm or not while I played word- games with this funky geezer. I made it clear I didn’t want to be cut into like a Christmas ham. But then, I really didn’t want anything. Mostly my life seemed lately to have turned into nothing more than NOT wanting things. It was a problem. But not one that I evidently wanted to do anything about. Madness. Christ, at least I wasn’t living in this park like a hepped-up wierdie thrown ashore by some sad outfit that had evidently come to the end of its rope with him. “Well,” he sighed, “I’ve often observed that the powers of a medical man are of limited effect anyway. Time appears to be the greatest physician, for either it heals a poor fellow of his troubles or relieves him of his suffering.” “I probably should be going really – I have….something…to do…somewhere…I suppose. And you’re obviously rather busy here.” He smiled a bit, not immune to the jab, and conceded, “Actually I am rather taken aback, as they say, I seem to have lost my way and am a little concerned at it. When I woke up a few minutes ago I couldn’t for the life of me recall how I had come to this spot, or even when or where it was that I had come to rest. I was rather afraid at first that I had allowed myself to indulge in my old tincture, a rather grim fear actually as it took too long to cage that perspicacious devil, it costing me cruelly over the years, though indeed it took years to conclude that in the first place. I was rather confounded and starting upon to panic, when I glimpsed this wondrous beetle, such a glorious specimen!” His hand shot to his forehead and he leapt up, his ruddy hair bouncing as he raced back to the very place I’d first seen him. “Good heavens, I had meant to pin him and wrap him up, his Lordship will be ever so pleased to add him to his collection. I have some interest in the order of course, how can a world traveler not, but he has made almost a profession out of the ubiquitous coleopteran, his passion knows no bounds – it pleases him so, and yet I have gone and misplaced him – such a lovely specimen, such a fascinating scheme of colors, and to what purpose? Perhaps for mating purposes? Surely it could not be for camouflage?” Remembering suddenly what it was that had distracted him from his late staring contest with the bug, the hobo turned doctor turned sailor comically ran back to the shore line and peered out to sea intently, attempting to divine where the wind have blown the osprey and his broken prey. But he was no longer in the offing. The delight was gone. And so goes the pleasures of men. “I have ever had so much more interest in the birds of the sky,” he eventually resolved, “and yet, this reminds me of what you first said. You said there was a man on the moon, and what’s more, though you have some signs of sickness, you surely and sincerely meant it, and no simple fever could induce such a yahoo expostulation.” “Are you a doctor of literature as well as of medicine and biology?” I joked, adding, “I didn’t say there was a man on the moon right now, just that there were men on the moon a while ago, and we could go back too if only people put their fucking phones down for a bit and learned what it was to wonder again. Maybe if TMZ thought they could get a shot of Miley Cyrus fucking a polar bear up there they’d spare the expense?” He looked puzzled again and put-off perhaps by the glorious fuck-word’s re-appearance, all pretty and proper, like a Vegas whore after a shower and a shave. “I have been gone from shore for some time I know, though I can’t recall exactly where I was before waking just now. But I do know that to go to the moon would require the power of flight, or perhaps a prodigious great cannon to propel an adventurer to such perilous heights, and how then to return? Come now, do you seriously suggest such a great feat of engineering , such a triumph of man so as to trump the accomplishments of Newton and De Gama, has transpired during my recent voyage?” “Well now, doc, human flight ain’t exactly news-worthy anymore. Shit, even the lowest of gutter-snipes can claim a circumnavigation if he’s got a day or two of time and a couple hundred bucks to blow!” With that I pointed emphatically up at the sky, where a long lacy contrail drifted slowly southward in the stratosphere. A gleaming silvery jet, like a child’s dream, raced along its jutting edge, glinting in the sun, carefree, off to somewhere fairer and plenty fast. I have always loved a flight, the ocean bedamned. No greater feeling then to take off. As long as you’re off the ground, who gives a fuck? A stupid job, a worthless life, a horrid hangover or a faithless wife – all that shit’s an abstraction at 400 miles an hour in air you can’t breathe. Life is only real when you’re on the edge of losing it, when the pink has pierced the skin and oozes out and over everything. The thought of it came over me like a blue devil, and I turned my face away from him and the shore and the city and cursed Argentina and the whole fucking continent too. I’d have sunk it into the ocean, and every whore on board it, if I’d had the power in that moment. I was tired. Tired of being tired. Tired. The music had gone out of me. The smile I’d lately rediscovered done over just like that, by the cruel ruler of a line stretching across the sky. My jaw was taunt and jerking, my eyes red and hurting. I wiped at them and turned around to conclude this stupid lark. There he was, gob-smacked, glowering at the sight of the swiftly setting sky-farer. “Deu meu!” he exclaimed and collapsed to the ground, as if God himself had heard and struck him down. Chapter 2 I’m a shitty person, I’ve never pretended otherwise. I reckon that’s what eventually put me on the rocks. Shit, what can you do? You sleep with what crawls into your bed, whether you wanted it to or not. The problem the fucking philosophers ain’t concluded yet is that truth chooses you, not the other way around. I don’t like kicking dogs, I just feel an insatiable NEED to kick them. Dunno, maybe my great-great-grand-daddy got done in by a cur and the curse of it just went coursing down the generations. The greatest lie we ever tell ourselves is that we have a choice. That said, the faint twinges of humanity that have their tentacles in me could not let me leave the good doc on the ground, dead to the world. Looking once more at the jet fading off into the distance, to confirm that it was just that, a common 707 doing what 707’s have been doing since Steve Miller thought it’d be a good idea to sing about them, I ambled on over to the poor bastard, already recovering, his face in his hands, vigorously rubbing his eyeballs back into place. “Whoa, there, silver – you get yourself a belly full of bad berries? Suddenly realize that a tree falling in the woods don’t matter a bit, observer or not?” I joked, stepping towards him to offer a hand up. He was bewildered for certain, groggy, like a kid the Saturday morning after his parents split for a weekend of hookie-pookie in the Poconos, leaving the key to the liquor closet next to the porn n’ the dildoes and the .38 in the dresser drawer. A rocket went off in his mind and he shot skywards, streaking out into the sand, his greasy garment stretching out behind him. He gesticulated upwards and cried, “What IS that!?” My sense of humor returned with a vengeance, re- kindled as those brought up on schadenfreude are wont to, by the plight of the common man. “I imagine that’s Mick Jagger getting blown by a bus-load of hotties while en route to the next great-gig-in-the-sky.” Quote
Fairweather Posted April 24, 2015 Posted April 24, 2015 Geeeeezalouisedoesn'tthissitehaveatenmegabytelimit? Quote
ivan Posted April 24, 2015 Author Posted April 24, 2015 a sea-book must of necessity be long, long, long hope bill coe sees this at least - might give me the inspiration to finish it... Quote
billcoe Posted April 24, 2015 Posted April 24, 2015 LOL, ya got Maturin down cold man, but you really start hitting your stride at the bottom of it. Still laughing at this: He was bewildered for certain, groggy, like a kid the Saturday morning after his parents split for a weekend of hookie-pookie in the Poconos, leaving the key to the liquor closet next to the porn n’ the dildoes and the .38 in the dresser drawer. Finish it, finish it! Good lord, probably a good thing to don't show up to those staff meetings armed:-) Quote
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