Travel Tips Plus Other Useful Advice for Members and non-Members Alike.

The most important time of the year for travel dispectories is expected to arrive in the following two weeks as the winds off Lake Murveld take a marvelous turn to the Southeast and our afternoon smell engages brightly into a far more complex engagement. It is said that on occasion it will give every impression of resembling a dull type of snack food. The size as well is not something that should give anyone pause unless they believe they'd be better off appearing where a bordering signal is fast approaching inevitability. In that case they are to treat all comers like the plainly false stem of rejoinders of which it is our duty to warn in companies large or ball-like.

Any natural pantanelle, with or without obvious harmful angles, could be absorbed with minimal fixations. By the time a massive stone siltherture is positioned as it unfolds to entrain our collective blanyards, a moment or two will no longer be enough  to check if your likeable patterns will delay the swiftest passage to greet the neap tide with a sharp, if hollow whisper. If you do decide to enter our fray, you will need to doubly intrude, or else feign a patterned response dipole.

You have all been warned about a code. In fact, I have personally memorized the favorite shape carried in each of your minds. Some may find my efforts to be precious. I prefer to allow a type of grit to settle in the razor-thin margins of a likely individual's left foot. This will give us time to collect each of the things which we've been told you pray to love at distance. When the tallest of us is instructed to issue a factual smile, then your trick will have been determined to be efficacious. No blood is expected. The weight is irrelevant. Hair color is paramount. As you practice pronouncing a word, please remember that shading is everything. Then we will get about trapping your hands in a shallow pond. If you live for granular enjoyments, this should be your ticket.

Now walk slowly to the front. Bring your trepsis. Ask your gods for a clarity of temperature. Observe our prolapse induction. A pill is waiting. Do not swallow. Just engulf it in a red flame. Allow the head to dip ever so slightly to the left. You're almost there. During sleep periods you are encouraged to dream only of a gigantic iron wheel. It will take you into the final morsel. Tell us if you feel as if you are being gently chewed. No paper will ever be used again. Only string will be provided. Your health is not at risk. The water comes closer. You will soon meet our cleanest partner. She encumbers duration in the liveliest chambers. No one will ever forget. We love you inside. Now hide. Carefully.

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Swimming-pool Shapes in Perspective.

 

There's a swimming pool in our local area which is shaped, weirdly enough, like a bird in distress. And there's a not insubstantial group who sometimes goes there, who, if I'm being honest, believes they have a right to keep certain things not just private, but actively secret. For example, when I took it upon myself to ask the tallest one what his favorite color was, you know what he said? He asked if I'd like to join him for dinner later. In the trade, this is what we call 'classic evasion'. I knew a ruse when I spotted one and this one wasn't smelling very funny, if you ask me.

When I traced his '98 Buick LeMans to the parking annex of the First Baptist Church in Owensville, Nebraska, I left a business size manila folder near a park about a mile away in the hopes that this wouldn't give me away. Once I started to focus on his troubled marital history, I knew that something just wasn't quite right. Or I might have said that something just didn't add up. Whichever way I, or anyone, might say or write it, you can tell I was stumped. Once I got back into school in a supervisory capacity, I ran his numbers and came up empty. Except for one very particular number. And that number was: 792.

A lot of folks are wondering, and have for quite a long time, why is seven hundred and ninety-two such a weird number? It could be something about the way it looks. Also the way it sounds if you say it aloud; even more so if you learn to say it backwards. Forward or backward, it has this funny way of getting people in trouble. There's a rumor that someone died but there's nothing to back that up.

Two months later, when I looked up and saw him standing inside my shaving mirror, I immediately knew where I'd seen him before: a backyard barbecue in Murphysboro, Tennessee on October 7, 1956. He was the guy who insisted that he was a real Grade A know-it-all. I knew that he had a 'thing' for stuff like that. He could tell I wasn't kidding. The next morning I rushed him into surgery. Even after the operation he swore that I'd stolen his wife's pincushion. Please let the record show that this is impossible. Why? It happens that I am violently allergic to pincushions and have been since I was a kid. So there!

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WARNING ISSUED; ISSUE DENIED!

 

I have been warned by no less than our County Leasing Agent that there are hidden agendas at play in an apparently simple request which we received at the behest of a forlorn officient to whom I gave a ride in the waning days of Summer 1997. This is so long ago that those of us who normally lurch into action at the drop of a pin feel like there's work to be done here. No one with a face blackened by years of incomparable grime like yours truly can afford to ruffle the feathers of those still standing in the face of intractable semantic whirlpools the world over. Once the terra cotta is dry, I can ill afford to allow the God-given truth to shine for all to see. Because if I do, one thing is very certain: a passage in a very rare tome will be cited, whereas before, when some of us decided to stick to our guns, the lion's share of the lubricants would be directly deposited on our formal night wear and our appearance at a rally in a Southern Methodist stronghold would become just another open and shut case. The ones who hurt the most will not be the intended victims of our perfidy. That honor itself could be tainted with the telltale rubbish from a rather imposing gent who's got all the help he needs.

We like to tell the innocent among us that we entered the picture when a very particular line was drawn across an outdated map. My confreres have struggled for what seems like a few seconds to come up with a more effective name than the one we habitually applied to those seeking redress from our highest victim to date. He looks, for all the world, like a dandy exemplar of living in a way which minimizes the scope of scoundrels around an improvised co-hash. There are structures to be erected. But now that one or more of our trial septuaries have squandered a most precious asset, anyone who makes time available during a busy part of the year, can expect only a small bit of gel to be extracted from their left hand, if that. We didn't reach this decision lightly. The one expert who was eager to be wined and dined in the end could only expect a raft of nuisance regulations to be used against him in a formal hearing not worth the paper it was printed on. And, in case anyone should see him hurling smallish parts in a room on the campus of ICU, you'll know that our work is far from done. And then some!

Kelly Rabner wishes that some of you would spring to his defense and help him polish off the last bits of a true-crime drama and deploy the full force to which you are so vainly entitled. Only one victor at a time will be enough to insure that a tangent conceals its compliment and is hardwired to make maximal use of a deficient desk appearance ticket. By their names you can tell if they no longer shower their meager messenger boys with aptly concealed teflon sheaths. Where does it say that I get to make all the rules? If she was you, she wouldn't let them foment ever newer elements when what we already have has served us so well over the last dozen years, if that. When I come to the end of my time here, let it never be said that I took time out to look askance at anyone in the robotics industry writ large. That would be a heckuva way to be remembered after all the pilferage which went uninvestigated for years on end. Why would anyone get the feeling that you're still not with us? Could it be that you've already been asked about that? That really hurts, just not the way you think it should, that's all.  

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Suspicious Behavior Elicits Emergency Response: CODE: oxcake.

 

The parents of some of the people who've escaped my notice are beginning to evince not a little suspicion. It's true that they used to drive by my house on the random weekend (in their words, 'just to check' HA!). But now it's a nightly ordeal. I try and give them all the room they need, even to the point of providing marshalls who don't mind taking part in a mindless charade. Yet still they question my motives, relationships, hobbies, educational attainment, attendance at Worship Services, blood type, stool status, morning routine, magazine subscriptions, nuclear watchdog crumbcake inspection, drug habits, affiliational proclivities and whatnot and so-on.

I've been asked more than once to stop making a mockery of their concern for folks who never amounted to much in the first place. They have made it known to my accountant that they intend to donate in excess of one hundred and twenty-three dollars to an emergency fund in the event of certain 'dangerous' ideas being bandied about to-and-fro. I've been quite clear to said accountant that they are not to be given the short end of the stick. In fact, I even went so far as to plunge the assembled throng into what passes for artificial darkness. I knew that in this way they'd be very unlikely to find some of the pieces which I'd planned to throw under a bus. People said that obviously I no longer felt any concern about these pieces,.. we all know what 'under the bus' implies, right? They just won't cop to the fact that I said 'A' bus, and not 'THE' bus. You don't think this made any difference, do you? Because if you do, please see me later and we'll see what we can do.

What would you say if I told you that not one of us here will any longer take the risk of being seen in the company of those whose only concern is to appear only weakly attracted, by dint of hard work alone, to the faithless electors who, in the Summer months make our recreation center their virtual headquarters. For real, right? I think a lot of others feel the same, yet I can't get the go-ahead to install any more state-of-the-art units without the say-so of 'you-know-who'. We have it on good authority that someone you know was seen not more than three miles down wind from a very tricky 'incident'. The keys were found protruding by the truckload from a mound in the backyard of a very dear woman friend of mine. She's at her wit's end trying to control your every movement. They tell her, and I second the motion, that even if every particle is washed away in the next few weeks, the training for bio-hazard will continue, days, nights, weekends... you name it. The problem is, though, no one thinks you'd ever be able to any longer affiliate yourself with the underlying pro-cram. For that we need a sanctified spatialist. and this just doesn't describe the person who once offered my parents free passage for the cost of a mediocre cup of coffee. This doesn't sound like anyone you know, does it? Thought so.

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Story of a Man.

 

The man, who dons dull brown duopoly pants as a matter of course, believes it prudent to outwait the onlookers who gather nightly just adjacent to our vestibule to engage one another in tiresome social rituals. Due to his lack of common graces, he may not be permitted access when the time comes for 'the big reveal'. You see, about seven years ago, before we were married, my wife saw fit to carry on a torrid, if loveless, dalliance with a brilliant, now deceased, architect. This architect was a trusted confidant of the man's step-father. It turns out that they'd been on good terms until 'that' day at the quarry. No one can ever forget how the man, now just entering a squandered middle-age, took to his knees to stage what amounted to a mini-drama, all in the effort to lead a lesser cohort in an unappetizing direction.

Just across the street from where I write this, there's a plaque embossed with naive riddles. Also you'd find one or two names. They'd mean nothing if you weren't one of the ones caught cycling through cancer screening cards. We've told him that there's precious little time before he will be expected to arrive undisturbed at our remote testing facility. I routinely take him aside to explain the fundamentals. As is so often the case, he claims impunity against any ongoing designations. In any other language, this isn't enough to get you out of the loop. That's why I had to call his folks. They should be able to make it up here by Sunday afternoon. At which time I'll ask the Mom if she could get me up to speed on the basics. The last time I asked her, about a year ago, she just smiled and walked away super pissed. Go figure...

It's now common knowledge that the man feels impelled to bring in outsiders so that they can wait while he asks my permission. I know that with even one more click, he could be eliminated forever. The thing is, we both need him to stand guard in case anyone arrives after official screening hours. It will only be played once, this time for laughs. The hat he wears makes for quite the conversation piece. Why has he never told us any of this? Could it be that he found my cologne to be a righteous 'turn-off'? I'm not asking these questions to sound petty. There are only two other people who no longer feel comfortable playing juvenile tricks on elderly seamstresses. 'Self-awareness' just doesn't cut any ice with these bastards. That's why I normally stop in front of their house once or twice a day to just reflect on what it takes to succeed in life. Please don't say that you weren't warned. It's already too late by half.

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Paper and Paste? Really?!?

 

The paper and the paste I have been given are for later. The dapple-rod is for this moment, and this moment alone. I regularly meet just outside the wall with those who seem somewhat pleasing, what with their mannerisms and something else besides. When one wonders about ambient room temperature, I can't help but look at him coldly. This isn't an event which inspires confidence among my surviving forebears, of which there are maybe two or three at the top of my box. I'll go one better and open it myself if you give your word that a name will never be provided, save under a District-wide enforcement decree. I'm debating whether to tell you exactly where I will ask you to sit once we get started. It could be a total wash if you're brought in too soon. You do have kind of a 'funny' look. Just not the 'ha-ha' kind.

When the local people become inconsolable, the paper and the paste are set to be my 'go-to'. The rags which were all the rage three or four years ago have come and gone and now no one worth his salt can find the time to frame the entire area in a grid to make our portions stand alone when the light fades.  A barely consonant feeding-post helps everyone get settled. I lead them via individual halters and they seem contented enough that any fear of swarming amounts to one of us taking on something which is decidedly over our collective head. I can't quite place the guy who told me just the other day that he'd found an empty binder in a park not far from here. This is important because I've had my doubt from the beginning as to when, or even if, we have any right to expect a priority notice. It's not every day that you have to compile a series of factors. This could get ugly. Please bear with me.

While we've been waiting in real time for our house to be completely demolished, I've been staying downtown at a rooming house normally frequented by high-flying nobodies who're just trying to get a grip. As if that's something that strikes a bell! The children have been placed behind a local Catholic girl's school where they can busy themselves with makeshift projects and possibly even earn extra cawthorns for all the trouble they've been. In my day, we took to flying through windows with a snippet of torn fungus as backup. I'd say it was worth every penny, except that when the car stalled smack dab in the middle of the Lincoln Tunnel, my wife decided that that would be the perfect time to perfect the timing of her outbursts. I'd like to say that I've never had it so good. But, before I say that, it'd be more appropriate if people on your level could investigate personal growth modules. Someone may have gotten the wrong idea, among much else. Why so gloomy?

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A Cautionary Tale.

 

From her own lips it was not at all unthinkable that a verdict would be rendered, at distance if needs be. Still, those of us who stood to gain could take pleasure in knowing that her perspective was not without its very own zone of impactive tussle. We could lift a measly tribute and have it for her by the following week, except that time itself was rumored to have begun a process of telescoping which, quite frankly, has some of our most eminent physicists scratching their balls in wonderment. Try as we might, each of us has to face the real possibility of having to go without in the near term. What rankles us, though, is how your average passerby will seemingly go to any lengths at all to appear unconvinced. Our appeal to some well-armed colleagues is all for naught. Which leaves us no alternative but to seek redress through an informal arrangement of the fifth kind, thus confirming the unadorned suspicions of amoral data brokers from Day 1.

I have it within my power to transgress all prior novelizations in one fell swoop. But this shouldn't encourage like-minded refugees to begin scouring the countryside in search of clues to the whereabouts of a missing bannister. Because, even though I'm one of the people most enraged by her high-handed tactics, I will still leave it to my betters to breach a flaccid barrier in service to an emaciated agricultural agent. He will be a force for our own incipient removal to an isolated Summer residence where our sleep habits and morning routines can come under the kind of scrutiny which any fair-minded adult would have a hard time denying. The lone service provider who we've seen underneath our area was forced to admit to having waited for smaller members to take the hit. Otherwise, he told us the other day, he might never have been able to tell his family about where I did my post-graduate work.

From the way she styles what's left of her cotton-nibbed mane, the feeling in the room is one of incisive declension. Yes, I continue to roll my smallish cylinders just to the right of the can on the floor of the Third Annex. My erstwhile compagnard, Jerome Afgew, thinks it wise to prepare ourselves for an unballasted reliance on sybaritic cow-herds if things go our way. If not, we could be looking at more than three dozen training sessions, courtesy of Joe Ivy Associates of Bangor, Maine. They will most certainly deploy the most up to date lighting technology and no doubt bring in timing prods by the boatload—literally! Meanwhile, I rest in my ballow, trunk in hand, beasterage at the ready, hoping for a common solution to an age-old conundrum. It irks me to say it, but I'm only mildly ensnared by her seemingly eternal rapid-release response. Not that it doesn't rub the other fellows in a way which says, 'You can't get there from here!' Please, if you're reading this, try not to get too puffed up. It could happen to you as well, and probably will, if I have anything to say about it. And I do. Plenty, in fact. Wouldn't you like to know? No.

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