Sunday, June 24, 2007
Sunday
Had a fine b-day party for the Zapper yesterday. The Gator is already broken: it won't go into reverse. One of the Moms at the party told me that her friend had one that would only drive IN reverse, so it could be worse. We rented a bouncy castle and had a lot of fun in it, even though the temps got into the mid-nineties. I made a bunch of deviled eggs, but the other Mommies (no Daddies showed up) I guess were watching their figures or something, because they each only ate one (there were only two of them), so I had to do a Cool Hand Luke over the last 24 hours. Can't let them things go to waste.
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We used to have the same problem with aging helicopters. One could do some things, another, others. This is going to sound like ill-conceived fiction, but, in all honesty, if you reverse-checked all of the maintenance history cards on this one helicopter far enough back, the column divided into two sets, meaning representative of two separate flying beasties. They had, tin-woodman-fashion, actually been so canibalized into use in one another that they had eventually become a single entity. Theoretically, you and your guest could canibalize the Gators into one another to such a point that you ended up with at least one optimum Scharzengator, smoothly mobile in all gears, and one lesser-twin Danny Devitogator, defiantly valued and loved for its own secret virtues, however limited at the flywheel. Then, of course, comes the comparatively challenging point in which you and the other party work out whose gator is to be whose...
If you check the maintenance records on my interior life you find the same thing: they diverge into two separate entities somewhere in the late eighties, neither of which can be traced back to a particular manufacture date. Despite being an amalgamation of various cannibalized personae, my present overall psychic integrity is amazingly seamless. That is probably why two therapists and several ex-girlfriends have been overheard describing me as "a real piece of work."
Perhaps they should call you the Interminalator. You can skynet victorious via Astragalus-bearing-cannibocopters to the postbushy surge-sounds of Ryde of the Valkeries playing in psychologically-parallel stereo, thus to quip to said therapists and ex-girlfriends [while fixing them with the personaereflective stare of your ray-bans]: "I'll be Bach."
After all, as the Book of Tobit teaches, sometimes you have to slay an Hellenic Daemon, to win back sight and love.
[Fair-wails to Empire ultimately will always mean Fare-wails to Wagner...]
But I digress...
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