Tie-Dyed Brain Rays

Up The River Styx Without A Paddle

'Tis a strange place, this Limbo !--not a Place, Yet name it so ;--where Time & weary Space Fettered from flight, with night-mair sense of fleeing, Strive for their last crepuscular half-being ;-- Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands Barren and soundless as the measuring sands, Not mark'd by flit of Shades,--unmeaning they As Moonlight on the dial of the day !

--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Recent events have forced me to bring the @-mobile out of retirement, and to this end my pal Tinker has been helping me get it road worthy again. The other night, he took it to the shop for a once over before I had to drive it to work the next morning. He returned with some bad news.

"Either your flux capacitor is going out, or you have a bad battery," He said solemnly.

Super.

The battery was working fine before my descent into the underworld. Why did it have to die now? All I need is car trouble in the great beyond. Get stuck between the veils and I never will get a lift home. Floyd said he knew where the Underworld all night auto parts store was, and volunteered to go with me if I promised to stop in the third circle of Hell for the late night pancake buffet. So it was off to the AutoZone of the Dead to get a new battery at 10:00 on a Sunday night.

We took the Camea exit, veered right at the Elm From Which False Dreams Cling, turned left at Acheron, and before you knew it we were at the river Styx.

"AutoZone is on the other bank," said the old guy at the canoe rental place.

"Can we rent an inner tube?" asked Floyd.

I shot Floyd the Eye of Scorn. He could tell by my look that not only were we not going to rent an inner tube, there were no pancakes in his future either. He dropped his head as we boarded the ferry. Forty-five minutes later and I was changing out the battery of the @-mobile in the dark parking lot of the AutoZone of the Dead. Now I'm no gear head, so what would be a challenge under the best of conditions was twice the joy with borrowed tools and only Floyd's faint ectoplasmic glow for light.

Then it was back across the river Styx and home to my little bed for a few winks before a ten hour day at the PGCBF. I felt smug the next morning as I gunned the @-mobile and sped away toward work. Sure I was tired, but at least I had taken care of my fly ride. That smugness was short lived, however. This morning I arose to find that the @-mobile had flat-lined again.

Sonuvabitch.

I lit up the @-signal, and Racer X and the missus ran rescue, post haste. With the battery freshly jumped, I headed to Pep Devils for a complete diagnostic.

Once there, the Pep Devil behind the counter (Manny, I think) told me there might be a bit of a wait. I looked at the ticket in my hand: 420, it said. The sign on the wall said, Now Serving: 003.

Sonuvabitch.

A call to Poo Imabooboo (A.K.A. Dee Dee) meant that I would not have to do my penance at the auto shop, but in the new and improved Underworld you can get your limbo to go. Manny smiled an oily smile as he handed me a pager. Two frayed wires hung out the back where a battery was supposed to be.

"Just sit tight and wait for my call," advised the grease demon. Then he laughed a laugh so evil the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

And so it goes in The Underworld. Every day is a new chance to play hurry up and wait. Waiting for a car, waiting for a decision that will affect the rest of your life, waiting for the Borg Queen to call you back, those extra-long economy sized minutes seem interminable, as each second flows like molasses into the next. I hate to wait.

I was startled out of a cat nap a few hours later when the battery-less pager went off. Were they finished with my car already? Gee, that wasn't so bad. Maybe things are starting to look up. Maybe I won't have to wait until October to find out the answers to my other questions. Maybe I won't have to drag through many more days filled with anticipation and dread. Eagerly I looked at the message on the pager.

Now serving: 004

Sonuvabitch. I hate limbo.

Expect No Mercy

Someone sent me a link to a news story yesterday. The headline read: "Iraq's PM Says Saddam Depressed, Begs for Mercy." Hey Saddam, save your breath. Take it from someone who knows, begging for mercy doesn't do any good.

Just look around the world today. In your old stomping grounds bound hostages beg for mercy each day until the sound of their prayers is drowned by gurgling terror, then silence. Perhaps the pleas for mercy in their many languages were drowned out by their captor's glee at the glory they bring to merciful Allah.

In Beslan three hundred little voices begged for mercy to no avail. If innocent school children can find no mercy what makes you think that there is enough in the world for you? Perhaps if you had been a nicer king we wouldn't do a thing, but you were bad you must admit. How much mercy did you extend to the poor unfortunates who lived and died in your shadow for so long?

Even God doesn't seem to be in much of a forgiving mood these days. It seems that part of his divine plan consists of scouring the Earth with tornadoes and hurricanes. Toss in a few earthquakes, a volcanic eruption or two, a little global warming, a plague of locusts, and let's not forget that killer asteroid, shall we? It all makes for a rich frosting of chaos on this crazy world.

You never know when a house is going to fall on you (just ask the Wicked Witch,) or some nut with a bomb and a cause wants you to share his headline. The best we can hope to do is cling to each other and show our loved ones the mercy that the world will not. Yet we hold onto grudges like gold and fear forgiveness as a rash decision, as if mercy might be misapplied to someone who doesn't deserve it. But giving out what we deserve is the purview of Justice, not Mercy, which is measured on the scale of compassion. Feeling a bit low on mercy? That's alright, you can have some of mine.

You don't even have to beg.

Beneath The Planet of The Apes

I know Fall doesn't official start until Wednesday, but I was eager to get started on my journey, so I took Floyd's advice. I went to bed last night and in a dream I went down into the basement of Casa Tehuti, past the Elvis Room, beyond the Inescapable Labyrinth, down deeper than the catacombs, to the acid cut tunnels on level E. I Turned left at the rock etched with the words, "No Kill I." Then I Hopped in the little boat that goes through the spelunker's cave and got out after that spinning barrel that makes you feel like you are going upside down. There I found a rabbit hole marked with a sign that says, "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here." I Ignored it. I went down the rabbit hole and sat in the comfy chair. I Took the red pill and the blue pill and a couple of Jolly Rancher suckers (but not the Hershey's miniatures) and I woke up this morning in the Underworld.

And you know what I found out?

They have the same stuff in the Underworld that we have here, only In the Underworld it's a little different.

For example, when I got to work this morning I found out I was Old Raymond. Of course I don't mean literally, but he was out having one of his Borg implants calibrated or something, so Babu and I were called upon to fill his shoes. A young pachyderm caballero named Raul played the part of Tehuti today. Not only did I get to step into a leadership role, I got the gift of perspective. I wasn't the freakin' new guy for a change! Not only did Young Raul look to me for direction, The Man put me onto all the important Raymondesque jobs like loading out trucks and twisting the valves on the big Heart Machine.

I felt a little out of my element plucking and picking units from stock to load out trucks and building giant Lego-like sculptures out of our glorious cardboard boxes while generally ignoring the routine of cleaning the line. But what was really odd was the way The Man was downright chummy with me. He even volunteered to un-tetris a unit of boxes from the particularly tricky cranny in which it was wedged.

"Sure Boss," I brown nosed. "I would love to watch the expert show how it's done."

He was feeling pretty full of himself until he got Babu wedged into the crevice sideways. Corrugated towers teetered precariously as Babu bumped her butt repeatedly against them.

"I think I'm going to knock these over, " he admitted.

"Don't worry Boss, I won't tell anybody," I winked as I climbed aboard Babu to un-sticky his wicket. Then it was off to check on Tehuti-Raul to make sure he wasn't swamped by output from the Boxinator. Fortunately, the evil machine had popped a thermothrockle so units rolled off the line at a leisurely pace. That gave me enough time to introduce the lad to some of my other usual duties.

"What's the big shovel for?" Raul asked quizzically.

I just smiled sweetly and pointed toward the elephant pens.

I wonder if Old Raymond will be back tomorrow?

Underground Railroad

It was time for the Ghost of Floyd the barber to touch up my "Nolte," and we chatted casually while he worked. I told him about the odd thing that happened last night, shortly after I got back from dropping off Lady Mercy.

A few minutes after I got home the cats and I were in the master chamber when there came a ruckus in the library. Fearing that Colonel Peacock might have been dispatching poor Ms Plum with a candlestick, we rushed in only to find that the scales of Ma'at, which have stood undisturbed atop a large bookcase for years, toppled over onto a statue of Anpu. The pan of the balance that held the Feather of Truth dangled down in front of the bookcase while the pan that held the heart lay tipped over on top. One of the chains of the Ab side of the balance draped over Anpu's Waas staff. The heart that was suspended on that side, along with a braid of Mercy's hair which had been in the pan underneath the heart, lay spilled across the bookcase top.

"Hmmmm," Floyd hummed, as if it were an omen. He stopped clipping for a moment and got a thoughtful look on his face.

"I think you ought to come to the Underworld Reunion with me this year," He said. He put on his best voice of awe and mystery. "I think somebody has a message for you."

"No thanks," I shot back. "The Underworld is dark and lonely with only ghosts for companions, and that damn dancing skeleton gets on my nerves."

"Slim gets on everybody's nerves, but that isn't the point. You are already walking the path of the Gardener. They Buried him yesterday, you know. You don't want to quit halfway do you? While you're down there you can tickle the roots of the flowers so they'll bloom real pretty next spring. Not everybody can do that, you ought to feel honored."

Well, how can you argue with that?

"Good," Floyd said. "We leave right away, upon the Autumn Equinox. I'll have you back by All Souls Day."

"But I have to work," I protested.

"Don't worry about that. We'll bring the underworld to you. You see, they have the same things in the Underworld that we have here, only there it's a little different..."

"You mean, as above, so below, right?"

"Something like that-- layers of reality superimposed on each other, one resonating at a slightly higher frequency than the other. You can turn on, tune in or drop out. It is up to you to decide how deeply beyond the veil you want to peek."

"Thaylese was right!" I said. "Assuming I want to do this, just how do we go about it?"

Floyd grinned a broad grin.

"Tonight in a dream go down into the basement of Casa Tehuti, past the Elvis Room, beyond the Inescapable Labyrinth, down deeper than the catacombs, to the acid cut tunnels on level E. Turn left at the rock etched with the words, "No Kill I." Hop in the little boat that goes through the spelunker's cave and get out after that spinning barrel that makes you feel like you are going upside down. There you will find a rabbit hole marked with a sign that says, "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here." Ignore that. Virgil just put that up to keep the kids away. Go down the rabbit hole and sit in the comfy chair. Take the red pill and the blue pill and a couple of Jolly Rancher suckers (but not the Hershey's miniatures) and when you wake up in the morning you'll be in the Underworld."

Floyd was fading away, his voice like a bad cell phone connection.

"Remember, the world will seem the same, but the veil is thin. The underworld, like the Matrix, is all around you. You just have to look to see it. Messengers will appear from everywhere."

As he crackled into nothingness he left me with a final message,

"You will find what you lost by Halloween, or you will never have it again."

And like a wisp of smoke, Floyd was gone. He didn't even finish my haircut.

Over The Top

I heard the @-phone ringing as I came in from my run this afternoon. It was The Jovial Blade. I hadn't talked to him since the days of the old Misfit Avengers. He hadn't actually been an official Avenger-- more like the Misfit Avengers Auxiliary. He hung around all the time and liked to wear a cape, so we made him bring us coffee and stuff.

"Hey Jo, whaddya know?" I queried.

"Did you see El Batman on the news?"

"That grandstander? What did he do now?"

"He went over the wall at Buckingham palace for father's custody rights."

"Really? That's Bruce Wayne for you. He hasn't been right since he found out Mark Cuban got his own reality show."

"Dude, he hasn't been right since the authorities took Robin away from him."

"Aw, I forgot about that. That's a real bummer."

"Especially since it's your fault."

"My fault? How is it my fault?"

'Man, you flame-broiled the Penguin right in front of him. Do you not remember that?"

"Hey, that was an accident."

"Maybe so, but it traumatized the lad. He's still in counseling for that shit. And now They have determined that all this crime fighting and daring-do creates an unsuitable environment for the boy's healthy development."

"And that's all my fault? I went on one freakin' adventure with the kid. Do you not think that maybe getting trapped in a giant hourglass or say... being fed to a giant bearded clam might have upset the Boy Wonder a little?"

"Actually, the giant bearded clam incident could explain a lot of things..."

______________________________________________________________________________________

Stormy Weather

Hurricane Ivan is preparing to eat Florida by Tuesday so the good folks at NBC decided to get everybody in the mood by broadcasting The Perfect Storm tonight. There's a bit of programming genius at work. Although, I hear that in some parts of Florida the movie will be pre-empted by a new extreme home make-over show called, Pimp My Debris.

Smack Down

No sooner had I walked in the door from the PGCBF this afternoon when Shempbot came tear-assing into the room, hooks flailing. He was jabbering on about a cousin of his being in a horrible accident. When I finally got him calmed down, he switched on his viewplate, struck the "Stork Spreads Wings" posture and tuned in CNN. NASA's Genesis probe was returning to the Earth.

Ever see a two-hundred and sixty million dollar discus?

"We should be seeing the drogue chute deploy at any moment," droned the commentator as the Genesis capsule hurtled Earthward. The craft tumbled wildly as the reporter told of NASA's cockamamie scheme to snatch the gizmo before it hit the ground with the Bat-copter and one of those Shepherd's hooks they use to yank Vaudevillians off the stage. The idea was to save the fragile contents within the probe from the trauma of a rough landing.

"I don't think we see the chute yet. I'm not sure what we are looking at..."

"Actually Mark, that's a video feed of where the spacecraft, traveling at roughly two hundred miles an hour impacted the desert floor."

And so it was. There sat Genesis, buried in the ground like a sesame seed wedged between two molars.

A NASA spokesman was quoted as saying, "KAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHNNN!"

I've got one word for you: Icarus.

Off The Clock

My other eye cracked open yesterday morning at 4:57 am, right before the alarm normally makes that horrible noise. The little red light that indicates the alarm is set was not lit. Both eyes sprang open.

"Shit!"

I jumped out of bed and flung myself to the shower in the panic that follows nearly over sleeping. It was in the accelerated tooth-brushing phase of my morning toilet that I realized it was Saturday. Not only was it Saturday, it was a long holiday weekend.

"Shit."

I grumbled as I stumbled, freshly showered, back to bed. I have no place to be until Tuesday, I thought as I settled in for a little more shut eye. A long weekend with nothing to do... How sweet. Oh, I know that isn't exactly true. There are plenty of things for me to do, just none that appeal to me.

Saturday turned to Sunday with the list of things I've accomplished ending up shorter than the list of things I've screwed off. I decided that instead of chastising myself for being a bum, I should revel in my proactive slacking. I'm not goofing off, I'm actively avoiding productivity. If I had a couch long enough, I would nap like Dagwood Bumstead. I take satisfaction in the knowledge that my behavior would rankle any self respecting missus with a honey-do list. I belch loudly and scratch my plums. My time is my own. Nice.

What do you want to blow off today?

My novel?

I lack inspiration. One morning I got up to find that I left the cage door open and my muse was gone. I can't afford an Inspiration Broker, (not even if I pay the pound of flesh in three easy installments.) No, the novel can sit and simmer on the back burner for a time. I seem to be fresh out of happy endings, or middles or even beginnings.

Laundry?

It's a long weekend I still have the rest of Sunday and Monday. Besides, I have to wear clothes this weekend right? Why not do laundry Monday and be caught up for the week? Ah, logic! You never fail me. Besides, laundry would require a trip to scrounge a roll of quarters somewhere, rounding up and sorting laundry, then a trip to the laundry room for the actual washing and drying thereof. Plus there's the folding and hanging to do later. And if I'm doing laundry I might as well wash dishes and clean the bathtub. Of course that leads to vacuuming and other assorted housekeeping activities. Who wants to open that can of worms? I'm worn out just thinking about it. I will defiantly save laundry for Monday.

I could draw or paint... Oh wait, all that stuff is packed in a box at Racer X's secret hideaway.

I could call a friend. Yeah right. I'm such the social butterfly. I'm more likely to peer through drawn blinds muttering about whatever "They" might be up to, than to impose my company on some poor unsuspecting soul who didn't have me penciled in for today.

I settle on watching TV, the most passive conscious activity I can think of. Now understand, Old Tehuti doesn't so much have a TV proper. To watch the news I have to get Shempbot to sit in a chair holding his arms just so and look me in the eye for half an hour. Before you know it he is slouched over with his arms dangling at his sides and I'm forced to watch a snowy Spongebob Squarepants with no sound.

"Dammit Shempbot! I said FOX. Hold your left claw at two o'clock and sit up straight!"

Wait a second... PBS has a special on the Blue Footed Booby. How does that dance go? Left foot up. Then the right. Left again and throw your beak back. I'll have to remember that and file it away with the Grackle Dance and the Dance of Enticement in case interspecies dating ever becomes acceptable.

I have Shempbot run the channels, which is amusing in itself since it looks like he's doing Tia-Chi. Right there, Shempbot-- Monkey Steals The Peach.

The Sunday news shows are rehashing the RNC:

"some may have noticed a certain swagger... In Texas we call that, 'walking.'" (And the old, rich, white people cheer.)

A panel of talking heads spews haughty political analysis all over the newsroom.

"Bush is eleven points ahead of Kerry in the polls."

"But there is a lot of air in those numbers."

"But the Repudnutkins did a better job of getting the balloons to fall than the Democraps did at their convention."

"Kerry windsurfing is un-good, but Arnold's economic girlie-men Schick is double-plus good."

"I bet fourteen Quatloos on the newcomer."

By this time Shempbot I tired of holding all five of his arms in the air like a pentecostal at a revival, so I'm forced to find some other way to spend my remaining Sunday hours. I've decided that this life of leisure makes me nervous and restless. I've got to find something productive to do. It is afternoon already, and before you know it, I will be headed off to bed early just like the other old folks. I still have a good full day all to myself tomorrow. I think I'll sleep late--

At least until 4:58.