Ship ahoy, ship ahoy… who wants to marry a sailor boy? Washed ashore, washed ashore… How’s the rest of that cheesy Hollywood shanty go? Mitch? Trevor James? Marvin (my personal robot assistant)?
Okay, okay… so anti-Lincoln had a good idea — I admit it. Even a stopped clock, know what I mean? Besides, in my book, anybody who is anti the guy who booked this last tour has got to be something close to a freaking genius. So… I guess my book must be all wrong, because anti-Lincoln is no genius, but he is — and this is important — smarter than his opposite number. So, okay, we stuck the mast into the bubblegum machine on the roof of our spacecraft, and we threw together a makeshift sail from bits of discarded bedclothes. And like many a castaway before us, we attempted to set sail from this veil of tears know to us as Ben-Lostawhile island. Ship ahoy!
Reader’s note — “attempted” is the operative word in that last line. Sure, we made the sail unfurl and we climbed aboard, expectant of a rapid deliverance from the tropical tedium we had endured over the past weeks. And, well, nothing happened. Nothing. No wind. No freaking wind, here in typhoon alley. We beckoned to our resident quasi-meteorologist (Mitch Macaphee) and asked him what was what. He consulted his pocket weather satellite device and shook his head mournfully. We were in the midst of a kind of tropical doldrums — not even a lazy breeze to push us out to sea. This was the limit. As if it wasn’t bad enough that we should have to resort to wind propulsion to get us out of here… now wind turns out to be at a premium. (Perhaps Mitch was right about that coconut fuel idea. Or perhaps not.)
After a bit of head scratching, it was Trevor James who came up with an idea worth considering. How about training his patented orgone generating device directly on the main mast and turning up the volume to eleven? How’d that be? But was it practical? “Sure,” said Trevor James. “We just lash the O.G.D. to the hull and crank her up.” Mitch had some quibbles about leverage and the principles of thrust, but who the hell cares what he thinks, eh? The idea had more merit than chucking coconuts in a reactor chamber and tossing matches at them in hopes they would cause a mighty fire — one mighty enough to destroy Tabunga. (Tabunga? I’ve been on this island way too long…) So, okay, Mitch. Next time we want to stop the Tabunga, we’ll give you a call.
Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us this week. And now the man-sized tuber isn’t talking to me because of the Tabunga reference. A relative of his, apparently — who knew?
Quite a spectacle this season, and I don’t mean the changing leaves. Our Republican friends trying to cling to power, fucking things up with such consistency that even so moribund an opposition as the Democrats can give them cause for worry. Still, there’s no day so sunny that the Dems can’t coax a little rain out of it. Hard to see what kind of dramatic difference they would make in power after having provided a dozen votes in the Senate to eliminate habeas corpus protections and give the president extra-constitutional powers and unprecedented legal immunity. Sometimes it seems like they feel they’ll only get to run the store by giving it away first. Weird people. But that’s what corporate money does, I guess — it just promotes a mind-numbing sameness; a narrowing of the political spectrum so that there will be virtually no risk of the ownership class’s interests being threatened. Our republic is definitely in trouble if only because the vast majority of people can find no effective political means of addressing our most pressing problems. Encouraged towards cynicism by both parties, they are increasingly likely to drop out of the political game altogether. 
That is why I’m putting some effort into this campaign — not because I’m all that fond of the Democratic candidate, but because Cheney and Hastert and Dubya want the seat so bad. Let’s face it, whoever is elected in November will work to bring federal contracts, projects, and cash home to the 24th district — that’s a given. They all bloody do it. The only meaningful point of comparison is which set of national policy priorities either one is going to support. If Arcuri wins and the Dems take over the House, John Conyers, Barbara Lee, and Dennis Kucinich will be banging the gavel at committee meetings. If the other guys win, it will be Boehner and Foley (well… not, Foley… though something tells me he’ll still be busy with Boehner… pronounced “boner”). That is enough reason for me to help put Arcuri over the top, then return to normal agitating the day after. 
What’s this? Parchment? Could just be old vellum, you never know. Look for the watermark, that’s what Mitch always says. Kind of crisp and, well, fragrant, quite frankly. Good lord, throw that thing away. 
Wow. Listen to me, dissing Marvin. I have been here too long. So what’s holding us back? Well, a spacecraft with no engine, for one. Not likely to fly again soon, even taking into consideration the scientific “brain trust” we have on hand here on Ben-Lostawhile island. Just try making an ion-magnetic interstellar drive run on coconut shells. Just try. (Mitch did, and the result wasn’t pretty.) Believe it or not, the most practical suggestion came from anti-matter Lincoln — throw a mast and a mainsail on the top of the mock-jupiter 2 and push it into the water, then use some worm-eaten piece of driftwood (posi-Lincoln) as a rudder. Lash a rope to the rudder handle and call it “mother hubbard.” (Okay, that last suggestion wasn’t so constructive. But it was better than what Mitch came up with. Coconut reactor vessel, indeed!)