Monday, April 06, 1998

TitanicMania: Doomed Passages Re-Lived

As promised, a Brief Twice-telling as-told-by-an-idiot of the "Titanic" story, featuring Lady G and the Forest Prince, along with a host of ultra-personalities.

The FP is playing cards with a buncha guys. He has 5 aces. The squareheads are pissed, but they are only extras. Lady G arrives in a big floppy hat. She is wearing bike shorts. Nobody notices, because they are digitally produced, and chickens do not have lips. JayBird is writing an ode to Tassel-Headed Korn on EE deck.

Lady G feels the pull of gravity. She is holding onto a flag-pole, minus the barnacles. A Celine Dion song plays somewhere, and a white bouncing ball helps you out. The Old FP is smoking a cigar, lit from the flame shooting from his butt with a Zippo. He sees a periscope in the distance. Far below decks the Ark of The Covenant awaits the arrival of a velociraptor. n0rm is getting the busses warmed up for the Kamp n0rm.

The ship-board ice-machine breaks down. Lady G's Heartless Fiancee disparages her choice of artists, and opines that Keane would make a better long-term investment. Sensing danger, the audience rushes to buy more popcorn and huddles inside their coats. The FP has a crankspot above the knee. Leonardo diCaprio is getting carded, and has to make do with Tara Lipinski.

Lady G is being coached on the niceties of a back-seat romantic interlude. Both feet are in the air. TrailPatty is in hot pursuit. Her jog-bra is stuffed with rupiah notes. Meanwhile, in the radio room MattyBuoy is duking it out online with Dr Billy on "What Is An Ultra?" There is a late-nite ice delivery, starboard bow.

Lady G is on a raft. Her heartless, faceless fiancee has elbowed his way onto the "Low-Mileage Training" Thread. Suddenly she realizes..."Oh my, oh me, I think I've got to pee..."

Our Dear Forest Prince realizes that this movie is not short on water or ice. He's awaiting the arrival of the Stealth Boat, captained by Jonathan Pryce und Helmut, der Body-Buddy. Terry Hatcher has slipped aboard the StealthBoatand is reading "W" while lounging in a peignoir. Meanwhile, back on the Big Boat, Shelly WInters and Herve Villachaise get into it. Digital extras are dying by the hundreds; bouncing off of the cold iron hull, and the air is full of crystalizing pixels in the clear Mexican night. The graveyard shift is coming on.

The Finger Of God reaches down and taps out Q-W-E-R-T-Y in Morse code. JayBird senses a Moment, and heroically constructs a Lifeboat from raw bandwidth. "Closer to Your Kumbayah Than Mine" floats out across the water.

A 2000 year-old Lady G shakes her wattles at Bill Pullman and Heather Locklear. The FP lurks in the background, muttering as he tinkers with the rivets on the SS Deep-See MuffDiver. Lady G thinks she recognizes him, but can't be sure. It was so long, so long ago. Later she stands on the fan tail, and holds on to the flag pole. Her hand longs for the feel of barnacles. Somehow it was different then...she was always big, its just that the format got smaller.

She looked at the churning wake, and thought she heard Enya titty-punching Celine Dion, but it was only the thudding rhythms of the diesel. Leonardo diCaprio's Long-Lost Polaroids are claimed at the foto-processor. They reveal a Jung mandala in the sunset of his talents at the Rob Lowe Lost Weekend Resorts. She reaches into her pocket, and examines the SUCKSEED Energy-Wand. The Wild One. She smiles, and lets it slip from her hand into the boiling surf. He would always know that he was wrong, and she wouldn't play games.

The audience, huddled in their seats with their coats and blocks of ice, wiped away tears at this. Since it was raining, nobody could see their tears, which is as it should be.

Wednesday, April 01, 1998

Mountain Money And You

Once it was asked:
"Mountain money?" Do we have to bring special money when we run ultras in the mountains?

and Mr Trail Safety replies:

Aaah yes...Mountain Money. Nothing quite like it. In other times and places, enterprise and necesity dictated using many local alternatives. For in those far-off days, things are not as they are now, and nostalgia ain't what it used to be.

And what was considered legal tender? How about... smooth round stones the size of a fuzzy marmot head, warmed by the sun. Or perhaps a fragrant cluster of dried grasses, with the whiff of coyote whiz a tangy memory. In shady forests, cool moss or even a Douglas fir cone could be utilized, for that rigourous hygenic sensation. The effect was enobling to say the least.

In modern times references have been made to the whys and wherefores of shaggy sticks and oily trefoiled leaves, with the eternally predictable results. No doubt you too have heard some of this oral tradition here, in this very place, and are better for it, or not...whatever.

And then there' "Mountin' Money". But that's another story.

Yours Truly
mr "hey, my dick's not dragging [yet]" trail safety