>Path: igor.rutgers.edu!aramis.rutgers.edu!not-for-mail >From: kjc@aramis [OLD RUTGERS ADDRESS] (Kelly J. Cooper) >Newsgroups: talk.bizarre >Subject: Re: I will EAT BAD CHILI and become IMMORTAL (Pond Power Lunch report) >Date: 12 Sep 1994 03:11:19 -0400 >Organization: The Farm >Lines: 102 >Message-ID: <350uun$i0m@aramis.rutgers.edu> >References: <1994Aug15.175412.26741@nlm.nih.gov> <348vdp$75f@jfwhome.funhouse.com> >Reply-To: kjc AT apocalypse DOT org >NNTP-Posting-Host: aramis.rutgers.edu In article <348vdp$75f@jfwhome.funhouse.com>, jfw AT jfwhome DOTTY funhouse DOTTY com (John F. Woods) writes: > In <33u6d2$5f3@sundog.tiac.net> rmk@tiac.net (Rick Kelly) writes: > >Johnathan Vail (vail@pps.com) wrote: > >: While in Concord you should try the Willow Pond Kitchen on route 2a. > >: Ok: talk.bizarre Boston "there is no cabal" Power Do Lunch time. > >Sounds good to me. > > So where were you? Here is a rather pathetic report of the Expedition to > the Swillow Pond Kitchen. [deletia] > Kelly asked me if I knew a certain R. D., who had seen her reading an article > by me and explained that she knew a John Woods back at MIT (and indeed, I > did), so it turned out that we have several friends in common. (Kelly also > said she lived in S.H., and I was going to ask if she knew an R.V.B. who > lives there too, but I am too reluctant to interrupt ongoing conversations > and by the time there was a lull, the moment was lost.(*) Later, in relating > the day to my wife, we realized that OF COURSE she did because R.V.B.'s ex > was the source of the machine which was central to Kelly's unparalleled > parable for our times, "Spreading the word..." It is a far, far smaller > world than you can even imagine.) Oh my... I feel as if I've just stepped into a 1920's gossip column. We know R.V.B. We also know her many cats, turkeys and pea fowl. And, in fact, J.B.V.B. (aka DragonBreath) is our landlord -- he is indeed the actual owner of the machine spotlighted in "Spreading the word..." (thank you for the charming compliment), where he was code-named the "ultimate earthy-crunchy hippy multi-millionaire" -- I paraphase. In fact, he roto-tilled and seeded three of our fields after I loaded and spread two tons of lime on Saturday (smack me against a wall, I leave large chalk marks and billowing white clouds. Catch me before I sneeze out a blackboard). We also know J.V.B. and the little V.B.s running about town. (S.H. is a small town -- we have one police officer and his name is Wayne.) The elder V.B.s even dropped by for a brief visit and met our goats. R.D. is one of my best friends, and P.S. (aka The Prince of Insufficient Light) is a close friend as well. The connecting factor of all these V.I.P.s is of course FTP (the company, rather than the protocol) although it wasn't the original contact point. But it makes an excellent collision point for the larger charts. (And I do mean, the larger, 3 white board variety). There are many more names... Hobbit, Mason (The Unit of Extreme Stupidty That Can Get You Killed and also my housemate), corwin, AMQ, Jailbait, Romkey, Stev... And many, many more. Some by extension, some by virtue of proximity. Still others by reputation. The code words are endless: elbows, void, tanstaafl, lectroids, kludge, EIT, tob/bottom, hack, FREPP, spoo, FMH. The homes and collections sprawling, some ephemeral, some eternal: the Institute for Dangerous Research (IDR), The Soup Kitchen, Camp Random, The Restaurant, Alien Landing, Asylum (in its current, East Coast incarnation as Rancho Apocalypse or The Nerf Davidian Complex), Offhand Manor, The Farm (aka Phutney Creach Research Facilities). You can call us... The Usual Suspects. We probably know you too. There are cliques, overlaps, unknowns, well-knowns, haves, have-nots. Cluefull, clueless, newbie, oldbie, virgo/matron/crone. Assholes, wisdom-holders, common-sense-makers, fools. Good writers, bad writers, creative types, boring shmucks. Shared books, mailed Archie McPhee cruft, disdain for the current crew of idiots, deep pondering of The Old Days, reminiscencing and stories. Dear Enki in the Temple of Wisdom, you wouldn't believe all the stories. Cucumbers duct-taped to the ceiling, explosions, car-wrecks, drugs, orgies, cloved oranges, spelling/grammar/gun/abortion flames, bicycles, travels, companies, old households, new households, big parties. Trailing tendrils touch everything. Six degrees of separation. Nothing is sacred. It's the same cycles with new faces, old faces in new cycles, different places. It's all so different, in such consistent ways, that it always stays the same. Sound familiar? Lunch that day was lovely. Mellow, amusing. Next time, I vote we do dinner, so no one has to rush back to work. I was late (couldn't find the place without the sign out front and bothered locals until one of them pointed to it, 100 feet down the road), took a while to catch up. Looked at pictures, tried to keep my mouth shut so I didn't sound too stupid, watched faces and body language. Wore a GREEN shirt that matched my GREEN eyes and enjoyed myself. Ah... to sit, listening to my CPU hum and a few, hardy crickets creak at 3am, and ramble... What would make it perfect is rambling for money... (a not so subtle mention that I recently completed my BA after a prolonged stint in NJ and am currently seeking employment, while living in NH.) Crass, perhaps, but a job found through t.b is worth infinitely more karma quatloos than one found in the classifieds. This looks like as good a time to end as any... -- Kelly J. Cooper, Goatherd p.s. Remind me to tell ya'll the Parable Of The Goat.