5808

The mushing of clouds, the flashing of lavs, the bubbling of brooks will mark the coming of something truly truly. No, not quite the Second, but something to do in the meanwhile. It promises to be as underwhelming as all the prior attempts, so you've no excuse not to hop on board. Pack now. The Beehive, the Medium, the Pervert, the Standard and yours truly truly. Real heads on blocks stuff. Renaissance, then a month of nothing much. To celebrate, to cheer, a third full year. And by full I mean negligible. Quick, quick, the train arrives late and leaves soon. Bah bah bah.

And after the inevitable throw-off near the equator (tuned, if memory serves, to G flat), we shall shrug our collective selves and unpack the picnic we'd packed in case it proved as underwhelming as all the prior attempts. That was the fun of it, we knew that. In fact we all half-secretly hoped for it not to eventuate. What fun is that work, that standard? How could it ever compete with friends, a picnic and non-oppressive desert heat? Sure, posterity may wish otherwise, but posterity can wait. For now, there is you, there is — oh wait.

Oh the anguish of effort! What worth is it? We kid — we kid week out — with the notion that we are selflessly achieving an end over the Moment; that we are sacrificing the joys of experience for the benefit of personkind; that we are, God help us, sculpting the nothingness into something tangible so as John and Jane Doe can live better, fuller lives. But we (they!) know it is not a grave weight, nor is it altruistic. That explanation, or excuse, only continues because many people do get pleasure from it. Really? says cavemonet, I thought I was the only one. But I digress: Onwards! Let us fail and rejoice in Ecuador. Pack a desert luncheon; it is pleasure in spite, not because, of the fall. 4.U.C. the failures of life are but failures of expectation. Which is not to say you should dispense with yours. It shall be the weight of 5808 that makes it — er — good. Am I right, girls?