The Company I Keep

There's a group of people I've known for over twenty years. They are what remains of an urbane, vibrant, witty, irreverent band of writers who all happened to stumble across a sandbox called the RIME Writers' Conference in the 80's. The saga of RIME Writers', the rise and fall of BBS Networks, the flame wars, the newbies, the "I have the great American novel all written in my head, who do I see to get my $Million advance... and the critics "you talk about everything EXCEPT writing here." is prolly best left with "You had to be there.".

There was Del Freeman's Ruby Begonia, a Virtual Bar; Kent's Place, and discussions
on every subject under the sun. Then came the inquisition, the purge, the beheadings, the snits, the exodus, the wandering, exile, sanctuary and finally the demise of BBS Networks; Rise of the Intertubes.

No GUIs. It was DOS based mail-doors, mailruns, mailreaders, QWK and REP packets. Pkzip and Unzip.
Some remnants of this once luminary group reside on an email list. We all know each other so well, we pretty much know without asking. Attrition, age, self-destruction and illness have taken a staggering toll, but we remain cyber-friends.

The following exchange offers a peek into that wonderfully twisted world.

> As of right now, (2pm San Diego time) Obama needs seven more delegates to
> become the Democratic nominee.  That will happen tonight, at the latest.
> 
> Once the two nominees are in place, expect lots of dirty political messages.
> From both parties.  Just as night follows day, dirty political tricks follow
> elections.
> 
> All I ask, before forwarding me any pieces that attack one candidate or one
> party, please check it out with www.snopes.com or whatever UrbanLegend/Hoax
> screening site you use.
> 
> If you don't, then I have to, and that takes a lot of my time.

If you've got time to send me forty-four million pictures of kittens, puppies, fawns, cranky old Maxine sayings, and other such, you've got time to check this out. It's the truth. Straight dope. Hillary is going to announce that Chelsea is not Bill's child, but the child of long-term aide Vince Foster. Bill found out and had the Navy Seals break into Vince's apartment one night and then slowly drive an icepick completely through his head while making Hillary watch. Then they rolled him up in his own carpet, drove him to a national park, dumped him, left a dummy gun behind that a pistol smith couldn't make shoot and everyone claimed it was a suicide.

Hillary wears pants suits because Bill had several Romanian floggers hoist Hillary up on her tip toes and scourge her in a freezing barn while he taped it and sat in a lawn chair with a bimbo on his lap, eating popcorn and drinking Wild Turkey.

The word on the street is, if Hillary pulls this scrawny rabbit out of the hat, she'll be a puppet and Nancy Pelosi will actually call all the shots. Bill stillhas a few Seal buddies who are under his sole employment and they've told Hillary what will happen to her, Chelsea, and Pelosi if word leaks out. Nancy will take orders from Bill and no one else but Bill. He's had her stoned on Ecstasy since '96 and every now and then takes her for a ride in his private jet going nowhere at over a mile in altitude. The Marines are looking into a plan to fly Marine One into Bill's private jet upon takeoff to save the Constitution and restore the republic. So far 148 Marine pilots have volunteered for what will almost certainly be a suicide mission.

By the way, you can find this scenario in both The Book of Revelations and in Nostradamus' writings in the fifth quatrain. Edgar Cayce, the famous "sleeping prophet" who astounded Americans in the 1940's and 1950's wrote extensively about this too and it's believed that his final vision shocked him so badly he died on his couch. So it's the real deal, no kiddin'. I can prove it. The Kennedy Irish Mafia caught word of this and was about to release it in order to make Calypso Joe Obama the next president. So what happens? Ted Kennedy got a savagely radioactive isotope sewn into the pillow on his bed. Sleeping on it every night caused virulent and highly aggressive cancer and they're removing his brain as we speak, although his Congressional career should not be affected by the surgery.

I know what happened at Roswell. I know who killed JFK. I know what happened to the USS Scorpion submarine in 1968. I know what's in Hanger 14. I know what gasoline is going to top out at, and when it will do it, and what will replace it. You need to interview me, but we must take precautions and meet where no one will recognize us. Send me a bus ticket to the Cottontail Ranch in southern Nevada. I'll be in the lounge drinking on your tab when you arrive. Bring a handgun, a United States Atlas, any history book written before 1999, and rent a damn fast car. Also an air compressor, paint gun, and a few gallons of black auto paint in case we need to leave with great discretion at an awkward moment.

Deep Green

Moral: I consider "Deep Green" to be a mentor of mine. His view and take on stuff is about as opposite my own as possible. But the boy can write! When he goes off on one of his bigfoot yarns, I'll post that for you too. Part of him believes EVERY word of what he wrote above. Compared to past whoppers, this is tame.

Yet I've hung around with him, virtually speaking, for 20 years. We met a few times over the years. The first time I met him, I was skeptical of his gun-nuttiness. After he shot his desk (accidental discharge, though to this day he swears the desk made the first move)I was a believer.

If he blogged he'd be legendary.