sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

And the series rolls thataway...

With a hearty clunk, too hearty, probably, if you were the owner of one of the things being clunked, we came to a stop, seemingly out in the middle of the ocean.

This appearance was helped by the simple fact that we were in the middle of the ocean.

Shortly after the clank, and a few anxious moments where the boat did what boats do when they stop; which is, namely, not come to a complete rest but sort of lurch and slosh around for a while, looking to get comfortable -- a hatch opened, seemingly out of the middle of the ocean!
This appearance was slightly less literal than the previous appearance of being all alone in the middle of the ocean, because by the time the hatch came all the way up out of the water you could plainly see a large metallic vessel beneath the little white caps and the little old man in a white coat, waving up at the boat.
"Damn, David Moffet's aged," I said to the guy standing next to me, peering over the edge. It turned out to be Gerald, the mop guy. I really have to stop doing that. I don't know if it's come from 'blogging, and my tendency to tell everyone all about a load of stuff that's going on in my life and head that maybe, without the miracle of modern technology wouldn't otherwise get out to the general public, but it's a habit that I've got to kick, this telling people what's on my mind in an aside. I desperately missed my iBook already, even though it's shell sat in my rucksack on my shoulder.
When I went to pat my shoulder I noticed the suspicious lack of rucksack, and so I missed Gerald's reply, which was probably something along the lines of, "That's not David Moffet," but that's okay. I bolted into the cabin where my cup of coffee, which I'd left where it lay, still sat, right next to my erstwhile laptop bag.
And partially on, seeing as how we were, after all, on the sea. And liquids stay pretty well flat and even, even though the surfaces they rest on and in may not be so still. Like, say, after those surfaces and the surfaces they were connected to clunked off a submarine laboratory.

It turns out Gerald was a slow speaker, and I caught most of his response to my aside, which was, "-ot David Moffet."

An hour later, all the supplies and things that were destined to be aboard the Von Neumann, including myself, were aboard, and all the stuff that was supposed to be aboard the Devil's Dam was aboard, and they had cast off, back to Nantucket via Martha's Vineyard. The remainder of the people were hardy tourists who were out for an alternative to the whale watching cruises that sailed in and out of the harbour.

My new surroundings dripped at first with the residue of the sea air and the actual sea, which slurped over the edges of the hatch, as the old man struggled to close it down, batten it down, I suppose, possibly seconds later than he should have, watching the ship depart.
I sat quietly on the bench just below the hatch, slightly soggy, clutching my bag out of harm's way, against my chest.. The air tasted slightly metallic here, like how I imagined the set of Aliens.
The old man, the hatch shut, clambered down the ladder and on to the grating that the packages we'd brought aboard rested on. He looked once my way, the nodded at me to follow him, as he exited the... room below the hatch.
Kipper had explained to me, up above the surface of the sea, that the Von Neumann was the headquarters of David Moffet, the very same I knew. Or knew of, at any rate. The vessel was Moffet's semi-mobile laboratory (Kipper said it like this: "lah-bore-a-tore-ee." I immediately thought of Young Frankenstein, but didn't say so.). "Lah-bore-a-tore-ee?" I asked, (it's catching, what can I say, I was still thinking of Young Frankenstein) "what does he do there?" I had made a mental note to stop drawing out all my syllables, otherwise Kipper might take offense and toss me overboard, tear me limb from limb, stuff me in a locker, something painful that I would do to people, if I were his size and I felt they were making fun of me, at any rate.

I was led by the short old man into another room that looked like something straight out of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. The movie. Or the amusement park ride. Not necessarily the book, unless your version of the sub in the book resembled the film.
It was velvet and teak and bookshelves well-stocked with books. And a porthole looking out, sideways, half into the sky, half into the sea. A pessimist might have called it... I don't know what a pessimist might have called it. Slightly fogged up, perhaps.
"Take a seat, Ishmael," the old man said. It wasn't any Holmesian trick by which he'd deduced my name, I told him as he was getting far more familiar with me, in a hands on manner, than most of my closest friends had ever in years of knowing me, while he helped me across from the one ship to the other. "Once you've eliminated the impossible...," as they say. "We're about to begin our descent. Would you like any beverage?"
"No, thank you," I said, as I sat down in one of the velvet love seats beside a brimming side table. "I'm fine." I settled back into a chair with a volume of Whitman, plucked off the top of the side table, to take my mind off the descent.

He left the room, and there was, momentarily, a slight feeling of being cut loose -- an insignificance. Astronauts must feel something similar upon first experiencing weightlessness in the plane that swoops high and low, simulating, to a degree, what it is they'll feel after being propelled outside our gravitational pull.

Looking up from my Whitman, which I wasn't reading anyway, I saw that the porthole was completely submersed now. And the old man returned.
The Von Neumann was also purportedly the world's least submersible submersible. If I didn't mind looking silly, and looked up from the floor through the porthole, I would still be able to see, thirty feet or so above our heads, the now settling surface of the water.

This is largely due, as Kipper told me, to David Moffet's overwhelming fear of being enclosed by water too much. The key was in the 'too much,' Kipper said.

To be continued...

disclaimer:
This issue is dedicated to all those kids out there lumbered with Moby Dick for summer reading this time round.

And to those kids running through Return of the Native, remember, some day some of you might come to like Thomas Hardy, despite all the stuff they put you through in high school.

And it finally makes its' appearance, the world's least submersible submersible! Which works on a few levels, surely. Please.

Next week one of our staff has warned us they're getting one of those balance boards, the ones that are supposed to be good for building balance for surfing, skateboarding, basketball, walking around, what have you. And they're getting it shipped to the office.
Hopefully we're around and fit to produce next week's issue.



		archives horoscopes accessories contacts theatre fables home Search Sane: [A Note on My.Netscape.Com]		The Onion's Defense Mechanism 6 And the series rolls thataway... With a hearty clunk, too hearty, probably, if you were the owner of one of the things being clunked, we came to a stop, seemingly out in the middle of the ocean. This appearance was helped by the simple fact that we were in the middle of the ocean. Shortly after the clank, and a few anxious moments where the boat did what boats do when they stop; which is, namely, not come to a complete rest but sort of lurch and slosh around for a while, looking to get comfortable -- a hatch opened, seemingly out of the middle of the ocean! This appearance was slightly less literal than the previous appearance of being all alone in the middle of the ocean, because by the time the hatch came all the way up out of the water you could plainly see a large metallic vessel beneath the little white caps and the little old man in a white coat, waving up at the boat. "Damn, David Moffet's aged," I said to the guy standing next to me, peering over the edge. It turned out to be Gerald, the mop guy. I really have to stop doing that. I don't know if it's come from 'blogging, and my tendency to tell everyone all about a load of stuff that's going on in my life and head that maybe, without the miracle of modern technology wouldn't otherwise get out to the general public, but it's a habit that I've got to kick, this telling people what's on my mind in an aside. I desperately missed my iBook already, even though it's shell sat in my rucksack on my shoulder. When I went to pat my shoulder I noticed the suspicious lack of rucksack, and so I missed Gerald's reply, which was probably something along the lines of, "That's not David Moffet," but that's okay. I bolted into the cabin where my cup of coffee, which I'd left where it lay, still sat, right next to my erstwhile laptop bag. And partially on, seeing as how we were, after all, on the sea. And liquids stay pretty well flat and even, even though the surfaces they rest on and in may not be so still. Like, say, after those surfaces and the surfaces they were connected to clunked off a submarine laboratory. It turns out Gerald was a slow speaker, and I caught most of his response to my aside, which was, "-ot David Moffet." An hour later, all the supplies and things that were destined to be aboard the Von Neumann, including myself, were aboard, and all the stuff that was supposed to be aboard the Devil's Dam was aboard, and they had cast off, back to Nantucket via Martha's Vineyard. The remainder of the people were hardy tourists who were out for an alternative to the whale watching cruises that sailed in and out of the harbour. My new surroundings dripped at first with the residue of the sea air and the actual sea, which slurped over the edges of the hatch, as the old man struggled to close it down, batten it down, I suppose, possibly seconds later than he should have, watching the ship depart. I sat quietly on the bench just below the hatch, slightly soggy, clutching my bag out of harm's way, against my chest.. The air tasted slightly metallic here, like how I imagined the set of Aliens. The old man, the hatch shut, clambered down the ladder and on to the grating that the packages we'd brought aboard rested on. He looked once my way, the nodded at me to follow him, as he exited the... room below the hatch. Kipper had explained to me, up above the surface of the sea, that the Von Neumann was the headquarters of David Moffet, the very same I knew. Or knew of, at any rate. The vessel was Moffet's semi-mobile laboratory (Kipper said it like this: "lah-bore-a-tore-ee." I immediately thought of Young Frankenstein, but didn't say so.). "Lah-bore-a-tore-ee?" I asked, (it's catching, what can I say, I was still thinking of Young Frankenstein) "what does he do there?" I had made a mental note to stop drawing out all my syllables, otherwise Kipper might take offense and toss me overboard, tear me limb from limb, stuff me in a locker, something painful that I would do to people, if I were his size and I felt they were making fun of me, at any rate. I was led by the short old man into another room that looked like something straight out of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. The movie. Or the amusement park ride. Not necessarily the book, unless your version of the sub in the book resembled the film. It was velvet and teak and bookshelves well-stocked with books. And a porthole looking out, sideways, half into the sky, half into the sea. A pessimist might have called it... I don't know what a pessimist might have called it. Slightly fogged up, perhaps. "Take a seat, Ishmael," the old man said. It wasn't any Holmesian trick by which he'd deduced my name, I told him as he was getting far more familiar with me, in a hands on manner, than most of my closest friends had ever in years of knowing me, while he helped me across from the one ship to the other. "Once you've eliminated the impossible...," as they say. "We're about to begin our descent. Would you like any beverage?" "No, thank you," I said, as I sat down in one of the velvet love seats beside a brimming side table. "I'm fine." I settled back into a chair with a volume of Whitman, plucked off the top of the side table, to take my mind off the descent. He left the room, and there was, momentarily, a slight feeling of being cut loose -- an insignificance. Astronauts must feel something similar upon first experiencing weightlessness in the plane that swoops high and low, simulating, to a degree, what it is they'll feel after being propelled outside our gravitational pull. Looking up from my Whitman, which I wasn't reading anyway, I saw that the porthole was completely submersed now. And the old man returned. The Von Neumann was also purportedly the world's least submersible submersible. If I didn't mind looking silly, and looked up from the floor through the porthole, I would still be able to see, thirty feet or so above our heads, the now settling surface of the water. This is largely due, as Kipper told me, to David Moffet's overwhelming fear of being enclosed by water too much. The key was in the 'too much,' Kipper said. To be continued... disclaimer: This issue is dedicated to all those kids out there lumbered with Moby Dick for summer reading this time round. And to those kids running through Return of the Native, remember, some day some of you might come to like Thomas Hardy, despite all the stuff they put you through in high school. And it finally makes its' appearance, the world's least submersible submersible! Which works on a few levels, surely. Please. Next week one of our staff has warned us they're getting one of those balance boards, the ones that are supposed to be good for building balance for surfing, skateboarding, basketball, walking around, what have you. And they're getting it shipped to the office. Hopefully we're around and fit to produce next week's issue.


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