I figure he sat at his desk and was lonely too. The winds that go through the desert have never left my mind. He sat there and listened to the wind outside and had the screen in front of him while his wife slept and boy watched TV. Surely there was some reason that incredible human being ended his days in wrinkled little Hawthorne Nevada.
Sunday night and I see plenty of names on the screen but no new threads. And why should there be? We got a lot of darn interesting ones on the stovetop most any time, and this day more than usual. We had life and death, and fellowship at a Blade show. There was building joy at the arrival of a married companion kept seperated too long. A 25" blade did its stuff and cut some wood. A very fine man got dinged and wondered why, and so did we. Railroad stop, ocean liner, Star Wars Bar; What Is This Place?
The Stars probably look naked and brilliant outside Hawthorne's lights. Rusty saw them. What a Packrat he was. Not just things, though Lord knows he had enough to arm every man, woman and child on the Block in case of Alien invasion. He was a Packrat of people. He collected wonderful close things and wouldn't let them go. The Good Stuff. He had lines out to everyone and most of their stories. And he sat at a wooden table same way I sit on mine, with a screen in front of him and all those people close by. I can hear the same wind he did.
Imagine the Aliens did land, and too fast for Rusty to act, they'd already put his neighbors under mind control. He sat at his screen while a big D9 outside fired up and was shoving through. What would be there? What would the Aliens see if they tore down the walls and stopped just short of crushing the Gnome?
A slightly bent guy hunkered over his keyboard with a screen in front of his skull. Now, of what value is that? Could the Aliens know how many friends were on that screen? Could they know someone's wife was in real danger but made it out OK? What chance do the Aliens have of sharing the joy of a bag of blades Spectre's bringing home?
Well, none of course, and that's why that big yellow machine gave a squawk of gears and rust colored smoke and crushed down Rusty's house. They never knew what was inside. Just another human, not even a pretty one, doing something that didn't make any sense to Alien eyes. Staring at a screen.
I never thought I'd think of a revolver, a Ganga Ram khuk, maybe a FN-FAL leaning against the wall, a copy of the dictionary and Mowgli by Kipling, mug of coffee or tea, and the Trusty Old Screen. The Good Old Screen. All these things together. It really is a new world. That's us inside there.
And always remember, HI forum was one of the first.
munk
Sunday night and I see plenty of names on the screen but no new threads. And why should there be? We got a lot of darn interesting ones on the stovetop most any time, and this day more than usual. We had life and death, and fellowship at a Blade show. There was building joy at the arrival of a married companion kept seperated too long. A 25" blade did its stuff and cut some wood. A very fine man got dinged and wondered why, and so did we. Railroad stop, ocean liner, Star Wars Bar; What Is This Place?
The Stars probably look naked and brilliant outside Hawthorne's lights. Rusty saw them. What a Packrat he was. Not just things, though Lord knows he had enough to arm every man, woman and child on the Block in case of Alien invasion. He was a Packrat of people. He collected wonderful close things and wouldn't let them go. The Good Stuff. He had lines out to everyone and most of their stories. And he sat at a wooden table same way I sit on mine, with a screen in front of him and all those people close by. I can hear the same wind he did.
Imagine the Aliens did land, and too fast for Rusty to act, they'd already put his neighbors under mind control. He sat at his screen while a big D9 outside fired up and was shoving through. What would be there? What would the Aliens see if they tore down the walls and stopped just short of crushing the Gnome?
A slightly bent guy hunkered over his keyboard with a screen in front of his skull. Now, of what value is that? Could the Aliens know how many friends were on that screen? Could they know someone's wife was in real danger but made it out OK? What chance do the Aliens have of sharing the joy of a bag of blades Spectre's bringing home?
Well, none of course, and that's why that big yellow machine gave a squawk of gears and rust colored smoke and crushed down Rusty's house. They never knew what was inside. Just another human, not even a pretty one, doing something that didn't make any sense to Alien eyes. Staring at a screen.
I never thought I'd think of a revolver, a Ganga Ram khuk, maybe a FN-FAL leaning against the wall, a copy of the dictionary and Mowgli by Kipling, mug of coffee or tea, and the Trusty Old Screen. The Good Old Screen. All these things together. It really is a new world. That's us inside there.
And always remember, HI forum was one of the first.
munk
before joining in. I always hated the shallowness and posturing common to most chatrooms. One time I joined a 'sniper' chatroom (another slice of my checkered past) only to find, not rifles, reloading data, and ranges, but sleezy internet ladies hoping to get laid (or talk dirty? ) 
The cantina has the mix of cracker barrel and philosophy I was looking for in the first place....thanks to youse guys.
