Journal of Seismo-Zombie

For two years -- from December 1995 through December 1997 -- I kept a sporadic web journal. For those with the time to read this, I hope it will serve as a warning. Seismo-Zombie

1995 December 7: I got the results of my blood work back today. It seems I'm really low in quadramaltymates. I had never heard of these, let alone suspected it was something I should have in my blood, but the doctor assures me that I have to raise my quad levels or else the disturbing visions of that Quaker Oats guy will continue. Apparently stress and diet are thought to be major factors in controlling quadramaltymate production... and I'm getting plenty of each these days. Now I am supposed to avoid all foods with proteins and vitamins, both of which are known to supress quadramaltymate levels and flush them from the system. So once again I find myself on a diet consisting only of oyster crackers. When will the tribulations end?

1995 December 9: I finally got around to mailing my National Health Proposal to the USDA! The "Nutrition Pyramid" was just too complicated, so I want to bring back the "Four Basic Food Groups", albeit with some minor modifications. I suggest:

  1. White Foods: milk, refined sugar, coconut, etc.
  2. Urospecifics: foods that affect the amount, color or odor of urine, such as coffee, beets or asparagus
  3. Pizza Toppings: pepperoni, mushrooms, anchovies, etc.
  4. Artificial Surfaces: linoleum, formica, polyurethane, etc.
I am so excited! I can't wait to hear back from them -- this could be the big break I need!

1995 December 11: Yesterday I was sweeping snow from the driveway when my broom hit something big and furry. I was so excited, for I was sure I had unearthed a frozen mastodon from the Pleistocene! But it turns out just to have been the body of one of the mandrills that have taken up winter residence in our garage. To be specific, it was Jorge. (Yes, I finally got around to naming all the members of the troop). It will not be the same without old Jorge around, although I will not particularly miss the way he would charge at me and bite me whenever I tried to get some tools from the garage. Nor will I miss his habit of throwing excrement at others. But he was a character.

Only three days into my diet, and already I am starting to get sick of oyster crackers. Oh, how I long for a pizza!

1995 December 13: I have been feeling weak and dizzy these last two days. Barbara thinks that oyster crackers alone [see 7 Dec 95] do not provide the nutrients my body requires. I agreed it was hypocritical of me to eat only crackers while trying to spearhead a National Health Proposal on Basic Food Groups. So I have decided to supplement my diet with a daily bar of "Tropical Teen" soap. It meets the four categories I have proposed: it is white (a strong artificial coconut theme), it is a urospecific (the suds produce a burning sensation when I relieve myself), and it has a pineapple flavor (pineapple is a legitimate pizza topping in thirty-nine states). To meet the Formica Food Group, I also ingest the box it comes in (anyone who has lived under the Congress Street Bridge will recognize that cardboard affords some protection from the elements).

I am slowly trying to win the trust of the mandrills. Today I bought them a $50 gift certificate from Neiman Marcus and left it by the lawnmower.

1995 December 15: Last night I had that dream again, the one where I am chased across the empty tundra, pursued by news anchor Peter Jennings. His eyes, the dull red of complete rage, his fangs dripping a yellow ichor, and the wicked looking spatula in his hand... brrr, the image lingers on even now that I am awake.

1995 December 31: Just got back from my vacation to Walt Disney World. I saw my family and mostly had a great time. But somehow I really offended this guy at the Magic Kindom, a person dressed up as Cogsworth (the clock character from Beauty and the Beast). I think he's been stalking me ever since.

While I was away I received a response to my National Health Proposal. Somehow in my haste I accidentally sent it off to the USMC instead of the USDA. The good news is that some colonel in the Marine Corps actually wants to meet with me next month! Maybe now is the time for me to get that haircut I've been putting off since March '92.

1996 January 3:

Deer Mister davis
You are an EVIL MAN. You ruined my job and my lif and I hat you so much i cud explode. I will find you and kill you lik the EVIL MAN you are. I wish I had never seen you, dog from hell you! You are a ded man.
[postcard I received in the mail today]

I guess I should explain the incident with Cogsworth in more detail. It was two days before Christmas. I was in the Magic Kingdom just outside my favorite Fantasyland attraction (Mr. Toad's Wild Ride) when I noticed my watched had stopped. That's when I saw the guy in the Cogsworth costume signing autographs. Figuring he would know (he was a big clock after all), I went up and asked politely, "Excuse me, do you have the time?"

The Disney Characters who wander the resort are not allowed to speak (I did not know this at the time). Cogsworth attempted to answer despite this handicap by pantomiming the hands of a clock with his arms. Unfortunately, as he extended one arm he accidentally struck one of the small children who were flocking all around him, and though the blow was not very hard the poor tyke began to cry. As if this were not bad enough, the mother of the child began to berate Cogsworth, telling him that he "wasn't careful enough to be around children" and that she would "report him to the Disney Authorities". I tried to intercede, explaining it was just an accident and the child was fine, but then she yelled at me too, saying that since I didn't have children of my own I would never understand the trauma of seeing your own child hit by a man in a clock suit.

That evening I was eating dinner with my family at the Norway Pavilion at Epcot Center (the Resteraunt Akershus, which I heartily recommend). I was standing at the buffet helping myself to some mackeral and sauerkraut, when who should show up but Cogsworth, still in his clock costume but now reeking of gin. He spotted me and pushed his way through the line to get to me, then angrily grabbed my plate and began to stuff the food into his mouth. Or at least he tried to, but since his mouth was just painted on it just spilled all over the floor. The waiter came up and asked if there was a problem. "The clock didn't wait his turn in line!" an old man behind me complained. The waiter then reprimanded Cogsworth: "This is going to go on your record!" "But I'll get f-fired!" Cogsworth stammered. "I've already been in trouble once today because of HIM!"

A foreboding silence filled the room. Cogsworth pointed at me accusingly, but all eyes were trained on him. He had committed the one unforgivable sin of a Disney World Character: he had spoken aloud. No one said anything right away, but no one had to -- we all knew his days were over as a Walt Disney World employee.

Whether they let him keep his costume out of pity or whether he never returned it to wherever Disney Characters come from, I do not know. But over the next couple of days I continued to see him, still a big clock, following me around, ticking away in his enmity, a menacing shadow waiting for me in the distance. And now he has my address.

Happy New Year, Everyone!

1996 January 8: Today I begin my long drive out to Boulder, Colorado, to spend several months working in the labs. Though I hate to leave behind my wife, my cat, and the mandrill troop, I have to take my salary where I can get it.

1996 January 20: Friday afternoon (was that just yesterday? It already seems so long ago!) the Marines came to my door and escorted me away. I was flown by jet from the Jefferson County Airport to some unidentified landing strip, whereupon I was blindfolded and driven by jeep to a camoflauged dome hidden deep in the woods. The blindfold removed, I met Colonel McQuellighan. The Colonel was a short bulldog of a man with intense eyes and an agitated manner. After introducing himself, he spoke for nearly an hour about my food groups proposal [see 9 Dec 95]. He seemed excited, pacing back and forth and preaching something about SVTI (Strategic Vitamin Tactical Interactions?), "nutrition warfare" and the need for a "civilian food liaison". I had no idea what he was talking about, so when he occasionally stopped and looked my way I would nod my head or mumble "uh huh" or something equally non-committal. McQuellighan seemed satisfied with this, and at the end of our interview he shook my hand, whereupon I was once again blindfolded and driven away.

I have no idea if I have agreed to anything, or whether I should expect any kind of followup. If anyone else has ever heard of this SVTI, please write me and let me know what I am dealing with.

1996 January 29: Two big changes this week! First off, I quit my diet [see 13 Dec 95]. I may have been too hasty, doctor's orders or no. Oyster crackers and Tropical Teen soap just don't leave my appetite fulfilled. Plus, I've been fainting and vomiting blood all week, there is a constant ringing in my ears, and I've lost all motor control of my left side. I'm told these are not a good signs. So now I eat the oyster crackers and soap and Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but on the rest of the week I can eat whatever I choose. Hallelujah! Joy is me!

Second, I received a letter from home. Apparently someone has left a tall rectangular monolith in our garage. The mandrills are all excited, jumping up and down and shaking sticks and wrenches at the strange new artifact. I don't know who it belongs to. Normally I wouldn't mind, but Barbara says it is affecting TV reception, and now she can't watch "E.R." but instead all she can tune into is the ghostly image of a diminutive man with a huge bald skull who keeps proclaiming that Judgement Day is nigh and to prepare for the Seven Tribulations of Eternal Torment. I think it might be CSPAN-2.

1996 February 5: Today I found a bloody wristwatch taped to the windshield of my car. I think it is a warning from Cogsworth [see 3 Jan 96). I also got a ticket. Apparently the CU Parking authorities consider it a $20 violation to display on your vehicle any timepiece soaked in one or more bodily fluids. What a gyp!

I am considering buying some sort of weapon or protective device in case Cogsworth tries anything. I hate the thought of carrying a gun around, though. Maybe I'll just stop in one of Boulder's numerous Aromatherapy shops and buy something really pungent.

1996 February 6: Is there anyone else out there who, like me, actually prefers the half-popped kernels of corn?

1996 February 8: After the incident with the watch a few days ago, I decided to take some steps to protect myself. I asked the Mustard Man for advice. (The Mustard Man is the nickname of one of my colleagues at work. Everyone calls him that because he smears dijon mustard all over his seat and computer keyboard "for sanitary reasons". Once as joke, someone poured some regular yellow mustard on his desk. The Mustard Man was so traumatized that he refused to come into work for a month. Because he seems so paranoid, I thought he might have some useful tips for me.)

"I can get you a GOOD deal," Mustard Man said with a sly wink. "I have CONNECT-tions!" When I asked him to elaborate further, he offered me a choice of self-defense weapons. One was some kind of thermonuclear device, which he admitted required a special vehicle for safe transport. I explained I would prefer something a little more portable. "I have JUST the item for YOU!" said Mustard Man. He leaned over, and whispered, "I will BRING it in this WEEK-end!"

1996 February 9: Today I found another bloody watch taped to my windshield. A dark, sickening apprehension filled my soul... then I noticed that ALL the cars in the parking lot had bloody wristwaches taped to them! It wasn't Cogsworth [see 3 Jan 96] after all! It turns out several of the C.U. students are staging a protest (they feel that noon comes too early in the day, and would prefer it around 2 or 2:30 pm). What a relief!

The University Parking Police are really having a field day. With all the money they've raked in from bloody watch violations, they've all gone out and bought these fancy silk fedoras.

1996 February 13: Well, I got the Mustard Man's "special weapon" this weekend. It is an egg slicer taped to the end of a short metal baton. I am a little disappointed, though I paid him the 5 dollars he asked for. Actually, it looks kind of cool; I carry it around and wield it like a scepter. Though I doubt it will do me much good against an attack by Cogsworth, I can already see a potential use for it. Frank, the person in the next cubicle, is always singing to himself. I can use the baton to reach over and tap him lightly on the head until he stops. All morning long I have been serenaded with Frank's version of "Besame Mucho". Time to put Mustard Man's device to the test...

1996 February 19: The war lines are being drawn. Our lab group cannot come to a decision as to when to hold our weekly progress sessions. On one side we have Lem, Frank, Trudy-Sujah and Mr. Dapper, who think having meetings first thing Monday morning will get it over and done with. One the other side are Dinah, Hans, Evangeline and the Mustard Man, who feel the threat of a Monday morning meeting would ruin their weekends. Neither Missoula nor I really care one way or the other, and for this we are treated with suspicion by the others.

The air at the labs has never been so thick with tension and rancor. I think blood will be shed before the first of Spring.

1996 February 21: Last night I dreamed about my Uncle Erno, so this morning I called my parents and learned the sad news. I remember Erno as a soft-spoken, lumpy man who lived in our basement. He would always sit and listen quietly to what I had to say, and unlike the rest of my family he never teased me for my fervent beliefs that radishes were plotting to enslave the human race. This morning, when I asked my parents how Uncle Erno was doing these days, at first they claimed to have no idea who I was talking about. Then they came clean: Erno was not really my uncle, but rather a sack of coal they kept near the furnace. And he no longer lives with my parents; indeed, he was left behind years ago when my folks moved to Florida.

Goodbye, Uncle Erno. I will miss you. You will never know what a difference you made in my life.

1996 February 28: "I love the Benny Hill Show," Hans told me today. "I live, breathe and eat Benny Hill. In every way except one of actual existence, I am Benny Hill. He is my idol; for me, He is the Way and the Truth."

"Uh huh," I replied warily. "Is there some reason you want me to know this?"

Hans -- a tall, gangly and somber man who reminds me nothing of Benny Hill -- nodded his head. "So you will understand me better. So you will see me as a person, and identify with me and with the rest of us who wish to have our tech meetings [see 19 Feb 96] later in the week. So when the time comes to vote, you will be with us, and we will triumph, and our weekends will not be marred by the threat of a Monday morning meeting."

"That is an interesting strategy," I commented. I did not add that I was dubious of its success. I also declined when he offered to lend me his entire collection of the Benny Hill Show on videocassette. So far, Hans is the first person to try to get me to take sides in the battle over when to hold our progress meetings. But I fear he will not be the last.

1996 March 5: Trudy-Sujah, a woman in my office, frequently changes the name by which she prefers to be called. Sometimes she goes by "Trudy", sometimes "Sujah", at times (like now) she insists on the hyphenated form "Trudy-Sujah"... in the past she has also designated herself as "Trudy Sue", "T.S.", "Salima" (her surname), and for two weeks last year, inexplicably, she went by the name "Blue Wahoo Thirteen". Many of the other office people tease her because of her frequent name changes, but I am always happy to call her by whatever designation she chooses, and as a result she is usually quite friendly to me.

But there was nothing cordial in her eyes today when she cornered me at the drinking fountain -- they burned with the fervor of someone on a mission. "You think you do not need to choose sides in this battle," she told me quietly but firmly. "You are wrong. When we hold our weekly meetings [see 19 Feb 96] is not really the issue here. There is a larger battle at stake. Do we reschedule a Monday morning meeting just to avoid screwing up our weekend?" I knew she was serious. I had never heard Trudy-Sujah use language like that, and her voice had a low, desperate quality to it. "Don't you know how MUCH our modern world is geared towards procrastinating the tasks we find unpleasant? How much more do you think the universe can take? How much?! Didn't it ever occur to you there might be a... a critical mass... to these things?"

She looked up at me, her face intense with urgency. "Don't you get it? Don't you GET it?! This is it. This is the big one. The end of the millenium, the turning of the Heavens, the warning signs of the Apocalypse -- Ebola, AIDS, Pat Buchanon, those plastic Duracell people on televsion -- the lines are being drawn. And whether you want to or not, you WILL have to choose."

1996 March 8: For the last few months I've had a small crack in my tooth, and my dentist told me I would need to get a crown. Then, the week before my appointment, the tooth in question split apart. Since this happened while I was out of town, so I made an emergency appointment to see someone else. They kept me waiting for an hour and a half before allowing me to sit in the dreaded dental chair. Finally the dental authority figure came in, took a cotton swab with something on it, placed it to my broken tooth and asked, "Does this hurt?", whereupon my entire body was wracked with an unbelievable, searing, paralyzing pain. Later, I looked at my bill and saw that I had been charged $10 for a "Pulp Vitality Test".

So I got back to town earlier this week and went to my regular dentist and started the awful process of getting the crown. I have to go back for more torture at the end of the month. Earlier, if the temporary cap falls out.

I'm just now starting to pick up their language:

Dentistspeak English
We'll use a local anesthetic In a moment I will bring out a needle the size of a baseball bat
This won't hurt This will hurt
You're just gonna feel a quick pinch Sharp, tearing pain
This may hurt just a tiny bit Unbelievable agony
This will hurt a bit. But don't worry, it won't last long. You are doomed. Repent your sins and make peace with your Creator. Begin your life flashback now.
Does this hurt? I've had a bad day and I want to hurt something. Fortunately for me, you are here.

Don't get me wrong, I do not begrudge the dentists for the work they have to do and the pain they cannot avoid inflicting. I am just trying to work through the trauma, for this experience has left me scarred and is driving me deeper and deeper into a psychosis from which there is no escape.

1996 March 11: I am back in Indiana visiting my wife this week. Today I met one of our neighbors for the first time: Ed Weathersbee, a friendly, elderly man. We got to talking about our gardening plans for the coming year, and I asked him when he expected the last frost around this part of the country.

"Oh, I've got foolproof plan this year, yes siree. Want to know it?" I admitted that I did. Mr. Weathersbee pointed down the street. "See that pile of snow? I've been keeping my eye on that. I figure when it's all melted down, that's when the weather's turned warm enough that there won't be no more freezes."

I looked where he pointed, but didn't see any snow. "What pile? Where?"

"Right over there!" Weathersbee motioned, a tad annoyed. "Where the snow plows got it piled up all high!"

I shrugged. "I'm sorry, I can't see it."

"The big white thing! Over there! Are you blind?!"

"That? That's the Coopers' house."

The old man scowled. "A house? Are you sure?"

"Yes. That's a house, I'm quite certain. It's not snow. It's just painted white."

Weathersbee squinted at the Cooper home, and frowned silently for a moment. "Well, darn it all," he muttered. "I guess it ain't gonna melt then." At that moment Mrs. Cooper opened her front door and walked out on the porch. The old man's eyes opened in alarm. "Snow demons!" he cried in a voice stricken with horror. He turned and ran back into his own house, locking the door behind him.

1996 March 12: The phone rings.

Me: Hello?
Caller (singing): Honesty, is such a lonely word...
Me: Hello?
Caller (singing): ... Everyone is so untrue...
Me: Who are you calling?
Caller (singing): Uptown girl... she's an uptown girl...
Me: Frank?
Caller (singing): (pause) In the middle of the night...
Me: Frank? Is that you?
Caller: (pause) Yeah.
Me: Are you calling all the way from Colorado?
Frank: Uh-huh.
Me: What is it? Is there an emergency at the lab?
Frank: No... well, no, not really an emergency.
Me: Well, what is it then? What's with the Billy Joel retrospective?
Frank: Listen, Scott, I need to talk to you. It's about the progress meetings. I know Hans has already spoken to you.
Me: So has Trudy-Sujah.
Frank: It's Sue this week.
Me: What?
Frank: Trudy... she's calling herself "Sue" this week.
Me: Oh.
Frank: Funny lady, huh?
Me: I suppose.
Frank: I mean, there are some really oddball people in our office, huh?
Me: So about the meetings...
Frank: Right! I wanted to tell you that I think Hans and the others are wrong. We shouldn't have an extra meeting later in the week. Monday morning meetings are enough.
Me: What?
Frank: They would be a waste of time. We never really accomplish anything with the ones we already have.
Me: I won't argue with that. Even one meeting a week is more than enough.
Frank: So you agree with me that Hans is wrong. We shouldn't hold extra weekly meetings.
Me: Frank, the issue isn't whether to hold an extra weekly meeting or not. It's whether to hold our one weekly meeting on Monday morning or later in the week.
Frank: (pause) It is?
Me: I'm afraid so. We have the same number of meetings either way. It's just a matter of when.
Frank: (pause) Oh.
Me: Was there anything else?
Frank: No, I guess not.
Me: Well... see you next week, then.
Frank (singing): We didn't start the fire...
Me: Goodbye, Frank.
Frank (singing): It was always burning since the world's been turning...

I hang up.

1996 March 16: It was my last night back home in Indiana. We invited a colleague of my wife's over for dinner -- Ines Cortelia from the Art Department, whose photography exhibit "Telephone Poles and Power Lines: A Diorama of American Sexuality" won awards at the Wallenbaum Festival last year. We brought her into the garage to show her the mandrill troop. Ever since the appearance of the monolith, the large monkies have been busily rearranging our boxes of books and garden tools in strange geometric patterns. Ines jerked in surprise when she saw the display on the garage floor. "Ai, Shub-Niggurath," she muttered. "They have made the Elder Sign!"

"The Elder Son?" I asked. "Who?"

"The Elder Sign," she snapped back, a little testily. "It is... it is nothing. Nothing. Come, let us return to our meal." We did so, but Ines spoke little for the rest of the evening, and her face retained that haunted look of a housecat in a veternarian's waiting room.

1996 March 19: An unpleasant surprise when I returned to my office in Boulder this week: the ominous note "DON'T MESS WITH TIME" pinned to the top of my desk with switchblade. Is this a threat from my nemesis, the giant man-clock Cogsworth? Or a warning from one of my coworkers regarding my stance (or lack thereof) in the scheduling of our weekly meetings? I went to see if Missoula had received a similar message, but she had taken the day off to bring her daughter to the Calcium Festival in Longmont. So I played around with the switchblade as I waited for my PC to connect to the network. Being the nimble-fingered person that I am, I quickly cut myself, and went across the office to the Mustard Man's cubicle to see if he had any band-aids.

"AH!" Mustard Man screamed in horror when he saw the bloody knife. "Keep a-WAY from me with that KETCH-up! You will con-TAM-i-nate my mustard!"

"It's not ketchup," I replied, "it's just blood. I nicked myself with this knife. Do you have any bandaids or gauze, or if not, know anyone here who might?"

The relief on the Mustard Man's face was indescribable. "That is a CRUEL hoax!" he chastised me. "Putting blood an a knife and pretending it is KETCH-up! Shame on YOU!"

1996 March 22: Last month I predicted that before the first of the Spring, blood would be spilled over this stupid weekly meeting feud. Well, my prediction was wrong... but I was only off by two days. Today we had a vote about whether to reschedule our meetings. It came out even: four in favor, four against, and one abstention (Missoula was still out of the office). The director, a very officious gentlemen, suggested we schedule another meeting to vote again. Dinah asked whether we should schedule this meeting on a Monday or later in the week, prompting a heated argument amongst my colleagues. When the director called for a vote, all chaos broke loose, and in the ensuing melee Lem punched Hans in the face and stormed out of the room. Hans's nose was bleeding -- possibly broken -- and he also had to leave to seek medical attention. "I hope you're happy!" Evangeline snarled at Trudy Sue. Trudy, a reserved woman I have never heard swear before today, cursed back a hoarse "f*** you".

Things are in a very sorry state. I am beginning to wish I had stayed in Indiana.

1996 March 25: What are these signs I see posted everywhere? They've only been around for the last week or so, but they are everywhere I look. A sketch of a heavyset man, sitting at a table, using a large spoon to shovel what appears to be scrambled eggs from a plate to his mouth. There are two versions: one, with a caption which reads "Have You Seen This Man?"; the other, which simply says "FEED". Today there was one taped to my front door. What does it all mean?

1996 March 29: Earlier this week I stood in the parking lot of Krogers, staring at the giant, inflated Ronald McDonald that sits on the roof of the McDonalds next door. It was a blustery day, and I was watching the monstrous, hulking clown balloon snapping back and forth against the chains that bound it, as if it were struggling to escape. It was a sight both inspiring and frightening. Although the red-haired behemoth was intimidating, like a creature from my deepest nightmares, I found myself silently rooting for his escape. But it was not to be. Today Ronald is still manacled to the restaurant, and he sits quietly in the rain, forlorn, unmoving, defeated.

1996 April 14: I caught a mild cold late last month. I felt congested, so I bought a bottle of saline nose spray. Then I became absorbed in one of those infomercials, a patented new mouthspray that is supposed to give you "Executive Breath" and help intimidate your business colleagues. Apparently I didn't notice I was inhaling the nose spray for the whole hour, and I went into saline shock. I was in a coma for over two weeks. Delays, delays.

1996 June 17: The doctor said I needed to recover from my saline spray overdose, so I went to recuperate on the seashore. Bad idea. The moment the salty breeze hit my nose, I went into salinesprectic shock. Another five weeks in coma, and now I have to live in a plastic bubble full of pepper -- the condiment which counteracts salt. I sneeze and sneeze to no end.

1996 October 5: I haven't written anything new for awhile -- I've had to go into hiding. The death threats from Cogsworth were getting too persistent. There is a small and select group of us in exile here: me, Salman Rushdie, John Belushi (he didn't really die -- it was all a coverup, the fame was getting to him), Nicky the Weasel (mob informant, not sure of the details), that woman from the commercial everybody hates (also death threats), and David Byrne (I've no clue why he's here). There are also several aliens here, the ones the Air Force is hiding from the general public (possibly Byrne is with them). We live on a small secluded commune -- I can't say where, naturally -- and we grow parsley to sell to Krogers. Krogers gets all its parsley from us, in fact, as a result of a special government Witness Protection Produce contract (one of the WPP bills of 1984).

1996 December 19: I am so mad! I had several weeks of updates to post here, but John erased them so he would have room on the hard drive to download all his nudie pics. I hate having to share this place with all the others! Salman is always stealing my toothbrush, Nicky never puts the milk back in the fridge, that commercial woman is always leaving the toilet seat down, and David and the aliens party all night, playing Jim Nabors albums so loud I can't get any sleep. If I hear "Behind Closed Doors" one more time I think I will burst into tears. I feel so low, no holiday spirit at all this season.

Leno-Liberace Experiment 1997 February 10: Shades of Jurassic Park! Nicky helped me break into the government lab where Byrne and the aliens are doing secret experiments in conjunction with the Department of Defense. Apparently "Project Gold Chalice" is an attempt to resurrect Liberace from his now-exhumed body. But they were unable to codify the entire genetic sequence, and they filled in the gaps with DNA from Tonight Show host Jay Leno. Horrors! The things I saw in there give me nightmares. The Weasel and I are thinking about escaping from our parsley protection commune.

1997 August 23: I snuck into the public library disguised as a titanium recycling bin; now I can secretly log in and enter this update. Nicky and the commercial lady and I escaped the commune at the end of February. Since then I have been on the run from everybody: the aliens, the U. S. Government, the ABTF-WPP (the Armed Bureaucratic Task Force of the Witness Protection Program), Cogsworth, and John Belushi (who thinks I stole his autographed centerfold of Miss Nude Broccoli Fest 1983). Naturally, I cannot reveal where we are now. I hope sometime soon I can fill you in on what has been happening, but there is too much scrutiny. All I can say is that Big Boy is real, he is not just a restaurant icon, and he is very very mean. I have to go now, the librarian is looking at me suspiciously. I think she wants to sort my plastic bottles from my cardboard. This is so demeaning!

1997 September 22: Bell Bottoms are back in style!!

1997 September 23: Bell Bottoms are out of style again.

Revelations 1997 October 31: Some time back I received this pamplet in the mail. It was for a seminar which promised to show me the signs of the revelations for Judgement Day. Looking at the cover (click on the image at right for a full view), the warning signs appear to be the appearance of strange beasts: a winged lion, a four-headed winged leopard, a steam-breathing dinosaur, and a bear. This has me worried, because way back in April Barbara and I had a wonderful camping trip in the Great Smokies. But I saw a bear.

1997 December 24: I am now under the protection of the WPPP, the Witness Protection Protection Program, which protects those that have run away from the WPP, the Witness Protection Program. I have been given a new identity, a new home, and a really cool pair of sandals. I will not be able to write any more, so this will be my last entry. Blessed be, Season's Greetings, and may the New Year bring love and joy to all.

home "I've had enough... take me home to Seismo-Zombie!"