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2004-03-02 - 6:46 p.m. for want of a towel ok, just moments ago someone just ran naked from the shower to write a banner for me and I was going to click on the banner to find out just who that someone is (not to be any sort of pervert or anything, right?) of course I could guess, wildly to be sure), but I was writing a note to a dear precious (who thankfully cared enough to spellcheck this entry, though my penchance for continuing to add more of them might foil her well-intended efforts to foil my dastardly plans to take over the world by cunfusing everyone with typos and oddly mixed references to random cultural icons... are you thinking what I'm thinking Pinky?... yes Brain, but how are we going to get Santa to fit into your shorts?) that went something like this (apparently, in what must have been a rash moment of rare literary vanity or perhaps a tribute of some kind, not to mention, ever so coincidentally {nudge nudge wink wink nod nod} a mad dash of noteworthy {and pun-worthy?} assistance, sans some typos): My personality fluctuates more and more with the passing years, certainly lost in the details (or obscurity) with the Slartibartfasts of the universe, but often deeper into Arthur Dent's ambivalence (or is that the robot's depression?), sometimes more egocentric than Beetlebrox, and definitely feeling stuck here on this planet by some transport error like Ford Prefect... but as usual, when exploring a work like the Guide (or the worlds of Heinlein, Roddenberry, Asimov, or whomever), I relate to the alien perspectives, the irreverent relativity of everything, and find myself at home in the uniquely repetitive ordinary absurdity most of all. which was an attempt to sincerely answer a question from someone (that dear precious I so coyly mentioned earlier, not like Gollum, no, we would never be so obsessive, unless quite irreverently and not unless she enjoyed it) who gets me too excited for my own good that went something like this: To which character are you referring... Arthur Dent, or more like Slartibartfast? (I have to reread those... it was the coolest four-book trilogy I ever came across.) which was an inquiry about my recent reference to the character (what, just one?) in my head that belongs in a Douglas Adams book (which might go down in history as the greatest story never told, or at least that did not actually have a conclusion that was written down, though so much research continues to be done on the matter, the mice might be proud of us yet), who may be the primary author of this entry so far, but that could change at any moment if I find my towel but I clicked and sent the note before I clicked on the banner and now I may never know (and at the conclusion of the run-on sentence and the flashing of the cheer sign, the audience bursts into spontaneous applause and our hero, the unknown writer, who is no relation to the unknown comic or Andy Kaufman, for that matter, though there was talk about Robin Williams at the sperm bank the day of the immaculate insemination, takes what would most definitely have been a pants splitting bow if he wasn't wearing a dress that he still, to this day, swears was hanging on the kilt rack of the rummage sale held each week at the local nunnery)... meanwhile, in another part of my mind, I have decided that there are altogether too many peoples (gawrsh Goofy, I can be so golfired random sometimes, but sometimes there can be profound meaning subtly (or not) hidden in the randomness, I mean, did you ever really contemplate the universe?) here at DLand who have been here for far too long without any of my awareness of their existence and just how they got along without it is irrelevant at this point (unless they care), for they are most likely unaware themselves of their lack of my awareness and even now as aware of their existence is blatently exposed (what a linkwhore, huh?), they still may not know (even with all the casual namedropping... this could be you, any of you, unless, of course, you know I know you know I know (ya know?)... strange time space leap, huh? meanwhile, here in the physical environment of the palatial candoor estates, apparently the cable has been connected all along (shhhh)... yes, the angst Precious suffered over not being able to see the 76th (or however many) Academy Awards Show last Sunday was completely unnecessary... poor Precious... but no fear, for the mindless boredom suffered staring at the blank screen is now replaced by the mindless whatever of staring at the video images of other people we may never know imitating fake lives written by other people we may never know... but alas, my mini-vaction from TV is now officially over... tonight, Powder and A Walk To Remember occupies the audio visual space... and all this the night before the FCATs... as I write this Precious looks over at me every few seconds to see if I am paying attention and I am doing my best not to be too distracted as you can see from the profundity of this entry so far... what?... ok, maybe I'll let the innocent love and fantasy influence candora a little (novel idea, huh?)... after all, I might have gotten into Groundhog Day for a while if the channel didn't keep changing... anyway, all this to say if you happen to find my towel in your travels tonight, feel free to hand it to that person who ran naked from the shower to write that banner... nothing much else is going on around here I suppose...
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