This year the RPG run at Protozoicon will be decided by concensus. So if you’re planning on attending and interested in playing please give a little feedback if you’ve got time.
The survey only contains 10 questions so hopefully it won’t take too long.
You can click here to take it.
Flying Numbers (2005) is a series of 49 poems written over a two-month period or so in 2004. Originally I published them on the web, but in 2005, I edited them into a PDF book-like format. Personally, I like their web presentation a little better than their PDF presentation. Some of the pictures for example were changed in making them into a book, along with the background colors. Additionally, some friends contributed their versions of flying number poems, which I had on the web also. The PDF-book version lacks these poems, and the colors, etc, but in the end it is probably a little easier to navigate.
Thematically, each poem centers on the flying numbers 1, 2 and 3. Rather convolutedly, the poems were also connected to a project (which is currently shelved) called PJ the Robot (and who in many regards still lives on). Even more convolutedly, PJ was an acronym, standing for “propaganda jox”, both a call to arms against the current state of world affairs and an allusion to a bygone time when the only enemies on the face of the Earth were Russia and the USA. The final thing that should be noted is that both”propaganda jox” and PJ owe a lot to Stuart Gordon’s film, Robot Jox (1990).
Crash and Burn and Flying Numbers.
The deer cannot see from the side of the highway the traffic beyond.
Bernheim, one of Governor Hentoff’s lackeys, was vomiting off behind a trash receptacle. I wasn’t big on politics, but for what it is worth, Bernheim would have been an idiot regardless of his profession. That morning and before the black hole had opened up in the middle of Chicago, he’d eaten three cheese steaks.
“Try not to get any of that on the floor, Berny – they just waxed in here!” I called out as I clacked away on the keyboard.
“Fu— blauguguguguguguugugug!” replied Bernheim.
I laughed. My laughter was quickly quelled though. We were in big trouble and by my calculations had 1 hour and 17 minutes to stop a black hole from consuming all of Chicago. In another twenty-four hours, it would be the world.
Mr. Pony fancy-pants doin' the Mr. Pony sparkle dance Twirls and Spir-els for the squealing girls Who love that stupid pony Shoney Money Noney with regal hat Pony-Prance outta sight fat wildcat(s) trance and ending(s) stop beginning(s) on the giraffe neck(s).
In the crowd I heard someone say to a lover of mine never end with a clincher. She died. I didn't attend her funeral. I didn't wear black. I was a cold drift. I counted waves. I said alone, when things end, no one gives applause.
I'd come from London to explore the the Alpine Wild when I fell through the ice. The matches wet would not light when from the white the St. Bernard appeared. And I wondered, "Does he really have cocoa in that little jug."
Burning the talent without estimation swimming in beer it will end 9 to 5 piss hit or miss.
Beware of polar bears passing on ice, giving advice, to stay out of Newfoundland, cause I've never heard them talk.