Space Travel, 21st Century Style.

[Doktor Howl]

So, yeah, you get stuck on this asteroid, right?  And it gives you a great view, as you zing around the sun...But the asteroid is crammed full of belligerent primates, and they're doing their level best to talk YOU into being a primate, so you can get along.

But primates aren't much company, and even the smarter ones tend to talk past each other.  So you sit there, wondering how the hell you got there, and wondering if you'll ever get to go home...Back to that East coast island where they had real people, people who felt so isolated by their environment that they NEEDED to relate to each other.

Of course, that island is gone now, absorbed by the monoculture, so even if you could get THERE, you'd still be HERE, if you know what I mean.  The Strand is long gone, it's some kind of hipster joint now, and Chess's Fish & Chips (closed for lunch) has been replaced by McDonalds (open 24 hours).  The woods behind Winnipeg Street are all gone, it's strip malls all the way to the airport, and the unarmed and rather friendly police have been traded in for big fucking spiders with mob guns and eyes made out of flint.

So you really have no place else to go.  There's a freedom in this, of course, as you can write or say or create anything you want, and the monkeys hardly ever kill you over it, at least anymore.  No, it doesn't even register on them, and therefore you can grind out your frustration and your loneliness in any way you choose, in perfect safety.

So I think the best thing to do is sit tight, ignore the primates in the same way they ignore you, and just do your own thing.  And if you miss Hank and Johnny and Toichi, well, you can't have everything, right?  You can have all the super-sized shit you like, you just can't have any companionship.  Learn to deal with it.  Take your pills, they will make you feel better about things, at least for a while...Let you forget that you're a million fucking miles from home, and you can never, ever go back again.

I'd write a symphony, but nobody is here to hear it.

I'd write a manifesto, a scathing indictment of the asteroid, but nobody's around to get mad.

I'd write my congressman, but I'm pretty sure I'm not actually one of his constituents, for I  am on an asteroid, not in a penthouse.

I'd do something, anything, but it's only for my own benefit.  I'd scream, rant, rage, stomp around puking blood, but it would only be a narcissistic, self-indulgent emo howling.  Curly and Payne are dead, and I think The Machine™ is actually answering my letters, telling me what I want to hear.  It's not hostile, after all.  Happy cogs last a little longer, less downtime.

I honestly think that I have nothing left to add, in this rant or otherwise.  Empty space has no appreciation for that sort of thing, and neither do the monkeys that I one day dreamt of training.

So when you see a shooting star, think for a minute about poor old Dok, stuck up here.  And then go back to whatever it is you were doing...Just one more aging malcontent in a very contented universe, indeed.

Okay for now,
Dok

[Freeky]

   I can't really think of any response, other than that.

[Luna]

Sometimes I think an asteroid would be more peaceful.  Fewer screeching, grabby primates...

[Doktor Howl]

Sometimes I think an asteroid would be more peaceful.  Fewer screeching, grabby primates...

nm

[Luna]

Sometimes I think an asteroid would be more peaceful.  Fewer screeching, grabby primates...

nm

I hear it, Dok...  I do.  Good stuff, my head's just in a different place this week.

[Doktor Howl]

I'm saying it wrong.

[Payne]

So, yeah, you get stuck on this asteroid, right?  And it gives you a great view, as you zing around the sun...But the asteroid is crammed full of belligerent primates, and they're doing their level best to talk YOU into being a primate, so you can get along.

But primates aren't much company, and even the smarter ones tend to talk past each other.  So you sit there, wondering how the hell you got there, and wondering if you'll ever get to go home...Back to that East coast island where they had real people, people who felt so isolated by their environment that they NEEDED to relate to each other.

Of course, that island is gone now, absorbed by the monoculture, so even if you could get THERE, you'd still be HERE, if you know what I mean.  The Strand is long gone, it's some kind of hipster joint now, and Chess's Fish & Chips (closed for lunch) has been replaced by McDonalds (open 24 hours).  The woods behind Winnipeg Street are all gone, it's strip malls all the way to the airport, and the unarmed and rather friendly police have been traded in for big fucking spiders with mob guns and eyes made out of flint.

So you really have no place else to go.  There's a freedom in this, of course, as you can write or say or create anything you want, and the monkeys hardly ever kill you over it, at least anymore.  No, it doesn't even register on them, and therefore you can grind out your frustration and your loneliness in any way you choose, in perfect safety.

So I think the best thing to do is sit tight, ignore the primates in the same way they ignore you, and just do your own thing.  And if you miss Hank and Johnny and Toichi, well, you can't have everything, right?  You can have all the super-sized shit you like, you just can't have any companionship.  Learn to deal with it.  Take your pills, they will make you feel better about things, at least for a while...Let you forget that you're a million fucking miles from home, and you can never, ever go back again.

I'd write a symphony, but nobody is here to hear it.

I'd write a manifesto, a scathing indictment of the asteroid, but nobody's around to get mad.

I'd write my congressman, but I'm pretty sure I'm not actually one of his constituents, for I  am on an asteroid, not in a penthouse.

I'd do something, anything, but it's only for my own benefit.  I'd scream, rant, rage, stomp around puking blood, but it would only be a narcissistic, self-indulgent emo howling.  Curly and Payne are dead, and I think The Machine™ is actually answering my letters, telling me what I want to hear.  It's not hostile, after all.  Happy cogs last a little longer, less downtime.

I honestly think that I have nothing left to add, in this rant or otherwise.  Empty space has no appreciation for that sort of thing, and neither do the monkeys that I one day dreamt of training.

So when you see a shooting star, think for a minute about poor old Dok, stuck up here.  And then go back to whatever it is you were doing...Just one more aging malcontent in a very contented universe, indeed.

Okay for now,
Dok

Ground control to Major Tom, they said.

We all know Major Tom's a junkie, they said.

Major Tom was the only motherfucker having any fun, is the only one who ever will have fun. And while he loves his wife, he loves his spaceship more.

Also, an update for Roger: I'm not dead yet, though this part of the highway is looking mighty familiar. I'm sure Curly must be just around the bend.

[Doktor Howl]

Ain't no lost highway.  It's just cracked concrete on the ruins of a dead planet.  This here is the lost spaceway, like when you come out of twist, only you're not where you were supposed to be, you're in one of those sideways places because maybe the drive failed, and Curly?  Ho ho!  Don't look to closely at that deflated spacesuit drifting by, kids!  Nothing good for you there! 

And in these sideways places, things are just a little...off.  Like maybe you're in the universe next door, some horrible fucking place where rationality was abandoned, and everyone went trudging back into the mire of superstition.  Where the obvious thing to do about shrinking resources isn't to go get MORE, it's to burn up what you have, trying to take what the other guy has.  It's a nowhere place, and it has no future...But the drive is broke, and there's no way home.  All you can do is keep recording, in case someone finds your log, so you keep recording until the battery runs ou

[Payne]

Ain't no lost highway.  It's just cracked concrete on the ruins of a dead planet.  This here is the lost spaceway, like when you come out of twist, only you're not where you were supposed to be, you're in one of those sideways places because maybe the drive failed, and Curly?  Ho ho!  Don't look to closely at that deflated spacesuit drifting by, kids!  Nothing good for you there! 

And in these sideways places, things are just a little...off.  Like maybe you're in the universe next door, some horrible fucking place where rationality was abandoned, and everyone went trudging back into the mire of superstition.  Where the obvious thing to do about shrinking resources isn't to go get MORE, it's to burn up what you have, trying to take what the other guy has.  It's a nowhere place, and it has no future...But the drive is broke, and there's no way home.  All you can do is keep recording, in case someone finds your log, so you keep recording until the battery runs ou

There is a soul to the desolation. A twisted, putrid, betentacled soul to be sure. But it is there.

And we are I am it's Chaplain.

We've lost The Lost Highway have we? I think not, it's just ALL Lost Highway now, as far as the eye can see. Except, really, it has always been that way to those who travel it. Let him with eyes to see, and all that hippie shit Jeshua ben Joseph was always banging out.

I am The Mission, Doktor. Or I will be as soon as I can find Curly to play my John the Baptist.

[Salty]

There come these horrible moments where the asteroid your shooting through that empty space appears to go where you want it to go. I say horrible because who you when you're straining your eyes at a million blinking lights, connecting each one into some pattern that looks pleasing and ending up familiar, you start to think you need to end up there. Maybe you do. Maybe there's a million blinking miracles in those millions of tiny dots.

So you steer your adorable, quaint little rock towards them, and after you keep jamming levers that MUST be big enough to get the job done into what ends up being your own backside you begin to feel that you're succeeding. And that's the trap. You're not hurtling though space in any direction you weren't already.

You are still circling that giant, hideous, blinding light despite all your efforts to imagine that this isn't the same ride it was before, same song and dance, same cold void despite that FUCKING light.

And that's OK. Until its not.

I guess what I'm saying is I know something about howling on my little rock.

[Payne]

I know what rocks are for.

Stoning the heathen, or standing on while you preach The Word.

And a rock is a rock.

[The Rev]

What if some of us think we can reach our own conclusion without being "trained" by someone else?

[Salty]

Aww is there someone out there preventing you actualizing your potential?
    /


Seriously though, what the hell are you talking about?

[The Rev]

Aww is there someone out there preventing you actualizing your potential?
    /


Seriously though, what the hell are you talking about?

"I honestly think that I have nothing left to add, in this rant or otherwise.  Empty space has no appreciation for that sort of thing, and neither do the monkeys that I one day dreamt of training."

No, no one is preventing me from anything.

[Salty]

 Damn you, you figured it out. This is a deep cover training facility. Due to your tenacity you will be contacted soon and will be sent through paramilitary training.
         /


Oh, you don't want in. In that case just stay right where you are. HIS mind lasors need to adjust their focus...

You'll love it here, it's so warm...