When I moved to the new version of blogger, all the contributors save two disappeared. I am glad to see they are now back in all their multifarious splendor. Fakie Central is still in a state of flux: neither here nor there, warm nor cold, sweet nor salty. We have embraced the galactic omphalos and defaced the plastic gastropod, to whose hideous visage the townsfolk had been sacrificing huge platters of Tex-Mex takeout for the past three generations. Yes, we've been around the bend and back, shaking our groove thing despite being nearly crushed to death by an unstable mountain of watermelons that some lackey stock boy had stacked too high in the produce aisle.
[insert picture here]
Scholars and prophets of the Fakie persuasion are still arguing about and pronouncing upon the subject of what this blog will look like in the New Dispensation. I suspect it will look much the same as it does now, with each pixel a galaxy containing billions of tiny planets, any one of which might be the hideout of the Xister and his ilk, or the home of some hitherto undiscovered race of disco-lovin' Frisbee-tossin' brethren. It's a veritable microverse, but quantum inertia may decree that it remain largely unexplored. All the better, for there must yet remain vast tracts of territory for which no salesperson or marketing team have been assigned, and were this not so the entire house of discarded hockey cards might very well collapse.
[insert provacative fakie-link here]
It's all I can to to keep from bursting into old world laments every time I think about the freedoms we once enjoyed, when every road was a thread of destiny upon which we could feel ourselves part of some great tapestry depicting the 13th annual Beasley Park Skateboard Jam (which, historians say, is the one precising following the 12th annual Beasley Park Skateboard Jam). But then somebody photocopied my television screen, collected the fifty or so snapshots of an old episode of Night Rider, and bound it into a collector's edition folio that sold for 12 dollars on ebay. And now all I have left are the memories of a time when those little prizes in the bottom of a box of pink elephant popcorn were enough to make one happy for five to ten minutes or so, even up to half an hour.
[insert recipe for staying old here]