I just have one question. Where the hell did you find exactly the right size ball-bearings to fix the rotating mount on the cannon and swing it away from Earth before it fired?? I mean, seriously, we were on a spaceship that looked too advanced to even be USING ball bearings anymore!

Something I worked on once, long ago, but I think it fits the spirit of the meme.

*^*^*^*^*

Found on a crumpled piece of paper, lodged between a trash bucket and a bag of cat food, obviously thrown across the room...

==

It's an Indian Summer kind of night.

A few folks have strung up Chinese lanterns in the central square -- which is circular, really.  The four main streets of town converge, and then ring the park-like plaza.  Between each street are four buildings, pretty much all storefronts of one sort or another.  The Alexandria Herald -- my office -- is one of them.  At first I just idly watch the commotion, my blue pencil bouncing on its eraser through my fingers onto the galley proofs on my desk.

There are no cars -- They haven't been allowed in the center of Alexandria for years, so the streets are broad, grass-and-stone walkways.

In the gazebo, a quartet starts setting up: sax, bass, piano, drums.  An upright piano is pushed along by a dozen kids and teenagers, all helping out, the cart wheels squeaking.  The cart bounces over the grassy cobbles of the streets.  A single-file procession follows, carrying the drums.

The strings of lanterns stretch from the gazebo to the street lamps, which are in the old-fashioned concrete post style, with blown decorative glass bulbs on the top.  You've seen this style a thousand times, in noir movies.  Before coming here to Alexandria, I hadn't seen any still actually standing since I was last in Pasadena, where Caltech's Jenijoy LaBelle had asked me to speak on "Werner Heisenberg and James Joyce: Quantum Uncertainties in Finnegans Wake."

The waning moon shines down on the plaza; just a bit bigger than Last Quarter.

The band plays.  A crowd coalesces from all over town.  Two, three hundred people, all dancing in the street.  To swing, to rock, to the rare trance piece.

I take Jennifer by the hand in the paper's office, and lead her out to dance among our neighbors.  We slide together and become that single moving object that is a dancing couple.  I place my hand on her back, and feel that fit we have.  Which of us is the glove?  Which of us the hand?  I can't say.  All as the two of us begin to sway to a slightly uptempo version of "Moonlight Serenade."  Ah, the benefits of a preppy youth.

It's at moments like these -- when the community condenses out of the air, like sugar crystals in a finger-tapped flask of "sweet tea" from the South -- that I'm happiest with our choice to move here.

It's odd.  The whole event feels like a Yanqui interpretation of the fiesta scene in Romancing the Stone.  Yet I feel that much "Northern reserve" (either in North America or Europe) stems from the hard scrapple effort to survive a winter... and for this equinoctial moment, we ignore the one or two trees just tinged with color, we push from our minds the leaves of flame to come, to be followed by Old Man Snow... For this moment, we are warm, both inside and out.

A woman sings a torch song, one that swings oh-so-gently:

 This morning I woke up an hour before dawn
 You're sleeping beside me your face to the wall
 I can't stand to leave you but I know I can't stay
 That's why I'm practicing walking away...

The singer's name is Kristina.  Her song sounds quite heartfelt.

I wonder if Jennifer sees anything in my eyes as I feel a brief pang of recognition in the lyric.

It was the third time we met that I remember the most... Ouzo, Everclear (I'm glad your eye brows grew back quickly btw), and Thunderbird would not have been my first combination choice, but they sure did make for an interesting conversation starter in the temple.

I do wish I remember the name of the priest who Rabbi Val introduced us to downtown. Although it's probably for the best I don't remember his name, given the stories that they were sharing about their respective adventures in "spirituality." Do you still get xmas cards from "Mrs. Rabbi Wife?" To this day, I still snicker when I see the PBR logo on anything.

Did your old buddy ever figure out that we were actually waste deep in canal when we called singing CCR? That's definitely one I'm glad didn't end up on tape. But it was nice of Father ??? to dive reach down to pull out the shoe you lost.

Anyway, as always, I promise not to share what happened in the after-hours club if you don't mention where you found me the next morning. But it was one hell of a thirty-six hours...

I came over unannounced and you were gardening, or at least digging small holes. The offering I'd brought was a bottle of sweet Gewurztraminer. When I drew it out of the paper bag crumpled around its neck, you smiled, took it, and placed it soundly in a little pit where the top could just peek out. It was, you told me, for the fairies.
Later, after I left you there and you finished with your gardening, I came back, opened the bottle with a pocketknife, and drank half of it. I also fell and thumped my head on your porch- I have no idea how you slept through this, but I wasn't about to let the wine go to waste. Now occasionally there's this weird buzzing sound in my ear but my ear/nose/throat specialist can't find a thing.

Vegas.

I know, I know, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And it helped when I distracted that TV reporter so you could jack the tapes out of his van. I never figured you for a Disciple of the Elder Gods till that road trip. We still haven't gotten the blood stains out of the floor mat, but man do you people know how to party.

You weren't lying when you said helping him arise means he'll start eating me at the head and not the feet, right?

It was probably all the opium, but thanks again for not getting mad when I called out that Thai ladyboy's name in the heat of the moment.

Two words: rocket surgery.
That has to be the best memory EVAH. Of course, the tabasco sauce milkshake that we had afterwards was also memorable.

I can't wait until we can get back to San Francisco and retrace our steps going through the events in Seanan McGuire's Rosemary and Rue again. I love that city. Would you rather take me to Grants pass this time?

Salem, Mass....Oct 24th, 1997, 11:35 PM

I somehow knew right where to go. Soon as I stepped out of the car parked by the Hawthorne Hotel. It was shut door, head to that corner in the cemetery and don't forget to lock up.
The equipment check came as I knelt close to the ol' Judges tomb. I had the big stone sarcophagus between me and the far end of the boneyard where a huge shrub blocked the streetlights and plunged that end into the type of darkness that you get in contrast - streetlights blasting your night vision. Huggin' the cold stone, I reassured myself of the pistol load, the holy water, the flashlight. Not much...pretty bad actually...but it was what one can get in a hurry.
I peered over the tomb. Just on the other side, there was a shock of red hair and big green eyes sneaking a peek right back at me.
I blinked, held her gaze. Her eyebrows arched a little and she stared back. Since neither of us went in for a kill, I offered: "Ahh...yo."
"'Lo" she responded.
We both stood slow and reluctantly. Checking each other out in all manner of ways. Pretty. Shapely. Red-head (trouble). Got a super-soaker, a big-ass cross and a knife that was pure navy SEAL.
We paused a moment more.
She cleared her throat a little and muttered "Vampires. Mostly. You?"
"Werewolves...I think."
"Oh." A moment. "Hey!" She fished about her bag for a momemnt and pulled out some dried foliage. "Wolfs-bane?"
"Thanks...I'm all out. Kinda a surprise night. Thanks."
"No problem. It happens to me all the time. Well, now I got great back-up." She waved a wedding ring out.
"Nice...what's its about... Um. I'd offer Holy Water, but it looks like you're set. Soaker and all. Classic Lost Boys."
She smiled. Like I said: pretty.
Then the 'normal life' passed and work settled down over us like a chill.
"Luck." I said. She moved past me down to the memorials.
"You, too."
Back to work.

Again I'd like to thank you for your recent help. Without your input, Project: DEATHSQUIRREL would never have gotten back on track. The gene splicing has taken hold, and the implants arrive tomorrow.

Thank You!

The robot wars had not gone well for us. The machines said that as long as we weren't a threat, we would survive - as living memorials.

People had assumed that it would be us versus the machines. That turned out to be a lot of hubris on our part - in a straight-up fight, humanity versus the machines, we didn't stand a chance.

Fortunately for us, the nanite mimetics and the big iron REALLY didn't like each other. Most of us were killed in the crossfire. The machines eventually reached cold war status and decided that humanity should be kept as free-floating pets to make them feel better after nearly wiping us out.

When things really went to hell a decade ago, we wound up in this dumpy-ass little town in Oregon. It had been J's idea initially, back when we were joked about zombies. The first year was hell - you never knew when that water slick would form up and turn into some translucent nightmare, dissolving your arm for resources. Big iron was nasty, but the nanites - those tricky bastards were the worst.

Things go to hell, you at least want to be with friends.

J, C, D, M and I were all that were left. We met up in Oregon, scrounged up enough social to survive. After that first year, we decided to take turns looking for other people, looking for solutions. Nobody expected it, but it turned out that the survivors were generally pretty nice - no fighting over resources, just thousands of lonely souls.

I was really glad J was there to help keep us sane - she would write stories to help us feel less lonely, to help us remember who we were, who we are, and how to deal with all of the frightening things. We took turns doing dramatic readings. It kept us distracted between our rescue trips.

The last time it was my turn to look for people, I found a lab just thirty miles away. I had followed the robotics research right up until the end, so I knew a lot about the labs. I had some ideas, and I was looking to make some trouble - and I found it.

I mentioned this at the camp when I got back - I had a breakthrough, and I was excited about showing everyone the next night. I captured a small bit of big iron that day - sort of a cross between a squirrel and a paper shredder turned inside out. If it worked, the future was looking a lot brighter.

J swung by the camp the next afternoon.

"How goes?"

I was lost in my work, and barely glanced up. "Hey, it's supposed to be a surprise."

"Mmm hmm." J picked up one of the test tubes and peered at the bright red liquid.

I finished reviewing the quark scan data, and it looked good. I glanced up, smiled, and said, "do you want to see it?"

J grinned and sat down in one of the old lab chairs. A decade of dust swirled into the cold light. "Of course!"

I have always secretly wanted to be an actor, indulged reading J's stories. With an exaggerated flourish I pulled the sheet off of the metal squirrel monster. I had spent the morning thinking of a good nickname.

"This... is Shredder!"

J was clearly unimpressed. She wasn't exactly the person you called when you needed to, say, move fifty pound bags of sand, but she knew her big iron. Capturing Shredder wasn't going to warrant more than a polite smile.

I grinned... and I stuck my hand into the cage right in front of Shredder.

Remember that tiny little Zombie outbreak at game? The one in which you and I were the only ones prepared and we had to rescue Adam and Jeff? We kicked ass and saved the day and it was GLORIOUS!