Sugar Mountain

Sugar Mountain (Photo credit: BlueRidgeKitties)

A dear friend is planning to leave his den, that comfortable haven where his cortex is safely connected to the web, to venture into the netherworld. I knew I had some weird friends, but this one absconded with the whole cooky jar. He plans to disconnect himself, temporarily one hopes, from our virtual reality and wander unknown planes, ipadless, cell-less and… (there’s worse!) cameraless. I told him with wringing hands: “But my dear chap, this does not compute!” He responded that this was the point (calamity and blasphemy). Dear Readers, my friend has obviously taken leave of his keyboard. He’s gone and planned a non-event and, one is ashamed to say, one that is not even sponsored.

We shall sadly never know the sound of his one hand clapping, as the sound-byte soft and hardware will be absent, a common mistake in the olden days and the reason why most of Man’s history is largely deemed irrelevant, as belonging to those fabled lands of imagiality and realination. He plans to go where no self-respecting cyborg has gone before, to a place of rumours only, estranged from the grid, to a parallel universe of undocumented unreality, at best found in a very few forgotten comments on some Unix platform of a tenebrous yester-millenium.

Why did He-who-must-not-be-named (because his name is protected by copyright)come from the Sugar Mountain, bringing us the tabloids of the Book of Many Faces, if not to warn us that such behaviour is unvirtual in the extreme and just not on! He would turn over in his archive, should he hear of unwarranted SPAM-less wanderings, uninterrupted by a commercial break. One despairs at the thought that the fool might actually be doddering along without a sufficient popcorn supply, possibly even wienerless!

We, who are well-linked persons and shall therefore not go missing, know that to leave the safety of one’s net is to invite disaster. One might very well bump (and quite harshly at that) into remnants, who are relics of that pre-existence period from before the Cinderella, brought to us by our Fathers from the Holy Wood (this is even pre-Oscar time, folks!) These mutated remnants may turn my delirious friend into a heathen, forcing him to read actual paper cartoon editions or turn him into a worshipper of the anti-Cyborg… *shudders*

One wonders, shall he forget our proud ancestry, shared and liked by millions, our illustrious forebears: the first, the one and only Fred and his mate Wilma? *sobs* I fear for his immortal matrix, forever out of GPS-reach, unmonitored by even one solitary cctv. Yes, if the unfiltered air does not do him in, the withdrawal symptoms surely will. And now, over to the studio!