(for Billy Jones)
The Blogosphere prior to being eaten
I am really pissed at those aliens. I was just sitting there, crying in my grits, Jean Valjean yawping "Bring him Home" over the telly, hot tears streaming from my face, when the phone call arrives. "The blogosphere is gone", a little voice over the wires came leaping. Now honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns, and so when the news came of this strange disappearance, mon semblable, mon frère -- clanging, clanging upon my heart as upon an anvil -- short was the time for me to act on my disbelief and dare to disturb the universe.
"Open Sesame!", I shout to the refrigerator door then clap twice loudly. The door springs open revealing a dozen cans of Pabst, a half-eaten can of Veenerweeners, and...Pandora's Box...only to brook yet another rivulet of confusion, where mind and matter glide swift into the vortex of immensity. Howls the sublime, and softly sleeps the calm Ideal, in the whispering chambers of Imagination.
"All is dross that is not the blogosphere.", I thought to myself as I popped the can and performed gravitational experiments upon the ablutive. "What wild ecstasy must be drunkening the minds of those mimsy borogoves. What headmusick drives these misdaisies? "
- "Anon they move in perfect phalanx to the Dorian mode of flutes and soft recorders."
"Well I would not have guessed that!" I said to my doppelgangstress. "I would've thought Phrygian, or even Locrian, considering the gravity of the matter. And maybe sackbuts and melotrons."
And so the search for the blogosphere went on in this soft morning city and in Edwardian Blogsboro. Until a blip, and the TV returns, lighting up the hungry eyes, redrawing the koolaid moustaches on all her little children.