For a few moments our modern global and
national geopolitical maps were just too
thunderstruck to break loose from the convent
ions that bound us to our pedestrian lives. How
ever shaky we were at our own beginnings, the
tightrope between the visual and the phantasy
was clung to anonymously by those in the throes
of said conspiratorial beginnings. Under the cover
of the thunder our poor founders blundered. This
macabre misery was never an alternative world
order, despite the rumors that followed the few
woke blokes who wrestled themselves out of the
bullpens of yesteryear. That was the era where
jumping into a cockpit was not something that
could be done with the ease of mounting one’s
teenage bicycle. So, with apologies and respect
to the age-old tradition of cranky old pilots’ blips
gone silent at whichever corner of the planet was
momentarily the hungriest, I submit for your refer
ence, Exhibit A: the running joke about Which nozzle
should I inhale now (the purple one or the yellow one)?
with the punchline, as always, Why, the kitchen sink,
of course! This bit was at the top of the “All-Aboard”
Hot 100 Chart for three entire decades. Studies
would go on to prove that it was the same as
flying was and always had been. “Humans
with wings!” we all spat in unison. Didn’t
we Earl? We all SPAT THOSE WORDS!
Was it the same, Earl? Was it just flying?!
And what is it now, Earl? Is it the same?
Whatsamatter, Earl, cat gotcher tongue?
Go ahead, brief us, why doncha. We’ve gotta
file that report. What’s your wingspan now,
Earl? It’s in the Explicit Instructions, Earl, and
I’m not tellin’ ya something you’re not already
fully aware of. We brief. And then we debrief.
General Peckinpaw had continued, his steady
voice raised a bit, as the Pop Majority, those in
the MAINSTREAM, or the Clods as we called them,
as the clods sort of arose as one and took off like
jetpacked slaves up into the cerulean, until they
were nothing but barely detectable migratory
specks. Time was when a bird in the hand
was worth WHAT, Earl? Was worth two in
the bush. That’s right, one bird in one
hand. But now? Now, every clodhopper
from here all the way out to the Bering
Strait, it’s just one thing. “Killed two
birds with one stone!” they say. I
can’t set foot in a landing arena but
that’s all I will hear. “Two birds,
one stone!” “Two birds, one stone!”
And then off he went, along with
the rest of the so-called brass,
snowballing down the steepest
edge of the planet. And from the
hills just this side of where they
disappeared from view came the
familiar, once comforting sound of
thunder in all of its wide-ranging incar
nations, from unintentional digestive
eruption, to the swift-smart crack of
the whip. Thunder Ann Whirlwind
and I looked each other in the eyes
for a long while before tut-tutting,
and mumbling pretty much in unison,
Where’n the world is the world goin’?
By the time we took off for our respect
ive quarters, most of the clods were back.
It was all the same as usual with them,
all caught up in their own moments,
as if they were individuals. They made
a lot of audible declarations to themselves,
as if only they knew what was what. For
example, Thunder Ann made a mental
note of Those dumb-ass ducks, (which
was almost always followed by cluck-clucks).
And there were more than a few They’ve
gone to the birds. Just gone to the birds.
Horizons were spread out in all directions, as
if around a big red circle, within which’d
be an X and the words YOU ARE HERE.
