Hello friends
I am just now today waking out the deepest and most snot-filled stupor ever, 4 days after getting here. A combination of no sleep, altitude change (this place is higher than Denver) and whirligig juniper pollen all up in mah grille, made me feel like I wanted to puke marshmallows for 3 straight days. I saw an old friend in New York, stayed at her house, and was surprised at how little I had to say to her; I went with her to some bar in Brooklyn the night before I left, and instead of attempting to talk to the artfully wrapped and clad beeyootiful people there, I bough a pack of smokes and befriended a tiny Brazilian on the stoop, whose name was Sol and could have fit in my pocket. Then, after supposedly sleeping for 1 hour to get up and take a taxi to the airport, I slept way way late, rushed out the door in my underpants, and promptly had an ATM eat my card because it was so cold, or so they told me. So I had to regroup back to a less than impressed friends house, cancel my flight, wait til the bank opened to claim my card, and take a later plane. The first 2 days here I stumbled through whatever beurocratic poop I was supposed to, and then promptly collapsed at 5pm to sleep through the night. My head is a bit light right now, but miles better than even yesterday-- the complete and utter dryness is truly amazing.
There is, as might be assumed in a Government situation, a distinct abundance of self-importance round here; the typical job humor is no different than a couple well-fed litigators: "So I said, what do you expect with a follow-up Code 14? right? right?" And the whole idea of park rangers carrying Gatling Guns in their trucks JUST IN CASE is a bit of a laugh too. This afternoon I completed an hour long training course to use the governent internet tubes. Among the soundest advice given: "If you find your computer has been attacked by a virus, Step 1: Dont Panic!" AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! And, "in choosing a password, it is best to make it difficult to crack. Do not use any words that are in a dictionary."
But the place is beautiful, I am safely tucked away for the meantime in a 1930s' CCC cabin at the foot of tawny afternoon cliffs, and I sewed the SCA patch that was sent me, meant to adorn my epaulets or forehead, on the hole that opened up on my knee. It has come to my attention that I am the proud owner of not one, but two cabins -- one is my country home, apparently-- a canyon, and a stream. And I have just this minute been handed keys to a white Ford Taurus with US GOV plates on it.
I shall withhold judgement in the meantime, but I get the distinct impression that nobody really does anything around here; many of the employees i have met have implied that they rarely set foot in the actual park grounds, and the amount of hooroar yesterday surrounding the arrival of a new ATV was reminiscent of Smithhaven Mall middleschoolers' crowding around Double Dragon II in the arcade, aka distinctly land-bound. There is also quite a number of chain-smoking older women. But hist; I shall allow them to reveal themselves afore I gets too prolix.
My address here is:
Me
27-B Entrance Road
Los Alamos, NM
87544
And in a nice surprise, I do not in fact live in Los Alamos on my off days, but in the park itself, at the visitors' center/ Center for Abundance and Noncommital Action (CANA). This means I only have to don my aluminum foil hat when I go to the library in town, among the smoking, glowing and pulsating embers of Einstein's innocent dream.
chombo to whombo, code eleventeen, out and over; pictures to follow.
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