Today I spoke with T.B. Wright, who thanked Paul Bing Ham for pointing the way to my work, otherwise T.B. might never have been inspired by my suffering as a Graphomaniac to write against the socio-economic grain. Charles, the August Web Maestro, has told me numerous times, “J, you are the last stop on the internet. I almost feel sorry for those who find this place. Not only is it a sign that they’ve plunged down rabbit holes that would have driven most mad—but when they finally meat the Madman at the Last Stop on the Internet, he does not have the common—common, as in custom of the country, as in expected courtesy, ahem, internet social norm, like giving a glass of water to a desert wayfarer—to answer their comments!”
Eesh, bro, back, just beat me with a stick!
So, the point is, despite being a poster child for Low Economic T, the nerd getting sand kicked in his face by the Bond Villain with the babe on his arm in the ads at the back of the comic book that is Twilight Modernity, I have perks.
On the way from San Jose to Portland, my seat mate, a young model, a hip hop album cover babe, who forgave me nodding off on her tender shoulder as I lurched in the sleep of the almost dead, my white beard subconsciously seeking that milk chocolate breast, brushed by me for the twenty second time [I was not counting, ahem, I have a strong math instinct] smiled at me, winked, and said, “Have a lovely stay, Mistah Politeness.”
“Yes, doll—I will confess to my wife so she can punish me.”
Batting her eyes, she was off in her rain coat and tube top to do whatever such a lady does on a Friday night. Outside of Union Station, the Japanese built dog sled, with the Eskimo babe mushing it along, banked up very sled-like onto the curb and picked me up. She batted her sleepy eyes at me and said, “My, you have friends everywhere; you just got a package from New Hampshire.”
The package was from Stan the Mead Man, who goes by the moniker of Black Master Roshi on InThesegoingsDown and has previous sent this old emaciated hood yeti gifts from the magical realm from beyond the EBTeas.
Texts gave directions for the use of the following, which appeared in a wine bottle box:
… Vermont Beef Jerky Company 1.5 ounces of protein for this cracker to feast upon on the train,
… Two bull’s eyes, which I plan to use in archery practice with Erique and Banjo in their respective corners of Mukha, they’re graphic integrity should remain uncompromised by my field points,
...Japanese tea in vacuum sealed maroon pouches,
… Blade Butter, Hand Crafted in the USA, from Natural Bee’s Wax and Plant Oils, which is helpful as I have just trashed my Spiderco drop-point folder cutting up carpet, and,
… Within an old wool sock, on a folded paper bag for me to carry the bottle around the public parks of Portland, is a bottle of golden liquid, made from Carpathian Honey, 13% ABV, Bottled 5/26/25, Crusty Bunghole brand Mead. The graphic depicts a hairy buttocks tapped like a keg. The bottle with the six north stars below the neck, is quite pleasing. And, this container, as well as the contents, has inspired a muse within. Stan, you have asked my opinion of the quality. I no longer drink alone, and only on social occasions. I will reopen this bottle for Thanksgiving and New Years. For now, my Eskimo bride and I will each take a taste and report below.
While Dove prepared egg salad in the kitchen a moment ago, we each had a table spoon of the golden nectar. This lady has been a practicing alcoholic for 56 years and declared, “Oh, that is good,” licked her arctic lips and cooed, “super good, tasty—yum!”
I felt as though I was drinking honey. I think we are going to try this drink as an evening hot drink, with cinnamon sticks and some of this tea, like a mulled wine, when the Gray God comes calling at New Year’s.
Sir, mead fascinates me, as it is an ancient drink made in wild circumstances, enjoyed by Arуan Kings of the Hersinian Forest possibly before slaves were fed with wheat beer in Sumer. It is a pre-agricultural and hence post-agricultural choice for a social libation. I am half way through writing MRE, about the last marooned humans on an earth that is circling into the path of a comet as the big wig Gods of Mars practice life extension therapy and dream of a return to Earth. It is of interest what nuggets of Old Earth might survive, and which could be replicated.
So, in the spirit of science-fiction reader participation, your parcel, Mead Man Stan, shall represent the very last comforts to be enjoyed by our heroes battling the man-made horrors of Pyreon. It is this writer’s contention, born of experience, that a wayfinder upon the paths of an unkind world, has but one actual boon—friends. Thank you, Stan. Beowulf would surely hold you in haught regard.
