A Simple Way To Go Faster Than Light That Does Not Work

All day yesterday helping daerr and radiotelescope (whose LJ name, I yesterday learned, has a similar Secret Origin Story to colorwheel's) prepare themselves for permanent and maybe-permanent (respectively) relocation to Somerville, and twice dining with then and our whiz biz advisor jtroutman to discuss Serious Business. Further SB talk extended past midnight in our future offices (currently my "dining room"), but rt still had enough time to join cthulhia at a halloween party.

Despite my previous post about pining for parties I actually skipped this one too because, being awake and in turns manically helpful and seriously businesslike for the last 18 hours, was dead tired. (Also had consumed many cups of sake at the Blue Fin.) As soon as he was out the door I went to bed and was immediately asleep. Woke to discover that it's freebie-hour day... a good omen, after a late night discussing how much of that most precious and expensive resource, time, that we had to make this thing work?

I am now tasked with starting to collect.

Not only did terrorists make me lose my job, but they're also making me paranoid about my halloween costume, conceived in August, being regarded in poor taste. Black humor is as popular[1] as ever, but black humor about nuclear weapons might not be, with some especially jittery people... and the current atmosphere (I am not going to name my band "Credible Threat", now, if I ever was) is turning many otherwise rational friends into borderline panicmonkeys.

I filtered the idea past cthulhia, and she seems to think it's terribly funny, though maybe I misunderstood her and it's actually just terrible. Was she laughing ha-ha-funny, or laughing ha-ha-defense-mechanism? Well, we'll see what the crowd thinks, won't we.

Anyway, that part of the costume is just a button, which I can remove should people react in a squirrelous fashion. I'll still be wearing the deely boppers I bought today at Jack's Joke Shop, and everyone loves deely boppers, in peace or war. Boy, did I luck out... there was only one pair left with spheres at the ends of the springs, instead of stars or hearts, which just wouldn't work on a superevolved cockroach.

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I am in the middle of the move to Chez Charlas, at least as far as packing and cleaning up goes. My parents have chosen to insinuate themselves upon the scene, driving down from Maine and camping out in a Medford hotel for a couple of days, and those who know about me and my parents (including readers of Weblog A) would also know why this makes me go mumble, mumble. However, there's not much for them to meddle in, this instance, since I've already covered all the major details of this operation; it's merely theirs to insist on pushing me aside while they take over the task of my Highland Avenue evacuation.

And, to be honest, I welcome their help. While I do think I could have pulled off every aspect of this move on my own (well, with generous help from local friends, too), my parents are undeniably experts at all forms of managing stuff, and if they want to be adamant about helping me, I won't bar the door against them -- that would really be the immature thing to do, in this case. So tonight I went to the Star Market holding a list of tinctures and notions for total apartment scouring that mom instructed me to obtain before they returned early tomorrow morning. La.

Meanwhile, trouble has arisen in the form of a slippery landlord, who is running for office and very difficult to track down; Charles, bless him, is trying very hard to make the house me-ready by the first, a task made more difficult by my waiting until only a few days ago before I confirmed with him my desire to take the offered room (I spent much of November holding out for a room near Davis Square, and failed), but I can't start trucking boxes in until I sign some papers, and that can't happen unless the landlord's present. Charles fears that the next window of opportunity might be Halloween night. I gave him permission to summon me from the party if necessary. We'll see, we'll see.

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[1] By "popular", I also mean "forced and lame", in many circumstances. Jim to me on the phone, after he confirms that he's sending me a package I requested: "We're also sending you some anthrax. Yuk yuk yuk." Okay.