Mic Check: One, Two. Mic Check: One, Two.

Hello faithful followers, stragglers, and those who have wandered into this Palace dedicated to Juvenile Behavior and Half-Cooked Intellectual Thought. Half-cooked is actually a bit of an exaggeration, but what will you have me say. I’m the proprietor of this joint. Like all those fucking restaurants – every fucking one of them – that claims to be World Famous.

I suppose in the sense that we exist, worlds within worlds.

You may have noticed that the Spaceship Omega was quiet over the weekend. Since about Thursday. I left over the weekend to venture into the morass of Central New York, to visit the Better Half’s family. It didn’t dawn on me until Thursday evening that I was in fact leaving during Comic-Con weekend.

Whoops.

What can you do?

I was hedging my bets on some sort of updates coming from the superior but enigmatic writers that compliment by fluff, but as they say in the Outer Rims, life is busy. I apologize for the crusty front page, the lack of Comic-Con updates, and for the general flatulence and bonery that punctuates this place.

For those of you still with me, how the fuck have you been? Did you catch that Captain? The one of America? What’d you think? Anything rip your tits off from the endless panels and ‘revelations’ (a word that grows more meaningless by the day in this media climate) from Comic-Con?

Personally, I spent the entire weekend in a fugue state, suffering from the longest and most insufferable cold I’ve experienced in something like ten years. The last time I felt this shitty, I had to withdraw from Emerson college because of pneumonia.

It was balls.

So I laid on my back, my bowels more than liquid, my lungs afilled (it’s a neat word, shut the fuck up) with phlegm. I’d convulse every once in a while, wiping the sweat off my forehead, ignoring the pools under my arms. I read a good two-hundred pages of A Clash of Kings, and eagerly anticipated seeing all of the magic, violence, sex, and other tom foolery on HBO next year.

I ate ice cream and cough drops and embarked on twelve hours of driving in three days, and here I am. The world still spins, if looks can be trusted. It’s a beautiful summer evening and I’m sitting in the middle of the drive way, vaguely aware of my returning ability to breath.

Despite the fact that the website wasn’t updated at all over the weekend, that I missed Comic-Con, that I fell out of health and the Loop (which continues to grow and ensnare everyone, watch your feet it’s coming), I can’t really complain. When you’re fucking miserable for ten days because you can’t snag a lungful of air without serious labor and you’re painting underwear linings with your own liquid waste, the little things get a taste of the Hyperdrive.

In other words, to follow through the painful metaphor, they zoom into the distance.

I hope all is well, and that you’ve had a chance to catch the stars.

It’s a beautiful world.