Saints preserve us. Not that we’re saints, but then… if we were, wouldn’t we be preserving ourselves rather than asking others to do it for us? What’s with the look? Hey… you’ve got to think about these things when you’re an explorer, you know.

Right. Leaving matters of religion out of this (since, after all, we represent many faiths), avid readers of Big Green‘s putrid blog “Hammermill Days” will know that we have embarked upon an intrepid journey northward from the mysterious and little known island the inhabitants refer to in their obscure dialect as “manna-hat-un” and sometimes “nuu-yawk” or “nuu-yawk, gah-dammit.” (Several natives used an even more complex variant of the second term – I believe it’s pronounced, “nuu-yawk, yuhfuggin-nidiot”.) Whatever the name may be, we chose to leave this place behind, with its deep grimy canyons, overpriced lunches, and peculiar honking denizens, so northward we went, straight up fifth avenue and deep into the unknown. What sent us in this direction? Instinct mostly. And the coaxing of Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has some kind of navigational device built into him that always makes him choose north when you ask him for directions. (He’s like a freaking compass with casters and a great big yap.)

All right, there was a better reason to head northward. The two Lincolns – posi and anti – who have plagued our existence since their arrival in this time period, jumped into a taxi and told the cab driver to take them to the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. The cabbie seemed to know what they were talking about, and he went north, so we’re following him. Not much to go on, I will admit, but that’s what we’ve got, okay, so get off my back… JUST CLIMB OFF, DAMMIT! Ahem… forgive me. It’s the pressure, that’s all. You can’t know what it’s like unless you’ve taken on an unknown continent with no one you can rely on for support or guidance – a sojourner cut off from civilization and condemned to find his way through the wilderness in the company of some very questionable associates, one of whom is, quite frankly, a vegetable. It sickens me to think of what Magellan must have gone through… or that guy who explored the Hudson Valley…. what the hell was his name?

I would be less than honest to suggest that we are experiencing anything like the hardships faced by the early exploiters… er…explorers of the North American continent. For instance, they did not have the New York State Thruway, though if they had, they probably would have been denied access for lack of negotiable currency (I doubt Henry Hudson had an EZ-Pass tacked onto the hull of this ship). Yea, I say unto you, our fortuitous discovery of the Thruway actually made our journey home a simple matter of following the expensive ribbon of asphalt through the remote valleys of upstate New York until the right exit sign appeared. I tell you, the gods of the State Department of Transportation were smiling down upon us (quite literally, from their enormous yellow vehicles) as we made our way along this magnificent causeway (’cause way up yonder, they’re ain’t a whole lot of other good roads). I can only wonder at what might have been the source of their amusement. (Perhaps the fact that we, unlike our fellow Thruway travelers, did not have a vehicle, and we’re trailing along behind Big Zamboola like mutant ducklings.)

Such was our journey home. (And as such, it sucked.) Can you believe it’s more than six bucks to get from New York to the Hammer Mill? Jesus Christ on a bike. (No doubt, Christ on a bike could have made it home faster.)

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