The internet is a dangerous place. It’s kind of like the collective subconscious of our entire species, trapped forever in the serpentine folds of our mightiest intellectual and technological conquest. If we, human beings, were a Greek Hero, the internet would be our tragic flaw.
Allegedly, the world is ending shortly after Thanksgiving. I found out about the end through friends, who had heard from friends, who found it on the internet. I was at the Bean Cycle/Matter Bookstore pursuing used books of poetry when my suspicions were confirmed by yet another friend, who found out from other friends, who were on the internet, and found out about these videos:
Boredom often couples with the Bizarre. They both love red wine, the taste of a cigarette after a hearty meal, the smell of gasoline, the way a wildfire in the mountains makes the sunset pink. They go for long strolls in blue moonlight punching the crosswalk buttons at empty intersections. They go out for a late dinner at an obscure Thai restaurant you've probably never heard of, and then, on the way back to Boredom's house, they stop by the Village Vidiot; the entertainment mecca for disenchanted, disenfranchised, lonely and eccentric movie-hounds looking for something to do, or more specifically something to watch,something they haven't seen before.
Turkey vultures live in Old Town Fort Collins. Each summer for the past ten years, I’ve seen a venue of vultures circling and roosting in the conifers in front of a recessed residence on West Mountain Avenue. They’re hard to miss. Every evening, some ten or twenty of the giant, red-faced, black-coated raptors roost together in the uppermost boughs of the four blue spruce trees, with a noisy flapping of wings as they settle in. They drop splats of white excrement, flight feathers, and regurgitated pellets on the sidewalk below. Even more difficult to miss (or ignore, especially from a block or two away) are the great birds soaring upward on thermals over the sunlit neighborhood of fine Victorian mansions, massive shade trees, and manicured lawns, swirling like a slow-motion tornado—not nearly as threatening, of course, but for some of us, a tad unnerving nevertheless owing to the vulture’s association with carrion, and thus with DEATH.
