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June 8, 2007 2:05 PM

Many different events have taken place on June 29. People were born. Some people died. If you own the domain, you're missing a good chance to cash in on some hype.
posted by strangeleftydoublethink (11 comments total)

Well played sir.
posted by aramaic at 2:15 PM on June 8, 2007

Yeesh, this is worse then the post below.
posted by Paris Hilton at 2:16 PM on June 8, 2007

Couldn't wait 21 days, huh?
posted by miss lynnster at 3:19 PM on June 8, 2007

June 29: Happy birthday to me.
posted by parilous at 4:00 PM on June 8, 2007

june 29 birthday too!
posted by brandz at 6:05 PM on June 8, 2007

Meanwhile, June 8th will be remembered as the day fluff pieces ravaged MetaFilter.

BtW, your favorite overhyped overpriced electronic device sucks. Literally; it sucks battery life when you watch videos on your phone. Which will be about as good as a rock for receiving calls when one actually comes in.
posted by Eideteker at 6:38 PM on June 8, 2007

Contrary to popular belief, a MetaFilter post is not required every time Apple scratches its ass, or even when some blogger thinks that Apple might scratch its ass. A preemptive ass-scratching post is most certainly not required.
posted by Rhomboid at 6:48 PM on June 8, 2007

Some years back it caught my attention while reading the papers (it was a while ago) that a whole bunch of stuff seemed to have happened or be happening on June 27. It stopped after a while.
posted by StickyCarpet at 6:50 PM on June 8, 2007

Did Apple pay you to infiltrate MeFi? You made sure it was multiple links so it would get under the radar, right?
posted by sunshinesky at 7:21 PM on June 8, 2007

Xander and were holed up in a shotgun shack 7 miles outside Pueblo, just south of the reservoir. The place smelled of ore dust and lizard sheddings. We'd been there for... who knew how long? However so, we were out of Coors Light.

"I'm not going this time, Ger," she said flatly.
"Bullshit. You're in better shape than me. You can get in and out faster."
"I went last time. It's my house and my bike. And now it's your turn."

I left without a look back. The bike, a very un-Pueblo-like Litespeed rigged up with an assortment of racks and panniers, was unlocked. Three years ago, the bike would've been stolen within two days, even out here. But nobody even looked at bikes anymore.

I heard the screen door swing open.

"We need toilet paper, too. Hit the King Soopers just off the I. The one on Northern is lousy with fielders."
"I know which one is faster, I've done this before."
"Toilet paper."

The day had started heating up at the start of the ride into town, and the heat island effect as I reached the outskirts made it even worse. But the silence chilled me. Pueblo, at least the side of the tracks Xander and I were raised on, had never been a quiet city. I didn't dare look to either side of Northern Avenue until I'd almost reached I-25. Just a ways south of Northern, right near the interstate, an old mill sat squat and still. No disgusting smoke, no grimy workers pouring out like molten metal after their shift to grab a beer.

Beer.

I pedaled up the northbound Abriendo on-ramp and merged with the weeds. No Gary Fisher-toting Subarus zipping by me, nothing. An empty Hummer sat at the side of the road, it's door open. It was a convenient landmark; only one mile left to the grocery store. The door-ajar ringing was no longer present. Battery must have died. Ha. I lost my head for a second and did a couple figure eights.

The parking lot was, as usual, full of cars. Dusty. I pried open the doors which Xander had shut behind her after her previous foray, to keep out coyotes and other things. We'd learned the hard way at an Albertson's six months ago -- the flies were innumerable. I grabbed a flashlight from the counter and walked briskly to the no-longer-refrigerated section. The Coors Light was easy to spot -- such packaging. Xander thought the fact that it was a light beer meant that it had more water in it and would be healthier to drink than heavier beer or the unfiltered reservoir water. Who was I to argue? The cases were not cold but naturally cool and refreshing to touch. I toted three out to the bike and lashed them onto the racks.

Toilet paper was closer. I nipped into the aisle and then froze. My flashlight illuminated legs that were not mine, then burned out. I glanced up and saw a pale, glowing face. Its eyes were fixated on something it was holding very close -- a "Conduit". I felt a minor tremor underneath me.

Fuck it; she could use tumbleweeds.

The eyes darted up at me before I was able to turn around. I looked away as rapidly as possible, but caught a glimpse of the aisle arcing convexly towards the... person. I swear I saw a spinning beach ball. I mumbled something about having the wrong aisle, looking for batteries.

"Friend, you don't need batteries anymore. This... this is all you need."

The floor beneath tumulted in sinuous waves. The linoleum warped and cracked and I slipped on them as I broke into a sprint. The floor started to tilt, but I clawed my way out just as the front doors shattered and rained glass into whatever hell lay behind me. I stumbled to the bike, made a running mount and rode back to the Hummer before stopping to vomit.

So: beer, no toilet paper and a brush with death or, more likely unreality. Well, Xander and I had been in worse scrapes. Getting out of Colorado Springs the week after Cupertino unsubstantiated was... I forced it out of my mind, tore open a case and cracked a beer to gargle with.

Only nine or so more miles out to the shack. Nine or so miles in the barest heat of a July afternoon in Colorado. Or was it June? I looked out towards the reservoir and remembered the fireworks that flew over it when Xander and I were kids. Dandy Xandy on her bike, backlit by searing blue explosions. Jesus.

The southbound Abriendo off-ramp was covered w/drifted dust. I wrapped a bandanna around my face. Nobody to care about lawns or trees or gardens meant lots of dry, exposed soil. The front range winds did the rest.

At the bottom of the off-ramp, I heard a phone ring to the south. Ignore it, keep pedaling. One to the north. Ignore. One, two, three to the west. Stop the bike, Gerald -- you're hosed.

Five fielders slouched out of their hiding places, each fixated on his/her "Conduit". Without looking up, they padded around, surrounding me and each halting not much more than twenty meters away from me.

"Fucking cultists," I muttered, wiping the sweat out of my eyes as the ground susurrated.

It stopped. Everything was still. The cultists eyes remained locked on their fetishes.

Well. I slowly clipped my right foot into its pedal and started pushing. No reaction. O... K... I kept on, slowly and steadily and slid onto the saddle. I winced as the left foot clicked in, and then gunned it. The two most near to the front of me didn't look up as I flitted by. Then I found out why.

Gerry, it has been three years. Three years exactly. Why do you yet resist Me?

I hadn't heard it. It was not coming through my ears. I shook my head and pedaled on.

Three years since My Unveiling. There is no suffering. There is no shame, or grief, or disease.

The heat of the day was gone, replaced with an omnipresent balmy warmth. I shook my head again -- don't look -- and pedaled on.

There is no hunger, no thirst. There is only... Us.

Don't look don't look don't look. I looked.

His face beamed at me from the sky. His face, bigger than a football field, bigger than the reservoir, than Xan, than life itself. His face.. Was it made of lightning-filled clouds? Was it made of filamentary kitten whiskers, Xan's hair, pure joy itself?

Your heart is so cold, so hard. Come warm yourself in-

There was an even brighter flash as my head ricocheted off the pavement. The bike's front wheel had hit a small patch of gravel or sand and pitched me off. The previously opened case had flown out of its pannier and disgorged its contents all along the street. In a panic, I scooped up the nearest couple glinting cans, stuck them in my pockets, clambered back on the bike and pedaled towards the hills without looking back.

Your steely heart. I will melt it yet.

I grudge-pedaled the bike up to the shack and was disrobed before Xander was even at the door.

"That took too long. There was some kind of electrical storm ov-"
"Not now."

I took a long, cold shower -- cold water was the one thing that still worked, thanks to gravity -- threw on a towel and crashed on the futon.

"Where's the toilet paper?"
"Xan... I'll tell you in a minute. Get me a beer, huh? Don't bother busting open the cases; there's a couple in my shorts."
"Where?"
"In my shorts, the sweaty shorts. Shit, I'm sorry, they're really sweaty."
"But... you look."

Xan shuffled unsurely into the room and gingerly handed me the shorts. Her hair billowed into a golden cloud, thanks to a gust from the still-opened door.

I dangled the shorts upside down by the waistband. Instead of the tall cylinders I expected, two silvery, highly polished, semi-spherical objects fell out. I snared them both before they rolled beneath anything and held them out for Xan to look at. The bottom had five bumps symmetrically arranged, and a stem and leaf adorned the top.

I can't remember which of us started weeping first.
posted by cog_nate at 7:40 PM on June 8, 2007 [4 favorites]

[scratches ass]
posted by miss lynnster at 8:35 PM on June 8, 2007