The Mind Museum and Adjoining Garden
by Kerry Joyce
illustration by G. Blue
“Just because you’re one step ahead of the crowd, Wally, doesn’t mean you’re being followed.” – Ward Cleaver
Ah, fellow human resources, why so glum, hmmm? Could just be the weather. And perhaps in this, the second installment of (See Headline), we will discover some guideposts to right conduct or at least joyous living, something which, as we whirligig our way along the Time/Distance graph of life, will provide us with more intrinsic satisfaction, whatever that is, than simply increasing our velocity (V) at an angle more closely approaching the vertical.
In the last installment, our intrepid hero, (Me, dummy) while on a routine ‘Net surfing expedition, (Just another data sucking spore, but one at least slightly more selective than some of the spools of Memorex of my acquaintance) encountered the Web Page for something dubbed “The Mind Museum.”
Was it the catchy name? The pagan imagery? The painfully long download time? I don’t know. Media is a happy hunting ground where the quarry pay mostly for the privilege of being captured. The consumer is king, and gleefully presides at his own beheading, placing the crown of choice upon his own attenuating stump of neck.
But I knew the dirty deal going in. Better a damn fool king than no king at all, at least for the time being, I had concluded long ago. It was still more fun than flossing, worrying, washing dishes and the like. And there was something about that Web site. It had wrought a generic feeling of desire within me, as well as an urgent need to take action.
I was thus inspired to travel North from the sleepy hollow of Boston to Central Vermont. In February. K-2less, which is to say, without ski equipment shuddering the roof of my car, so very unlike most of the vehicles I passed along the way, driven by lucky souls whom god had blessed with more disposable income than brains.
The Web page did have some interesting graphics, a shapely if fully dressed “goddess,” and a half dozen or so “sacred urgings.” We need not recount the sacred urgings here, since these sacred urgings, while interesting, were, like most sacred urgings, generally best ignored, at least when they become strenuous or inconvenient.
What intrigued me was not so much the existence of another passel of sacred urgings, but rather the existence, just a few hours drive from Boston, of a new and perhaps different kind of sacred urger. Those who claim to have a plan for mankind are usually interesting, even if their actual plan sucks.
My friend Eddie, however, was unmoved by the latent promise of The Mind Museum, and was already off to greener pastures, patiently waiting for what turned out to be the Web Page for a Montana mail order bakery to download, in the initial phase of an Internet quest for “Hot Fresh Tarts.”
But word of mouth is the best form of advertising, so I tried my best to persuade, cajole, bribe, and blackmail Eddie to come along to Vermont with me, driving him and even buying his damned ticket to the latest Gen-X-ploitation flick by Oliver Stone, starring that kind of slow bartender from Cheers.
NO!
I took him to a local bar and poured various and sundry libations down his unreluctant gullet!
NO!
I made promises and assurances I couldn’t possibly keep, while judiciously mixing in the occasional empty threat. Eddie hemmed and hawed drank some more and mostly changed the subject. Finally, around closing time the steadfast Eddie reluctantly said “O.K.” which, being fluent in slacker-speak, I knew meant:
NO!
So, armed only with my faithful laptop computer and a buck knife, and, all right, a .38 caliber revolver, the mixings for a couple of Molotov cocktails, a cell phone, and a sawed off shotgun, I began my excursion into the heart of I knew not what. As the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms explained to Congress a few years ago, you can’t be too careful these days. Some of these sacred urgers just can’t be controlled, even with money.
Eddie had at least helped in connecting the Web address with a name and street address, that of Chuck Laramie of Fairhaven, Vermont. Chuck vaguely acknowledged having some connection with the Mind Museum, and agreed to meet with me after just one telephone call, although countless e-mail requests had gone ignored. I felt somewhat reassured that he wanted ten bucks for the guided tour.
Only a little late for my 11 a. m. appointment, I first encountered a large dog chained to a stake outside. No surprise there. It’s an unwritten zoning ordinance in these parts that “every dwelling will have a large dog chained to a stake at one end or the other of that dwelling’s driveway.” Except this dog was an exceptionally beautiful Alaskan Malamut, the dog house looked freshly painted, the chain and stake a lustrous silver.
The actual residence, a squat ranch, was one step above mobile home. But the grounds, and house exterior, as well the interior I would soon learn, were, though low budget, flawlessly maintained. The overall effect suggested less a home than the set of a movie production, whose working title might be “Queer White Trash.”
I dropped my voice an octave and began my introductions at the door to the impeccably neat lumber jack looking fellow at the door. I was invited in and informed that was indeed THE Chuck Laramie, curator of The Mind Museum, and adjoining garden.
A door to the bedroom was ajar, and I couldn’t help noticing a leggy, lithe, and lightly clad woman crossing quickly into and then out of my line of sight.
[REWIND] .thgis fo vvvvvvvvvrreeeet.
…leggy lithe and lightly clad
[STOP]
[PLAY]
woman crossing quickly into and then out of my line of sight.
Subtly shifting into journalism mode, I glanced around, pulled out a pen and notebook, forked over the agreed upon ten bucks and asked:
“So, how’d you come up with the idea for the Mind Museum?”
“I didn’t. I won it,” he said proudly.
“You won it?”
“Yeah, I went to check out this time share condominium deal near Mt. Snow. They had a drawing, and I won the Mind Museum in the Grand Prize giveaway. I’ve had to do a lot of the work myself, and it’s not completely finished, but the people I won it from are handling all of the marketing through the Internet.
I clutched my cell phone thinking it was my .38 or clutched my .38 thinking it was my cell phone, I can’t remember which.
(To be continued.)
