Herman Munster Goes High-Tech Fred Sanford
I'm standing there in front of the grotesquely tall Herman Munster, in those ridiculous elevator shoes. He's turned into a high-tech Fred Sanford. It's a sprawling complex of piles and piles of sorted junk. Computer monitors, cabling of all sizes and color, pipes, piles of screws and nails and bolts, all of these massive and surprisingly conical and tidy piles a good 30 feet high. They're all separated and sorted, and I wonder who does all the work.
And there's Herman there in his outfit. The flat head, that bad green-black hair lookin painted on, dripping over the edge of his head, that guileless idiot smile, with 3 big black cell phones and a tool belt, all in immaculate black cordura nylon. Denim bib overalls over a red flannel shirt, work boots, all clean. He's there working with the patience of the truly ignorant, just plodding along, with no urgency, just working.
And there behind him is the (unused) receiving station for the intergalactic mothership. Built for a round ship, like Epcot was touching down, a huge base, like a ball holder, with poles and gantries and the like shooting up around the outside. I ask how he knew what their technological docking requirements, and he just shrugs, opens his mouth in that typical "O" shape, and makes his typical dopey sigh-grunt that tells me absolutely nothing. He's so friendly and agreeable I want to knock him down and kick him in the head.
A few hundred yards away near the edge of the huge cleared area of the yard is the launching ramp for jets or planes or rockets or something. It must be a half-mile long, paved in immaculate white concrete, sloping up gently to a vertical edge a good 300 feet off the ground. I think that it would be amazing for sledding in the winder, and I wonder why the local kids haven't discovered it yet.
And there's the forest of what appear to be transmission towers, a massive and complex communication array for something, out there. It's crowded and tight, visually arresting in its own way.
Farther down the yard are the cranes and gantries and derricks, all lined up, ready to go. I marvel that Herman, as dopey as he is, does all of this on his own, without any help. He just goes back to work on a portable bench, working on something throwing sparks as he grinds it with a wheel.
I wander off to explore a bit.
And there's Herman there in his outfit. The flat head, that bad green-black hair lookin painted on, dripping over the edge of his head, that guileless idiot smile, with 3 big black cell phones and a tool belt, all in immaculate black cordura nylon. Denim bib overalls over a red flannel shirt, work boots, all clean. He's there working with the patience of the truly ignorant, just plodding along, with no urgency, just working.
And there behind him is the (unused) receiving station for the intergalactic mothership. Built for a round ship, like Epcot was touching down, a huge base, like a ball holder, with poles and gantries and the like shooting up around the outside. I ask how he knew what their technological docking requirements, and he just shrugs, opens his mouth in that typical "O" shape, and makes his typical dopey sigh-grunt that tells me absolutely nothing. He's so friendly and agreeable I want to knock him down and kick him in the head.
A few hundred yards away near the edge of the huge cleared area of the yard is the launching ramp for jets or planes or rockets or something. It must be a half-mile long, paved in immaculate white concrete, sloping up gently to a vertical edge a good 300 feet off the ground. I think that it would be amazing for sledding in the winder, and I wonder why the local kids haven't discovered it yet.
And there's the forest of what appear to be transmission towers, a massive and complex communication array for something, out there. It's crowded and tight, visually arresting in its own way.
Farther down the yard are the cranes and gantries and derricks, all lined up, ready to go. I marvel that Herman, as dopey as he is, does all of this on his own, without any help. He just goes back to work on a portable bench, working on something throwing sparks as he grinds it with a wheel.
I wander off to explore a bit.
posted by Scrumpox at 7:55 AM
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