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illustration by Jessica Del Greco Robinson Crusoe 2012
by Scott O. Moore

January 11, 2012

This diary is all I have left to me for companionship.

How foolish I was to think that the military could provide me with a safe haven during these turbulent years. As a way of life, obviously it can't be topped, but when you get right down to it, having your plane shot down is no smart career move. They told me it was downright impossible for a Vision 23 Bionautic Jump Jet to get shot down. I said, "What about the Enzyme 17 or the Hang 10?" and they said, "Pshaw, Crusoe. Missiles will bounce right off the Vision 23." Little did they know the Enemy (TM) wouldn't be firing missiles. Little did they know the Enemy (TM) would find a way to tickle the Vision 23 Bionautic Jump Jet -- I mean, it's not my fault I have a sensitive underbelly when I'm flying. How was I supposed to know those things mounted to their carriers were giant feathers? War is certainly hell, that's for sure.

I crash landed on a deserted island somewhere in the South Pacific. Yes, there are deserted islands here, thanks to the innovative McDonald's Immigration Plan, which raided every last nook and cranny of this planet in order to find someone, anyone who could find a way to take pride in making pure cholesterol seem like food. It took me nearly two days to extract myself from the Vision 23 without anyone to help me. A Bionautic Jump Jet is designed to let the pilot feel the plane as though it was an extension of hir own body -- in other words, if you've ever wanted to know what it feels like to have a steel nose that extends fifteen feet beyond your face, this is the job for you. The problem is the Jump Jet usually doesn't want you to disconnect; it seems to like having a little squishy gear inside of it. I barely escaped with my sanity. And there I was, and here I am today: alone on a deserted island. The military may not be looking for me yet, as War: The Final Battle is not going well for us these days. Thus, I may be left here for quite some time, with only the wreckage of the Jet and my wits to keep me alive. This should not be a problem. I have many survival skills, the island seems to have plenty of fruit and possibly vegetation to support me, and perhaps I may even find other people on the island. The adventure is on! I will survive this. I will


February 22, 2012

Yet another dreadful day of fishing, gathering fruit, and building my bamboo mansion.

Out by the lagoon all day long, I spent nearly four hours with my makeshift line in the water, and all I managed to catch during that time was a bundle of Chicago mail, an angry pelican, and the black box from a downed passenger jet. This, of course, while having no nutritional value, was much fun to take back to the Jump Jet and play on the stereo. ("No, you shut up," says the pilot. "No, YOU shut up," shouts the co-pilot, and then, BOOM.) I was left with bananas, nothing but bananas, scores and scores of bananas. I am wary of the plants and roots I've found so far. The medical kit in the Jet is not prepared for poison.

Life on this island is something else. Even without the presence of a superior officer, I feel as though I simply must arouse myself at 0600 every morning for calisthenics. I feel as though I simply must maintain some sense of human dignity; if I don't have some regimen of human activity, what will distinguish me from the trees? I mean, other than my lack of leaves, or bark. Or sap. Or roots. Or the use of, say, photosynthesis. If this means resorting to rituals that have absolutely no value to my current situation, then SO BE IT! I've managed to build quite a shelter for myself, using tools from the Jet, the knowledge stored in my cybernetically enhanced brain, and a Time/Life book on home improvement I rescued from the lagoon. It may not be up to military standards, but it is Home to me. Also, I've thought about building a motorcycle. 


March 18, 2012

I can't stand the solitude any longer! I am going to go absolutely mad! The Jump Jet is not a suitable companion for a human being! It keeps trying to entice me to touch it places -- as though its fuel line is in any way appealing to me! Somewhere on this island, there must be another human being, or perhaps a tribe hidden somewhere. I need to hear a voice that isn't mine. I need to feel the touch of a companion, hear the laugh of a friend, see the smile of someone who isn't staring out of a mirror at me. Curse the marketing mavens who dreamt up this "War To End All Wars For A Few Years!"

I'm setting off today on my solar-powered bamboo hovercraft, sailing across the lagoon to visit the unexplored lands off in the distance. I would have liked to take a store of fish with me, but all I've managed to procure by way of the lagoon lately is a giant statue of Dave Thomas, patron saint of the United Republic of Wendy, and a corvette. 


April 13, 2012

You cannot imagine the joy in my heart on this day. Today, after long, long weeks of searching -- erecting billboards, setting up instant cash machines, building a disco in the hopes that those pulsing rhythms might be just the trick -- I have finally discovered life. Early this morning, I caught the glimpse of a naked, primitive native climbing through the trees above. Thinking to myself, "Perhaps this native will revere me as a god!" I followed him through the jungle at a discreet distance. Eventually, he allowed me to get close enough to lure him out of the trees with my handy Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ PEZ dispenser.

I promptly named this unfortunate dimwit Friday. Friday is going to be my cook now. Today he spent all day preparing a stew, using all sorts of vegetables and roots and barks and vines -- I can smell it from here, and it smells absolutely delish! Perhaps he thinks this is a fair trade for the sweet luxury of my simple blood-of-Christ flavored PEZ candies. At any rate, this stew will be the first decent meal I've had since the Jet's dry ration of escargot and Tang ran out. I've tried my luck at fishing for the past few weeks, but all I've come up with is a tire, three pounds of seaweed, an angry jellyfish, and a "53 Quadrillion to the 2 Zillionth Power Served!" sign. Perhaps I am not using the proper bait. 


May 14, 2012

It has been over a month since I have been able to pick up my pen.

Apparently, Friday's stew was highly hallucinogenic. Moments after taking my first few bites, I was vomiting a mysterious brown goo, hearing strange Jimi Hendrix solos in my head, and tapping into the universal energy matrix which surrounds us and gives Mother Gaia life. Friday seemed to think this was enormously amusing. He said, "Who's the dimwit now, Robinson?" And I smiled and rocked back and forth and said, "Duuuuuuuude... We're all the dimwit, every one of us..."

Pretty soon he was leading me through the jungle, ostensibly to meet up with the rest of his tribe. Along the way the trees were singing and dancing a tuneful jig, and my hands and feet metamorphosed into duck- billed platypuses and back again. Eventually we reached his village, and to my surprise I saw that the natives there were not naked, but were dressed in beach clothes, straw hats, and sunglasses. Friday said, "Gotcha," before running off to get dressed. I was surrounded by tropical hippies.

"Welcome to the island!" someone shouted, pressing a margarita into my hand. "Welcome to the Archaic Revival!" someone else shouted, and a cheer went up. I began to cry. At long long last, it looked as though I had found a home. We partied for several days, yea verily, and the multi-colored swirls and strange twisting doorways in the spacetime continuum provided by Friday's stew have yet to fade. Last night while fishing, I snagged the lost Ark of the Covenant. 


June 27, 2012

This island is the last place on Earth without a fast food restaurant.

I realized it only slowly, after settling in here, that the lingo here was not besotted with references to McThis or McThat, that they had no conception of the latest innovations in drive-through technology (which actually force feeds you your meal the instant you roll down the window), that they had never seen the stunning ad campaigns wherein the Burger King himself claimed divine descendance and fired Fry Guys into the sun. These people lived in a state of grace, crushing their inherent desire for bacon double cheeseburgers with vast amounts of bark scraped off the local trees.

Daily life on the island was one of bliss and mystery, as I was slowly initiated into a way of life entirely free of French fries, baked apple blobs, and sushi flavored shakes. What's more, Friday and I have become constant companions. Although he has never before encountered modern technology, by spending several days in a hallucinogenic trance, he was able to teach the Jump Jet how to square dance. Furthermore, today I caught a Filet-o-Fish sandwich, which I can only believe is a good omen. 


July 19, 2012

Today while fishing, I caught a television set. Woe is me! 


August 22, 2012

I have been in hiding for several weeks now. The television set cast an unearthly glow about the entire village from the moment I so stupidly carried it back from the lagoon. What could I have been thinking! Of course, I, as military personnel, have been genetically altered so that television can have no effect on me. But these simple, sweet people were caught entirely unaware. They followed its ethereal light for several minutes until finally, impatient, Friday knocked me to the ground and stole the thing. Later in the evening, when I awoke, I found the entire village gaping and staring, having forgotten to eat their daily dose of psychedelic mucous, practically chanting along with the ungodly voices of Grimace and Mayor McCheese. As I approached, Friday stood up and pointed at the insignia on my tattered uniform, and I realized with horror that he was now all too aware that I had fought for Hardee's in the war, and not for the maniacal empire that had suddenly commanded their devotion.

I ran for days and days. I'm still not safe.


September 15, 2012

Another television set appeared next to me while I slept! It's all I can do to suck down the nourishing black brew that will send me spinning into a tribalistic haze, before averting my eyes from the programming. It's new -- it's improved! It defeats my genetic defenses! I see Ronald McDonald beckoning for me with that EVIL CLOWN GRIN of his, almost as though the bastard is attacking me personally...

I will survive. I will not succumb. I have found a life here on this island worth living, a life without the mass media that controls the minds of all the children and stupid people on this planet. I have a found a life where the sweet taste of fungus scraped off the undersides of rocks is ample substitute for the repulsive, burgerous bile that once sustained me.


October 28, 2012

Today I am incapable of moving more than a few feet, for the natives have built four solid walls of television sets around me. As I watch, news bulletins update the progress of War: The Final Battle. Apparently, an entirely new force has appeared on the scene. Apparently, the extent of our collective demise is only now becoming truly visible.

Apparently, Satan himself has gone into the fast food business. 


November 34, 2012

This may be the last message I ever write. Such misery, such woe! This delicious cacophony of images and voices, these wonderful mushrooms, these glorious brews... all of them provided by none other than the master betrayer, the Great Satan himself. He has seduced me, and I have fallen. The Lord Almighty is nowhere to be seen on this planet; he has abandoned us; it is the Apocalypse. It turns out the Beast was a giant cow, which was promptly made into Beelzeburgers; and this island outpost is in fact the very first in a chain of restaurants that is already sweeping the planet, erasing the last vestiges of resistance. The other chains prepared the way for the coming of the AntiRonald. As my eyes stare deep into the dozen screens before me, each glass broadcasting the latest battles, the final battles, I think back upon what my life has been, and how easily we were cowed by this scourge. We of the world so foolishly believed that our technology could deliver us. We of the world so foolishly believed that the more rapidly our meals could be prepared for us, the closer our souls were to salvation. O, woe is me, for I am slain! Even as I scream in ultimate horror, the Devil's hands extend from beyond their screens, preparing to rip away my dreams of a life without fast food, a life of simplicity and wonder and simple communion with the land. Woe is me, woe is me! My throat is torn, the taste is cheesy and delicious, and yet my soul has been corrupted! Woe is me, woe is me! 


December 11, 2012

Would you like fries with that?


Scott O. Moore: "The curious story of the figure known as Scotto is worth further exploration. While on the surface, he seems to have fit the mold of the angst-ridden artist of the time, it is apparent that on another level entirely, the man was quite likely insane. He claimed, at various points in his life, that he was in contact with extraterrestrial beings who predicted the end of human civilization, that the Voices in his head were actual entities and not a product of too many psychedelics, that punctuation marks as a group were an organized faction out to subvert reality, that the characters in his fiction had achieved sentience by way of his writing about them (and were not at all pleased with the situation), that the 'willing suspension of disbelief' alluded to in theatre aesthetics was not simply a metaphor but an actual phase transition in spacetime, that the so-called 'memetic attractor' at the heart of the mystic organization known as Leri was 'alive and pulsing,' and most notably, that the attractor which eventually yanked Leri into the Dreamtime and off the planet had reverse engineered Leri's escape, retroactively, by exerting an influence backwards in time. In light of these maniacal ramblings, it is a wonder Scott O. Moore was never struck by a car while crossing the street."

--from the journals of Dr. Nicholas Solitude, circa 2023 (via the Dreamtime)


Email: scotto@braverock.com
Website: http://www.scotto.org/


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