Ghost stories around a campfire. It all started with ghost stories around a campfire.
We were young, so it was just easier to re-tell the scenes from Friday the 13th, but they were still effective. Most of us hadn’t even seen the movie, but there was always that one kid whose parents would take him to the R-raters. The one kid who could spread the thirteen different ways a psychotic could kill you in the woods; supposing, of course, that you needed killing. My favorite was the arm coming out from under the cot, holding the head of the guy who just had the misfortune of having had pre-marital sex.
What idiot came up with idea of bed skirts? Didn’t they understand (as Stephen King said once) that the skirt makes a perfect hiding place for the boogie man (and a child’s imagination)?
Eventually we moved away from retelling the movie to simply chanting “che he he, ha ha ha.” Fear is more contagious than the flu.
Which left us, alone, in our tents, with only our imaginations and the sounds of the living, breathing, thinking world around us.
A place to tell stories. A place to let the imagination run wild. A place to indulge that little boy who wants a new toy. A place to put away childish things and think like a man (“or a woman if you are one”). That’s what the campfire was for me. That’s what Geek Palaver is for me now.
Yes, I am a geek, and I want to talk. Sometimes it will be useless chatter. Occasionally our palaver will be interesting and helpful. Rarely, the counsel might be inspiring, but we will have a place to discuss our opinions. To see the world as it is, and as we hope it will be.
Perhaps to discover our destiny: our ka.
Join us around the campfire as we bring the 19th century into the 21st.
This has all happened before, for Ka, is a wheel.
We were stting around a campfire once and decided it would be fun to try and light our farts on fire. I talked one of my friends into trying it with his pants down. Ever seen a grown man dance around a campfire with his pants around his ankles spanking himself on the ass? Believe me when I say, it’s pretty damn funny. Ahh, I love the smell of burning ass hairs in the morning.
Smells like . . . victory.