All Because of a Dairy Farmer
Milk Cows to the Milky Way

BY MARS ROVER

As you may notice by reading this September issue, there’s yet another David Lewis in our midst (see page 25). Long time readers know he isn’t the first interloper in the David Lewis universe that ought to fade into obscurity (or at least use a middle initial) if there is to be any justice in this world—dozens have come before this latest David Lewis to appear on the scene. This new one is a dairy farmer, a raiser of milk cows near Victor, MT, a profession for which we all ought to have a great deal of respect, if not for the David Lewisness of it all.

It was perhaps a decade ago when this issue first arose right here in town, and when I therefore resorted to counter measures. I asked all of you to start calling me by another name to distinguish myself from all the David Lewises popping up like corn on a hot skillet. First, I tried Harry Belafonte, but for some reason it didn’t take. Then a one-name name like Sting or Liberace, combining the two, in fact, into Stingerace (pronounced Stingerachee). And then Scooter, the sort of name given to high school running backs, and I am still sometimes called Scooter as I break for daylight heading downtown—then Mustafa, the exotic handle I donned in the footsteps of Cat Yusuf Islam Stevens.

This accounting represents a brief rehash (for those who may have forgotten) of my trials and tribulations for having had the fate of being given a name as ordinary as John Smith or Tom Jones. But wait a minute, we asserted back in the day, if I could be David Lewis the way Tom Jones is Tom Jones, then that would be something. Because while Tom Jones as a name is not unusual, a guy who can take that name and turn it into one that causes women to throw their panties on stage while he sings is unusual (try as I might, I haven’t been able to pull that off).

Those were the days, when I discovered by calling 411 that there are about as many David Lewises in this great land: 12 in Denver, 15 in Seattle, a buhzillion in New York and LA., and of course there’s one in the Montana Senate. But now, with this dairy farmer David Lewis stirring things up, I’m feeling the need to take the name change thing to a new level, try something out of this world in order to transcend the current David Lewis universe, the back and forth, the repetitiveness of it all, to truly distinguish myself as unique and unusual, to be more than a David Lewis the way Tom Jones is Tom Jones, but to be David Lewis the way he is Mars Rover.

That’s right, in order to honor humanity’s pioneering accomplishments in space travel, and this editor’s preoccupation with strange stuff, I am assuming a name that will forever convey all due respect for mankind’s interplanetary, and we hope, one day, interstellar efforts. And it has a ring to it, Mars Rover, while sounding vaguely Scandinavian, though the Scandinavians have little hope of achieving space travel, having pushed their explora-tory envelope in the days of Leif Ericson when he landed in the New World before Columbus.

Yes, this is Mars Rover reporting from the new age of discovery here at the Montana Pioneer world headquarters, after having editorially exhausted the Lewis & Clarke age of discovery—there’s only so much you can write about those guys, unless there’s new info, something newsworthy, like entries from a long lost diary of an expedition member who claimed a fiery disc appeared in the sky, followed by missing time, and then poof—Pomp, the alien hybrid.

Space travel though is a much misunderstood thing, in a you can’t get there from here sort of way, meaning that the kind accomplished by NASA’s recent Curiosity mission to Mars (carrying the Mars Rover) is analogous to a horse and buggy as compared to an F-18. 

Here’s how the F-18 side of that analogy works, according to Mars Rover (ironically).

In order to traverse the vast distances of interstellar space in a timely fashion, one must transcend space and time itself, not rocket through same using antiquated technologies based on arrows and airplanes that imitate the flight of birds. It takes a whole other mindset, one Mars Rover herewith reveals. Arrows and rockets, you see, travel in straight lines using linear propulsion resulting from the release of stored energy—rocket fuel, or the pulling back of a bow string. But this is horse-and-buggy class technology. Real space travel rejects the linear in favor of the circular, or more specifically electromagnetic field lift—anti-gravity. That means creating intense whirling electromagnetism that lifts matter not only physically but interdimensionally as the intended atomic structure accelerates into a new bandwidth of reality, the in-between, non-local world where subatomic particles are everywhere at once, including the far side of the universe. Properly exploited, this field avails anti-gravitational capacities that are not subordinate to space-time, while deceleration of the field allows reemergence of otherwise physical matter anywhere. It’s called exotic technology, and you’ll hear more about it, but not before the folks at Area 51 (and Julian Assange) want you to.

And how does Mars Rover know such things exist? Because he saw it in the skies above Montana in 1983 while peering from the folds of a pup tent in the backcountry (with a witness). Not some dazzling sighting of an object unavoidably from another world (yet it might have been) but what appeared at first as an ordin-ary star, one that suddenly traveled, stopped on a dime, paused, changed direction, stopped again for several minutes (instantly without slowing), traveled in another direction, stopped again, then traveled in yet another direction (zig zagging) until it disappeared.

Such acrobatics are supposed to be impossible. Objects traveling at extremely high speeds cannot stop instantly (not without severe physical consequences) and then hover. Doing so violates the “laws” of physics, though not necessarily those of Nobel Prize winning physicist David Bohm (google him, and learn).

This is the kind of stuff that’s right up Mars Rover’s alley (or his asteroid belt). It’s what Pioneering Minds want to know and what others can’t handle. Trouble is, while the new name is catchy, Mars Rover technology is 20th Century (we’re in the 21st, Joe Biden), and so while he will proudly answer to Mars Rover when summoned by friends, the name may already be dated. And so confidants and those who embrace the twilight zone may prefer to use a more pioneering, avant-garde moniker, something that captures the new trajectory, and, while totally stellar, a name that is in a cosmic sort of way as neighborly as it is distant.

Alpha Centauri.      
Our nearest star.
Welcome to my neighborhood.

 

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