Moovin' On

Opening Salvo from Blowfuzzy von Sassy

Please allow me to introduce myself: I’m a woman of privation and questionable taste.

In the course of life, one sometimes spends overlong fishing in familiar waters. Sometimes, the hardest part is discerning the proper moment to pull up stakes and walk on, or to cut bait and fish. Sometimes, things are lovely, and why change or disrupt a gentle waft down the river of life? Sometimes, things are so hideously chaotic that one feels pinioned to a course, and the thought of moving in any direction to escape seems fraught with chaos and moar stress, so one says “not today” or some such.

I, Blowfuzzy von Sassy, find myself at one such crossroads er, uh, crosswaters.

My glorious fluffy butt has been floating down one career lane for a bit, and I’ve come to recognize that it’s time to jump streams and get into a different flow. I found myself swirling in an eddy, and though I’ve earned my stripes floating the Brazos, when one sees something over and over, the sit-and-spin charm begins to wear thin. The waters were choppy aplenty whence I came, and though I anticipate an abundance of rapids in the times ahead, I may also reasonably expect a glorious change of scenery. I like scenery. I like seeing new things. And there’s only so many wallops the old tailbone will withstand. It’s time to move along.

More specifically, you’ll see me lurking around the cobwebby corners of RacPress, trying to look busy and hopefully staying in the good graces of the magnificient Bitsy, both beautiful and terrible, who comes trailing a raft of very swift wraiths. (Let’s all keep her happy, mkay?)

At RacPress, we’re all about the moving on and seeking out new lives of raucous desperation. We love exciting scenery and tantalizing tableaux. On that note, our latest release, Space Cowboys 6: Fission Chips, is all about moovin’ on, literally. What could be more bracing to the spirit and intellect than the thought of frontiers beyond our own lumpy rock of a planet? Alexander’s weeping was premature, obviously, because there are so many new worlds to conquer. Sucker.

Anyhoo, while humans and other spacefaring varmints ascend to conquer new horizons and vast tracts of space, someone has to keep the travelers in grub. And as long as hungry bellies line up at the Conestoga for a plate of slop, cowboys will be there to get the livestock from the range to the chow-line. Enter: space cowboys! They herd! They rope! They wrangle!

The cowboy life is a paradox, as it is governed by a strict code yet free of the claustrophobic constrictions of living in close with the crush of civilization. Out on the raggedy edge of things, one may assess situations and make choices based on one’s own gut. Even with that code, this affords a freedom seldom found among other folks.

Some spirits weren’t meant to live in close with people, but belong on that scenic, raggedy edge, and our cowboys definitely satisfy on that score. Small arms notwithstanding, these cowpokes are up for the task, and when there are problems, yo, they’ll solve them, revolvers in tow.

So like the oxbow I’ve been looping, lo, these many years, I—like our space cowboys—have broken away from my mooring and jumped into the big middle of something exciting. I have to keep on moving. Watch me go. I’ll be the one with my toes in the air, sporting polky-dots and probably sipping on something that smacks of elberberries. I’ll wave at ya if’n I see ya!