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Change is good, and I have much to say about it.  Later.

The new design works in Safari and Firefox.  Not yet tested in Internet Explorer, but I’m imagining some ugliness.

Change is good, but requires patients.  No, that’s not right.  Patience.  Yes, that’s what you need.  Plenty of it.

Lots of dead ends and broken links.  Bear with me while I shuffle things around and prepare for the future.  Did you know that all of the computers are going to crash on January 1, 2000?  Oh wait, that’s old news, and as we all know now, another false doomsday prophecy. 

I wish I was a doomsday prophet.  I think that might be fun.

Okay, let me finish with things around here and then I’ll see if I can’t come up with some doomsday prophecy for your entertainment.  I think I may just have some natural ability.

The monkey snapped closed the lid of the laptop.  The Blogathon was over, Bunni and Bakerina no doubt off to bed to catch up on some much needed sleep.  He could use a little himself, he thought, as he gave the compass in the frying pan a good shake.  Cooking was more tiring then he’d ever imagined, or at least would be tiring, if he were actually cooking something.  The monkey was no fool.  He knew it was a compass in the frying pan, not a focaccia.  He was only going through the motions to entertain the Second Mate, who he’d spotted peering in through the galley door window an hour or so ago.

He gave the pan another big shake then looked over at the door.  “Almost ready,” he said.  “Can you smell it?”

“Yes, I think I can,” the Second Mate said, his face pressed up against the glass.  “It smells good.”

And they called him the stupid monkey, the monkey thought.  You don’t fry focaccia.  Everyone knows that.  He grabbed the compass from the frying pan and slipped it into his pants pocket, then headed to the cooler for something cold.  Obviously, cooking was also thirsty work, which would explain the cook always being drunk.

“I’m parched,” the monkey said as he looked through the cooler for a beer, pausing only long enough to unzip his pants and pee into the leftover pot of chowder, the second time he’d done so in as many days.  The cook had taught him how, or at least, the cook thought that he’d taught him how, but of course, monkeys have been peeing into things since the beginning of time.  It’d actually been the monkey’s idea all along.  But the drunk cook had come up with the idea of calling it The Secret Ingredient, even though most of the time he’d just say, “Spice it up, monkey,” which worked for the monkey as well. 

“There better be some beer left,” the monkey said, pushing things around the cooler.  You don’t mess around with a parched monkey, even the drunk cook knew that.

The Second Mate was pounding on the door, trying to get the monkey’s attention.

“Is the focaccia ready?” the Second Mate was yelling.  “I’m starving.”

“Almost,” the monkey replied.  “Good focaccia takes time.  Would you care for some chowder while you wait?”

“Oh, alright, I guess.  I hope it’s better then last night’s chowder.”

“It is.  I spiced it up a bit.” The monkey shifted around on his feet, concentrating, seeing if he could pee again so soon.  “I think maybe I could crank it up a notch if you’d like.”

“Sure, sounds good.”

The monkey almost felt sorry for the Second Mate, standing there at the door like an idiot, breathing against the glass.  He could remember his second mate - young, wiry, a good grappler but with a short tail and too many fleas.  High maintenance.  He’d peed in her food, too.  Second mates never have it easy, he thought.

“Coming right up,” the monkey said, unzipping his pants.  Over his shoulder, he could see the small window of the door, steaming up, and from down the alley, voices that seemed to be approaching.  His hand touched the outside of his pocket, checking on the compass.  Maybe it was about time to get it out and navigate himself a way out of there.  The Second Mate would have to wait for his snack.

“Hey, monkey, where’s my—Captain!” The silhouette of the Second Mate’s head disappeared from the steamed up window, and the monkey could hear him scrambling to get to his feet.  Too late!  The Captain was already here!

“Monkey, I know you’re in there.  Now come out with my compass, NOW!”

“You sound hungry, Captain.  Chowder?”

Okay, okay, let’s calm down here.  The men are straightening up the ship and that compass will show up and things will be back on course in no time at all.  No need to panic, no, certainly not.  No man was ever outsmarted by a goddamn monkey, you remind yourself.  It’s a fucking monkey, for crying out loud.  How much trouble can one damn monkey cause?  It’s not like they sit around planning trouble.  Stupid thing’s probably hiding somewhere right now, scared half to death, playing with himself.  Sure would have been easier if he’d left the compass alone, though.  You can’t be captain and missing your compass at the same time.  It just doesn’t work.

Besides, you think, you don’t have time for this crap.  You’re hungry.  Running a tight ship makes a man hungry, leaving little time for chasing around a monkey with a compass.  You step around the gold and lean out the door, calling out for the First Mate.  Man you’re hungry.

“First Mate,” you say, “I’m off to the galley for a bit of lunch.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he says.

“You’ll let me know right away if the compass turns up?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And the monkey?”

“I believe the monkey has been spotted in the galley, sir.”

“WHAT!  I thought I made it clear that I was to be told the minute the monkey was spotted.”

“I believe it’s a new development, sir.”

“Well, what’s he up to?”

“Who, sir?”

“The monkey, dammit!  Do I need to explain everything?”

“No, sir.”

“I should hope not.”

“Yes, sir.”

You should have guessed right off that the monkey would hide out in the galley.  Come to think of it, the cook’s shoulder seemed to maybe be his favorite perch, which might explain the chowder.  You’d have to have a talk with the cook about that.

“Well, what is it?” you say.

“What is what, sir?”

“The monkey, for God’s sake!  What is the monkey up to?”

“The Second Mate reports that he appears to be baking a loaf of focaccia bread, or something.  The cook was too drunk to give a second opinion.”

“Good Lord, have you gone crazy?  Monkeys don’t bake!  You’ve lost your mind man!  Stand aside!”

“Yes sir!”

Baking focaccia, you say to yourself.  The whole ship’s gone mad, and it’s all on account of the gold, which you suddenly notice, appears have been cleaned up.  Thank God!  For once something is going right.