Towel Day 2026

Do you know where your towel is? "...any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the Galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through and still know where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with."

I resisted the draw of Douglas Adams' books for many years, but when I finally gave in and read them in order to find out what the hoopla was all about, I found myself caught up in his web of words. Admittedly, sometimes I questioned his possible relationship with mind-altering substances, but there was something in his mad verbal meanderings and the (at times) nonsensical and tangential interludes in the books which had a magnetic appeal. I identified deeply with Arthur Dent, the hapless human in a situation clearly not of his own making, who craved desperately for one item of normality: a cup of tea amid the chaos. There is much in "A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" which is relevant in modern times, so I ask you again: Do you know where your towel is?

Towel Day 2024

Day 225: Slartibartfast pretty much summed up my life philosophy when he said, "Perhaps I'm old and tired, but I always think that the chances of finding out what really is going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say hang the sense of it and just keep yourself occupied." Happy Towel Day, fellow travellers! Something tells me the ride is going to get bumpier for a while, so be sure you have your towel, and don't panic. And remember, the answer to the Ultimate Question of life, the universe and everything is out there, even if it is wrong. (background image courtesy of NASA)

Towel Day 2023

Day 224: "'This must be Thursday,' said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer. 'I never could get the hang of Thursdays.'"

I have to admit, it took me a long time to get the hang of Douglas Adams's books. Initially, I was put off by the sheer ridiculousness of a place where people were named Beeblebrox and Slartibartfast, but eventually, Adams' extraordinary understanding of physics and his linguistic tricks wormed their way into my consciousness, and I was able to put aside my conviction that, as far as these novels were concerned, popularity did not equate with quality. That said, as I re-read them again in observance of Towel Day, I am still convinced that Adams walked straight past the sign which read "Keep off the grass," and therefore managed to avoid being institutionalized as a danger to himself and others by being able to present himself as a rational being when in public. Thus, my friends, I wish you a happy Towel Day, and no matter how it goes wherever you are, "Don't panic."

(Background photo courtesy of NASA)

A Proper Cup Of Tea

Day 224: "All I want is a cup of tea. A cup of tea would restore my normality," said Arthur Dent. "Is there any tea on this spaceship?" Poor Arthur. I think most of us can sympathize with him on some level, especially after the last year. But as our hapless hero is about to discover, normality is probably going to remain out of reach for some time. We can be grateful that no one is reciting Vogon poetry to us now (four years of that was more than enough for one lifetime), but we should expect "normal" to restructure itself rather radically, perhaps to include two-headed beings from Betelgeuse, paranoid androids and strange small men obsessed with fiords. Fortunately and unlike Arthur, we still have tea, although sometimes I think I'd prefer a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster to keep me from deciding to go quite, quite mad.

Panic

Day 224: "This is terrific," Arthur thought to himself, "Nelson's Column has gone, McDonald's has gone, all that's left is me and the words 'Mostly harmless.' Any second now all that will be left is 'Mostly harmless.' And yesterday the planet seemed to be going so well."

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy says that if you hold a lungful of air you can survive in the total vacuum of space for about thirty seconds. However, it does go on to say that what with space being the mind-boggling size it is the chances of getting picked up by another ship within those thirty seconds are two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand, seven hundred and nine to one against.

...twenty-nine seconds later Ford and Arthur were rescued.

*****

I'm reprising a photo from 2015, partly because it's one of the best pieces of photoshopping I've ever done, but moreso for its appropriateness to current events. We are ticking much too closely to the twenty-ninth second, and I'm not sure I can hold my breath for the full duration. Yesterday, the planet seemed to be going so well. Then in an instant, the icons we held in high regard as well as those which were persistently but not dangerously annoying were thrown down and crushed beneath the onslaught of a mindless yellowy-orange machine. Like Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect, we are now suspended in the total vacuum of space. Where is the Heart of Gold? Where is Zaphod Beeblebrox? I think I've lost my towel.

Towel Day 2016

Day 225: "Don't Panic!" I was afraid I might have to defend myself in words similar to those before this photo shoot was over, but luckily, the Park's road crew was otherwise engaged. Had they brought heavy equipment back to the landing, they might have caught me running back and forth wearing my jammies, bathrobe and bowler hat, sock-footed on the gravel and a towel over my shoulder, carrying an empty teacup and electronic copy of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." I doubt they would have understood that I was standing in for that hoopy frood Arthur Dent while he slipped down to the pub for a pint, leaving me in position in front of the grader. One cannot allow a bypass to be put through one's property unless one is properly fortified, no matter what the council claims. Fortunately, Arthur returned in time for me to escape without being seen. I think that gives us...what? two minutes? before the Vogons roll through. Do you know where your towel is?

Don't Panic!

Day 224: "This is terrific," Arthur thought to himself, "Nelson's Column has gone, McDonald's has gone, all that's left is me and the words 'Mostly harmless.' Any second now all that will be left is 'Mostly harmless.' And yesterday the planet seemed to be going so well."

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy says that if you hold a lungful of air you can survive in the total vacuum of space for about thirty seconds. However, it does go on to say that what with space being the mind-boggling size it is the chances of getting picked up by another ship within those thirty seconds are two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand, seven hundred and nine to one against.

...twenty-nine seconds later Ford and Arthur were rescued.

*****

Improbable as it might have been that I would find myself enjoying Douglas Adams' legendary Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and related novels after having given up on modern fiction almost entirely, I am happy to say that despite my reluctance, I now include myself on the list of series fans.

On the surface, the books are a fairly typical sci-fi romp, filled with aliens and fantastical adventures, but underlying the superficial theme are numerous social commentaries, reflections on the human condition and multiple levels of humour ranging from slightly rude to esoteric, and with enough of each to keep a broad audience chuckling.

I dismissed the books after an initial read, and ignored them for several years until a friend convinced me to give them a second chance. On that reading and subsequent ones, I found myself empathizing with Arthur Dent, stuck in a realm not of his own making without so much as a proper cup of tea to ground him in his new reality. His situation was one in which I've felt most of my life was spent (if on a substantially smaller scale), that of a fish out of water. In relating to Arthur, I had been drawn in by Adams' eminent skill as a writer.

Little humans that we are, there is a bit of Dentarthurdent in us all: somewhat naive and unprepared, laden with vulnerabilities yet endowed with inner strengths which surface only in adverse conditions. Too, we identify in some measure with Ford Prefect, whose open acceptance of all which befalls him gives him an equanimity we (subconsciously or consciously) hope we might achieve. In either case, the oft-heard slogan of the books universally resonates with us, as iterated on the cover of the fictional "Hitchhiker's Guide" to which Ford and Arthur often refer: Don't Panic. That's it, then. Don't Panic!

(background image courtesy of NASA under Creative Commons license)

Life, The Universe And Everything

Day 235: Happy International Towel Day to all you hoopy froods out there!

Probability...the odds were two to the power of 276,000 to one against that Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect would be picked up by Zaphod Beeblebrox in the Heart of Gold...somewhat greater than those the corner bookie would give you on a tree knocking over a utility pole, incidentally taking out my power, land line and internet concurrently with a failure of cell phone service in my area, but I think not too enormously greater. Factor in a traffic accident occurring at the same time, half a mile from the house going the opposite direction, and Arthur and Ford's odds start to look pretty good. Make it Memorial Day weekend (one of the busiest holidays) and put the emergency response vehicles on the wrong side of the fallen tree, and...well, Arthur and Ford were in the right place at the right time, and anybody on this one-mile stretch of road was not.

But as anyone who frequents the Restaurant at the End of the Universe knows, there will be more opportunities to screw it up again. Order was restored by 7 AM this morning and we're ready for the second round. Did somebody say "second round?" Make mine a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster, please...no, better make that a double. Don't Panic.

The Life And Times Of Arthur Dent

Day 235 and a Happy International Towel Day to you all!

(Quoting Douglas Adams):
On Wednesday night it had rained very heavily, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Thursday morning sun was bright and clear as it shone on Arthur Dent's house for what was to be the last time.

It hadn't properly registered yet with Arthur that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead.

At eight o'clock on Thursday morning, Arthur didn't feel very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash.

Toothpaste on the brush - so. Scrub.

Shaving mirror - pointed at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent's bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.

Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.

The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of someting to connect with.

The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one.

He stared at it.

"Yellow," he thought, and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed.

Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. "Yellow," he thought, and stomped on to the bedroom.
He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people about it at great leangth, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other peoples' faces. Something about a new bypass he'd just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.

God, what a terrible hangover it had earned him thought. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue. "Yellow," he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with.

Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path.

*****

Crow speaking: Do you know where your towel is?

*****

It was a quiet morning in Pack Forest, and I had gone in search of Vogons (or at the very least, a yellow bulldozer), clad in a dressing gown, slippers (I call them by their Spanish name, pantuflas; I like the sound of that word...pantuflas), and lacking a bowler, my Boy George hat. It had rained heavily the night before, and the grounds were wet and muddy. I was not hung over, and therefore perceived the great hulking yellow machine quite clearly as it bore down upon me from the Vortex. Was I afraid? Not I! I had my Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in hand, and I had my towel. There would be no panicking on my part on this day, although I can't speak for the people in the car which came out of the housing area while I was standing there with arms raised.