Monday, May. 15, 2006, 2:45 AM

Postulations on propulsion without entropy, or something

7days is a weak way to spend your time 52 times a year.

Three dimensions. Up (height), sideways (width), and thickways (depth). And the ever present single instance of the fourth dimension (time) that defines now, and now, and now, now, now, now, now, now and then when then was now and I was there. So four dimensions then. Science seems to imply that they have mathematically proven more, like five or eleven or some other prime and proper number. Thatís groovy, I guess. I mean, science is cool. It tells me the chemical composition of rocks on Mars, and predicts the weather about as accurately as casting runes, and backs up some of the techie stuff on Star Trek and all, but it doesnít address the real issues like does this tie go with these socks?

Music helps. Franz Ferdinand tells me it doesnít matter if the socks and tie match as long as I always choose underwear as though I was going to be caught fucking in public. The Postal Service explains the metrics of love and euphoria while Steve Burns expressed hopelessness and expectation and Beck says that mental diarrhea remixed well sells records and pays for polyester suits. Oh, and Morrissey and Robert Smith make me want to wear black and bleed from my wrists. And what scientist can truly describe the Goth dimension and the Emo plane any better than those androgynous men? My musical buddies take me to new heights and point out those extra dimensions hiding in the shadows in the corner of the octagonal room.

Move sideways in time, measure the height of your girth and weigh the prosperity of your depth. The gravity of the situation is only evident in an orchard in fall so donít despair as long as you can breathe. Welcome your new neighbors with cookies and always be nice to small animals because they usually attack in packs when your back is turned.