Danny's Big Surprise

A few years back I had a visit from an old high school buddy. Dan is the most athletic, energetic person I've ever known; he golfs, he bowls, he plays baseball. He's the smartest person I've ever played cards with. He can sing, he plays the piano, all the ladies love him and he is the life of the party. If I grow up I want to be just like him.

We do, however, share a wicked sense of humor. That means we are always messing with each other. Things like he pretends he only visits me to see my wife (She pretends to ignore me when Dan's around -- so I know she's in on the joke.) And sometimes he pretends he doesn't think my jokes are funny. But he's not fooling me... I can hear him laugh after I leave the room.

So this was his first time at a nudist resort and, naturally, I had to mess with him.

The rules of "dress" around here are very loose (no irony intended). Basically, clothing is a completely optional issue in most places within the resort. The only exceptions being in the pool and in the hot tub, where nudity is required. Everywhere else, at any given time, the nudity rate is probably 25%. It is pretty much a matter of whim.

Danny didn't know this. When I drove him through the front gates for his first time, I pulled over and told him, "Nudity is required from this point on. Otherwise someone will report us to the office" We had been talking about how nervous he was, having never been nude in a public setting before. So, naturally, I made him get out of the car and we both removed our clothing and I locked them in the trunk.

I had a deep all over tan and looked the picture of health. Danny, who is usually in better physical shape than I am, had a farmer's tan on his arms and neck. The rest of his body was painfully pale, almost translucent. He was obviously a newbie.

We hopped back into my convertible and drove into the resort. It was the evening dinner hour, on a Friday night, so there weren't a lot of people around. But, as we passed the office area, Danny spotted a man dressed in shorts and a golf shirt. "What about him?" he asked.

"Oh, that's Dave." I replied, speaking casually but thinking quickly. "He's, um, kinda retarded and everyone sorta lets him slide." Danny just grunted in response.

I drove casually through the resort, pointing out places of interest and finally pulled up in front of one of the summer places. "Is this your place?" He asked.

"No. It's a friend's place. Today is Pam's birthday and they've invited us and some other people over."

Most of the summer places are 35 foot trailers with permanent party decks. Most of the decks can easily hold 25-30 people. This one was built on a slight hill so that the deck was above where we parked and Danny couldn't see anyone yet.

"Man." he moaned. "I'm going to be the palest one here."

"Don't worry about it." I said as I got out of the car and snagged some clothes from the back seat. "I'm sure you will fit right in."

This was going to be priceless. I had informed everyone at the party that this was Danny's first time and that I planned on thrusting him nude into a clothed situation. He was always at home in any setting and I'd never really seen him embarrassed before. This was it.

"It's just up those stairs." I gestured for him to go ahead of me. I quickly pulled my shorts on as I followed, now sliding my arms into the tee shirt. As I mounted the last step, my head popping through the tee shirt, I saw Danny standing next to my wife, both of them nude and grinning. Then I realized everyone else was naked, too. And laughing... at me!

"Should I report you to the office," Danny asked, "or are you retarded, too?"

Walking on the Grass

Back in the early 70's I was in the Air Force. I was stationed at Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, Texas. This was a tech training school where I essentially learned to be a code breaker. I was also learning a few things about life.

San Angelo was kind of in the center of Texas and had some pretty parks and neighborhoods. It was desert country, though, so water was necessary for greenery. On base, any grass was watered daily and we were warned to never, ever walk on the grass. No short cuts. Stay on the sidewalks. Square all corners. It was a major part of our orientation upon arrival.

Another rule of life for us involved travel to Mexico. It was about 150 miles away and only took several hours to reach by car. They did not want us to go there just any time we wanted to. I'm not sure if this was to protect us or Mexico. But the rule was, we couldn't travel more than 100 miles without a three-day pass.

So I wasn't on base long before I had a day off and jumped in a car with three buddies and we were off to Mexico. It was a cool ass day. I got to see a dog roasting on a spit; learned to order unopened beer in bottles; saw a real Mexican hat dance floorshow; saw a woman get engaged to a donkey (or visa-versa); ate something spicy wrapped in a soft fried flour shell; and bought a souvenir chess set and poncho. It was a cool ass day.

When we got back the prick in the day room wrote us up.

Now, remember, we were here for our tech school training so we were just recently out of basic training. Where they scare the shit out of you and hope the ensuing discipline lasts four years. So we were afraid we were in BIG trouble. All of us except me, of course.

"What are we going to do?" Dale asked. "The day room guy already wrote us up and, come Monday when the Captain's back, our ass is grass!"

"Grass." I repeated thoughtfully. We were standing on the sidewalk in front of the day room. The sprinklers had just come on and, as the artificial rain arced back and forth, the late sunlight made rainbows in the air. "Leave it to me." I said and walked off down the sidewalk.

The next morning, Sunday, was another hot one. It was pushing 90 degrees by 8:30. I had had my breakfast and was standing on the sidewalk on the other side of the grass from the dayroom. I finished picking my teeth with a wooden toothpick, looked around, raised my foot, and stepped onto the grass. After a slight hesitation, I strode across the manicured lawn towards the dayroom.

I wasn't half-way there before the door to the dayroom flew open and a different guy than yesterday ran out and yelled, "Hold it!"

I stopped. "What?" I said.

"Get off the grass!" he urged.

"Which is it?" I asked.

"Which is what?" he asked.

"Should I hold it or should I get off the grass?" I searched his eyes for direction.

He looked at me. He looked down at his shoes and realizing he, too, had stepped off the sidewalk when he ran outside, literally hopped backwards and yelled, "Get off the goddamn grass!"

"O.K." I said and finished my stroll towards the low brick building with the wide picture windows.

"Get inside." he instructed. "You know you're not supposed to walk on the grass. I'm not going to write you up, but I'm gonna teach you not to take short cuts on this base. You're going to spend the next hour cleaning the dayroom!" He said triumphantly.

So he showed me where the mops and brooms and cleaning supplies were. He told me to empty all the waste baskets and not to talk to any of the other Airmen who sometimes hung out reading or playing pool or whatever in the dayroom. Nobody else was there at 8:30 AM.

"I'll try to keep it down." I muttered.

The next day, Monday, my friends waited anxiously for the call to the Captain's office. It never came. I told them that I suspected a janitor or someone might have accidentally thrown the report away while the Captain's office was being cleaned on Sunday. And that the dayroom guy probably wouldn't make a verbal report because he wouldn't rotate back to that duty for probably another month.

"I think we skated, boys." I said, my eyes surveying the patch of grass. The artificial dew glistening on each pampered blade. "Let's go. And be careful you don't walk on the grass."

Cigar Time

I had just finished writing for the day and it was cigar time. I'd recently gotten a box of VSG's, high end, well aged Dominicans made by Ashton, and it was time to treat myself. For me, this can be a complicated process.

Treating myself is usually a bit complicated. Not by design. It's just that I like things certain ways. Like when I go to sleep at night. I lay on my right side, my right arm under the pillow supporting my head. I have my left arm resting on a small pillow in front of me and my legs are scissored apart at about 30 degrees, knees slightly bent. This is the only position I can go to sleep. I guess I am a creature of habit.

So "relaxing" with a cigar requires several elements. First is the place. I have a table and chairs under a thatched roof tiki gazebo on my back deck. The area has a southern exposure and is in the sun all day long but the gazebo keeps the table in the shade. Being at the top of a hill we have a good breeze. This means that on even hot, sunny days I can sit in a relatively cool, breezy area to have a cigar.

The chairs are of a comfortable, sling-back design. They have a tightly woven fabric to sit on; the frames curved to support the neck and lower back just right. I usually turn one chair so that my left arm rests upon the table and I pull up another chair, facing me, to put my legs on. It's like having a recliner on the porch.

Next, I have some interesting toys that provide me with a pleasant smoking experience. I have a heavy, cut glass ashtray with a long groove cut in one end on which to rest the cigar. When the sunlight shines through it, it acts as a prism, casting a multicolored rainbow of light upon the floor.

I have a Zippo lighter, embossed with the Confederate flag (it reminds me I was born in Georgia), that has a butane torch insert in place of the regular wick lighter. So it provides me with the cool "guy thing" of a Zippo that is excellent for lighting cigars.

My wife got me a brushed stainless steel, monogrammed, Swiss Army knife that includes a corkscrew and a pair of cigar cutter scissors. It has six or seven other functions but it is my favorite cigar cutter.

I always enjoy an adult beverage when I am smoking a fine cigar. Today I poured myself some 15 year old scotch from a bottle of Pinch that I recently opened. The amber liquid glowed with a golden heat as it flowed over the ice in the cut glass. I could smell the distinct, musky aroma of the wooden barrels in which it was aged.

And finally I grabbed a book by James Lee Burke that I had recently started. His prose reads like poetry. His beautiful descriptions of southern life and the seamy underbelly of Louisiana crime are unparalleled. He is without a doubt my favorite author.

So there I sat, comfortably ensconced in the shade of my tiki gazebo, my treasures within hands reach. I leaned back, relaxed, at peace with the world after a full day of writing. My mind finally relaxing.

As I surveyed the peaceful surroundings, listening to the birds playing their summertime games I glance at the table one more time. "Damn!" I muttered to myself. I had everything I needed except for one thing.

I had forgotten my cigar... again.

The Pinewood Derby

Back when my youngest son was a Boy Scout they used to have an annual event called the Pinewood Derby. This was basically a model car race. Not cool, sleek cars with shiny paint jobs and chrome wheels -- like Matchbox Cars. These were hand made (from kits), had wooden bodies, cheap wheels and were hand painted.

I looked up the word model in the dictionary and it said: model (n.) a smaller, cheaper imitation of the real thing. These cars fit that description. (I'm starting to rethink all the times my wife has called me a model husband.)

To be fair, the kits were pretty nice. They came in a box and everything. They consisted of a block of wood that was roughly car shaped and a wheel kit. The idea was to carve the car into a sporty or aerodynamic shape, don't f**k up the wheels, and then paint it some bright color. It was necessary to whittle some wood away because there was a weight limit on the cars so, as the theory went, since you had to hack part of the car off anyway, why not make it look sporty?

Also, this was supposed to be a Boy Scout project. Parents were not permitted to help. Which they were pretty good at not helping -- some of them actually did the project. You could tell because most of the entries looked like whittled down wooden car kits smeared with poster paint. But some of them... some of them looked like Matchbox Cars on steroids. There were '69 Camaros, Corvettes and street rods. They had custom lacquered finishes and rumor had it that they were drilled and leaded to meet the weight limit and to put the weight in the front end. They were beautiful. They were obviously not made by ten year olds. And they always won.

On race day the regular kids would take their turn placing their Franken-car at the starting position at the top of the curved ramp. The ramp was four lanes wide and the lanes were divided by wooden strips. It was about 15 feet long and had the curvy bumps found on water-slides. A gate would drop, four cars would begin rolling and the first one to pass the finish line at the bottom won. It was an elimination race done in heats.

I said the regular kids would just set their car at the top of the ramp and then run back to their friends. The cars built in Dad-troit were handled differently. These kids would carry the cars as if they were loaded with nitro. They would carefully position the cars in the center of their lane, micro-adjust them, look at their fathers for approval, look back at the cars again and then walk to their fathers' sides.

These cars were fast. The regular cars didn't stand a chance. And the scout leaders were in on it because the Daddy cars rarely faced each other until the final heats. As the race progressed the early losers wandered off to play among themselves and the room took on the charged atmosphere of back room gambling in a cheap gin joint. The fathers got bolder in cheering themselves and jeering their opponents. I swear I saw twenty dollar bills clenched in their fists.

The outcome was inevitable and the winners were predictable. Every year the kids got bigger, the parents fatter or grayer, the cars faster and sleeker. And the same "kids" won every year.

Which really pissed me off because I put a lot of time into those damn cars.

Never Say Never

When I was a young man I was very set in my ways. I think this is because we allow our limited experiences combined with our already achieved comfort and enjoyment levels to cause us to think in absolutes. Such as:

"Mmmm, this pizza is the BEST! I'm never going to get pizza any where else."

Or: "Wow! That was incredible! Will you marry me?"

As I eventually matured, my experiences broadened and my tastes became more eclectic. For example: I went from having several played and re-played and over-played Elvis and Buddy Holly records to close to 1,000 CD's that range from Classical to Rock to Jazz to Oldies to Reggae to Bar Bands, etc. My opinions have softened and I am less likely to think in absolutes.

There have been, over the years, some prime examples of me changing my mind from what I thought were absolute opinions. My Dad was a Chevy man. Every car or truck he ever owned were Chevrolets. In my twenties, I was a Chevy man. Today I own two Jeeps and I cannot remember the last Chevy I owned.

I spent fifteen years working in newspaper pressrooms. We would laugh at the "suits" when they came through. I said I would never have a job where I had to wear a suit. I also said I would never have a job where I had to commute to work. I spent the last seventeen years of my career as a salesman and tech rep for an ink company. I wore a suit everyday and traveled as much as 800 miles a week.

I was raised Catholic and went to a Pentecostal church during my senior high and early adult years. During that time (for doctrinal reasons) I said I would never be a Baptist. I eventually spent twenty years as a Sunday School teacher and a deacon in the Baptist Church.

I have had several handheld PDA's, all with the Microsoft operating system; such as the HP Jornada and the Ipaq. I looked at Palm Pilots and I didn't like them. I said I would never own a Palm. I just recently got the Palm LifeDrive and I love it.

I have always said that I would never own an Apple computer. The company was too small. There's not enough software options. Apples are for geeks. I am writing this on a MacBook Pro and just set up a new Mac mini desktop last night. So call me a geek.

And there was a time when I thought I would go to my grave claiming, "At least I was never a nudist. I could never do something like that!" I now live year round at a nudist resort.

The lessons to be learned here are that we don't know it all when we are young. There are few absolutes in life and that we should never say never. Well... I have just one more for good luck.

"I NEVER want to be a millionaire!"

Loud Talking Mommies

I think I've mentioned before that I'd rather not be around little children. They annoy me. The same way yappy little dogs and big over friendly dogs annoy me. They have no sense of personal space, are noisy, messy and they splash in the pool.

Many people have said that children should be seen but not heard. I disagree. I have advocated that they should not be seen either. I've said, for years, that children should be raised privately at home; that there should be underground tunnels to transport them to and from school, etc.; and we should never see them until they are 18+ and have passed extensive psychological testing.

The obvious exceptions would be my grandchildren and nice kids.

But, I've had occasion to leave the Compound quite a bit recently and am beginning to change my opinion. I think what is far more annoying than little children are loud mothers who insist on talking to, correcting, and (presumably) teaching their children in a VERY LOUD VOICE. Why does she think everyone else within a half a mile needs to know what a good f**king mommy she is?

"Look everybody, I'm tying little Billy's shoe and I want everyone to know!"

"Now I'm teaching little Susie to EAT. See how much SMARTER I am than my two year old!"

"Hey everybody! Tommy is misbehaving! Watch my parenting skills as I settle him down so as not to annoy you."

Why do mothers feel like everyone in the room needs to know everything that is happening with their kids? They do the most routine tasks and have to announce it to the room. It's like there is a cone of noise surrounding them.

Now, I realize that this may be their first crumb muncher and that they are unreasonably proud; or that since the kid, they have had no life of their own and think of loud talking as a way to re-connect with other adults, but they are wrong. They are more annoying than their children.

We usually ask to eat in the bar area of restaurants to avoid children and their loud talking mothers. The question should not be, "Smoking or non-smoking?" Non-smoking always means bouncing, messy kids and a gaggle of mommies who don't know how to use their inside voices. The question should be, "Would you like our Adult Section or do you enjoy the Feeding-Time-at-the-Zoo experience?"

The Gatlinburg Incident

I was talking about Adventures in Moving yesterday and related a fun encounter we had with highway construction near St. Louis. Today I’d like to tell you about, what we call, The Gatlinburg Incident.

We lived in Colorado Springs for about four months. From there, we decided to move to Toccoa, Georgia. I counted it up one time and I think we have moved 13 times in 34 years. So I’m pretty good at this stuff. I usually get all my ducks in a row before I do anything. When it comes to moving (or even a day trip) I have always relied on maps. Currently, I use the door-to-door computerized map programs; in 1981 we relied on AAA TripTiks.

So I let AAA lay out my route from Colorado Springs, Colorado to Toccoa, Georgia. I always requested the most direct route to get places. Their advice took us through a quaint little town called Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

Gatlinburg was a touristy town at the base of a mountain pass that eventually takes you into Georgia. The mountain pass is a narrow, windy road unsuitable for large vehicles. There was a guard shack at the entry to the road that was manned until 6PM. We got there at 6:05 and no one was there to stop us.

Once again, I am driving a 24-foot U-Haul and towing a 1968 Chevy Malibu behind me. I have my wife and a three year old and a one-year-old baby in the front seat and it has been a long-ass trip so far. Everybody is tired, hungry and cranky. I tell them we’ll stop to eat as soon as we get up over this little hill.

The little hill turned out to be a genuine, straight up the side, switch-back, Billy-goat loving, circle back around under itself, mother-f***er of a mountain road. I took the entire trip UP the mountain in first gear and wished I could downshift from there. I don’t think we went over five or ten mph the whole way up. The truck was shaking and rattling; I was grinding the gears and burning out the clutch just to keep moving and my wife (who is terrified of heights) was trying to calm the kids and NOT look out the window at the sheer, hundred foot drops inches from the side of the truck.

It took three hours to get up the mountain.

The trip down went much faster. I didn’t have any brakes.

Well, I sort of had brakes. Just enough to tease me. Just enough to slow me down, but not enough to actually stop. You see the other side of the mountain was just as steep, just as windy, narrow and dangerous as the trip up. But now I’m having trouble slowing down. I’m down shifting, horsing the wheel this way and that, clattering gravel over the edge of the hundred foot drops, telling everyone we’re almost there and knowing I could not stop the truck – period.

Every now and then the road would straighten out and there would be a wide gravel and dirt area off to the left where I could pull over. But I could not come to a complete stop and had to pull out onto the road again. Not being able to stop was bad enough, but we weren’t the only people on the road. So, when I would be forced to pull back out, it was into oncoming traffic. Just to make it interesting.

This, too, went on much longer than sanity would dictate. Eventually the road flattened out enough for me to attempt another pull over and we finally creaked and hissed to a shaky stop.

I sat there for a moment, my arms shaking, fearful the truck would start moving again. After a moment I opened the door and climbed out. My legs were like rubber and my lower back was spasming. I took a few steps away from the cab and saw that the back wheels were glowing orange. As I stood there, fascinated by possibly the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen in my life, it actually burst into flames. So I did the only guy thing left to me – I pissed on it.

Somehow we limped into Toccoa that night. We never did eat (or at least my wife and I didn’t). We were just grateful to be alive. Surviving an ordeal like that helps you to focus on the important things in life. Things like family, and God and seeking Holy and righteous revenge on those idiots at AAA.

Adventures in Moving

We used to move around a lot. Sometimes it was to move to a bigger place; sometimes it was to live closer to work. Sometimes it was a genetic thing; I suspect there is a long history of my ancestors packing in the night and being gone by dawn. So moving is in my blood.

We had several ill-fated moves in the early 80's that proved the U-Haul slogan. The first one occurred when, for a series of bone-headed reasons, I quit my job at the newspaper in 1981 and moved my young family to Colorado Springs. We packed everything we owned into a 24 foot U-Haul and, with my '68 Chevy Malibu in tow, started out.

Up until this time I don't think I ever drove a truck that big and I know I never towed anything. The fun part was backing up. The car had a much shorter wheelbase than the truck, I had to learn and contend with the whole left is right and right is left thingy, and I couldn't see the car. If everything was where it should be I only ever saw the shadow of the car on the pavement... sometimes. So I mostly picked gas stations and restaurants that allowed me to make big, wide, loopy turns to get in and out.

The hairiest part of this trip occurred outside of St. Louis. We were heading west, around the city. It was during the height of the highway construction season. Traffic was heavy and I was going faster than I should have been -- just keeping up with everyone else. The lane I was in took a sudden dog-leg to the right and, at the same time, the pavement level dropped off about three inches under my left tires. The whole truck tilted to the left and for several moments (but it seemed much longer at the time) we were going down the road on two wheels.

Fortunately, my wife insisted that we bring our piano with us. It was packed and tied down along the right wall of the truck and provided enough ballast for the truck to eventually right itself. When the right tires slammed back onto the uneven pavement I had to fight the inevitable fishtail and, in the side view mirrors, I saw a lot more of the car than side shadows; I saw the back end of the car whip in and out of view as it fishtailed along with us. Traffic was heavy and fast and tight on either side of us so it was impossible to stop and faint or cry or change my underwear. I had to just keep moving and pray the car was still properly attached.

When we eventually found a place to pull over, everything checked out OK. I blustered about how dangerous the roads and traffic were here and generally did my guy thing about my driving skills and upper body strength. We both knew we were OK because of sheer dumbass luck. But Nina never mentioned that... and still hasn't. She's quite a gal.

UP NEXT: The Gatlinburg Incident

The Druids

I used to have some neighbors whom I thought were crazy. Now, to be fair, I have thought all my neighbors were crazy at some time or another. But these people were the wrong kind of crazy. I think they are both dead now so I feel safe using their names; they were the Smith's.

The Smith's were Millers. It seems I've lived next to members of the Miller clan my entire life. Millers are people who spend all their spare time in their driveway or front yard. They just mill about. Hence the Millers. So, the Smith's were Millers.

But they weren't just Millers. They were also Druids. What I mean by that is that they seemed to worship the trees and grass and shrubs and flowers and just about anything with chlorophyll in it. I think they set up a shrine to a grasshopper who ate itself to death one summer. OK... I probably made that last part up. But, my point is, they were completely obsessed with their YARD.

They were both retired and had all day to mill around their yard. I was a traveling salesman who was very good at his job and I had more time on my hands than I knew what to do with. So I had a number of free days to watch the Smith's be crazy.

She was a little more spry than he was. He didn't need a walker or anything but he couldn't do the five yard dash in under two minutes, either. But they would spend the entire day in their front yard, snipping and picking and arranging. Milling from here to there and there to here. And nothing they ever did ever made anything look any different.

Here's something else you need to know about the Smith's. They paid for a lawn care service. About every five days these trucks would pull up in front of the Smith's place and six guys would unload a riding mower, a push mower, a hedge trimmer, a leaf blower, a leaf sucker and a clipboard. There would be this crazy-ass flurry of activity while the guy with the clipboard walked to the front door. By the time he got there, the other guys were already loading the equipment for the next job and he was collecting a signature and a check for $70.00. Pretty nice racket, huh?

Then the Millers (Smith's) would come outside and spend the rest of the day arranging the leaves in the freshly trimmed shrubs. My wife used to say to me, "Leave them alone; they are retired and have nothing else to do."

I would scoff and say, "Phuh!" Or maybe, "Phryxtz!" Something like that. And go back to watching them.

I have a fairly fertile imagination but I was having the damnedest time figuring out what drove these people. It didn't look to me like they were enjoying themselves. They had that old people scowl and their movements weren't casual, like they had all day to just kill in the yard. They were jerky little moves. They would poke and jab at things like they were angry about something. And nothing ever appeared to change. They would be there from dawn until dusk and I could never detect one thing that they accomplished.

They spent so much time out there I began wondering if they even owned a TV set. They just weren't normal. I've seen her so obsessed that she would come out in the morning in one of those flannel nightgown thingies and not get dressed until noon. They probably ate salad for lunch.

I finally came up with a theory, though. I think they did something to piss off Mother Nature. I also think Mother Nature can be a vengeful bitch and somehow She was making the Millers (Smith's) work off some kind of supernatural community service kind of deal. I mean, they worked slow, didn't seem happy about it, never seemed to get anything accomplished, and took all day to do it. If you gave them a shovel and a hard hat they could pass for highway construction workers.

It is hard to figure some people out, though. I would stand at my front door or sit near the front window watching those people waste hour after hour. Day after day. Like they had nothing else to do. I mean, what were they thinking?

Christmas in July

We are having an interesting event here at the nudist resort this weekend. We are celebrating Christmas in July. People are decorating their decks with Christmas ornaments and they will be judged for (I'm guessing) the most electric consumption, how many airplanes try to land on the deck and who can get the tree the furthest up the angel's ass. OK... I made that last one up. There is also going to be a gift exchange at poolside during the day and there will be a Christmas theme costume party at the dance that night.

Naturally, I started asking what other non sequiturial holidays we can celebrate if this is a success. Like Groundhog Day in September. However, no one has access to any groundhogs, other than roadkill, and we all thought that might ruin the party. So we're forming a committee.

Someone suggested April Fools Day on August 21st but that's my wife's birthday so I wisely refrained from joining that discussion.

Another idea was Washington's Birthday in August. Of course, we would have to plan this for next year so we can plant a cherry tree in the spring. Then in August someone could cut it down and everyone could sit around and lie about it. This would be the same as every other August except for the tree.

Finally, the idea that the most people liked was St. Patrick's Day in July. We could all wear funny hats, dance to some silly music, drink large quantities of beer and puke randomly. Someone else said that sounded like so much fun that we ought to do it every weekend. I had to point out that we already were.

No DUI's for Me

I have never had a DUI. I've been stopped for speeding, speeding, speeding, cruising through a stop sign, speeding, speeding speeding, turn signal violation, speeding, speeding, running a red light, and did I mention speeding? But never a DUI.

This is because I like driving fast and am usually in a hurry. And I never really started drinking until five or six years ago. I 'm unclear on exactly when because I was hurrying at the time and have been drinking ever since. So it's been five or six... or six and a half... maybe it's FIVE and a half... Well, never mind. It doesn't matter... I guess.

Anyway, being the clear thinker that I am, I've been thinking about how the Kennedy's and the Hilton's and the Baldwin's are slamming into parked cars everywhere and rarely get cited for DUI's. And the reason you know they are up to no good is because they are driving themselves. These people have drivers and limos. They only drive themselves when they slip their handlers to go off on a toot. But being WHO they are usually buys them a pass on the nasty stuff; like the law and taking responsibility for their actions. And their worst case senario is they finally get hauled into court, do a little time in a luxury spa, drying out, and become a poster-boy for a new celebrity cause; so they can throw fund-raiser parties from which everyone can get drunk and drive home.

Living at a nudist resort buffers me from DUI's. Now, I don't normally get falling down drunk, but I'm probably legally impaired most Friday and Saturday nights. One stiff drink will put you over the legal limit. I have several. But, living in a gated resort, I never have to leave after the party. I'm already home! The closest I come to drunk driving is in my golf cart at ten miles per hour.

Then it occurred to me the other day. What was my worst, worst case senario for DUI's? Let's say, for some unknown (drunken) reason, I decided to get in my car and leave the resort while impaired. I'm weaving down the road, breaking for hallucinations; and I get pulled over. I get a ticket. I lose my license and (this is my favorite part) the entire State of Pennsylvania tells me that I cannot leave the nudist resort!

I'll try to muddle through.

It's News to Me - III

Here are some more recent headlines that caught my eye. Remember -- when I read the news, I only read the headlines; I make the stories up myself. It makes the news more tolerable. All of the following headlines are real:

• NASA Clears Discovery's Left Wing for Landing, Rest of Shuttle to Follow -- Isn't this what they are trying to avoid?
• Cruise Ship Heavily Lists After Leaving Florida Port -- Don't worry, this isn't the first Cruise to lean that far to the left.
• Study Finds Beaches Sicken 1.5M in California -- And the Pocono Mountains sicken 12 people in Pennsylvania... But to be fair, one of them was already coming down with something.
• Girl Puts Used Condom in Mouth - Parents Sue -- I've heard of strict parents but why sue the daughter? I mean it was already used!
• Hollywood Studios Unveil Movie Ratings by E-mail - For those of us that take our computers to the theater.
• US Airways to Place Ads on Sickness Bags -- What better time to think about a Big Mac and fries?
• Toyota Plans Hybrid that Runs on Batteries -- That makes it what... a golf cart? Does anybody know where I can get 30,000 AA's?
• Microsoft Promises to Play Fair with Windows -- Does this mean that they are changing the name of their product? Should we get ready for MS Doors or MS Root Cellar?

Well, that's it. Just remember - you can't make this stuff up... but I can.

Scouting Locations

I've been hanging out in some interesting neighborhoods recently. Just looking around. Trying them on for size. My plan is to spend several months in one of them so I need to get the lay of the land. Find out who the neighbors are. And where the bodies are buried.

If you are going to spend time in a new place, you need to know the people. Now, it is true that people are the same everywhere. But that just means that they all participate in the seven deadly sins and attend twelve step programs as penance. They are who they are because of (and sometimes in spite of) where they live and who they admire or hate.

Most people tend to fall into three general categories: good guys, bad guys, and place fillers. The good guys usually attract your empathy (if not your sympathy). They are doing something you are interested in and their motives are usually clean (if not pure). Their actions and thoughts tend to move them in fairly direct lines and often times they don't even believe or understand that they are one of the good guys.

The bad guys can be pretty complicated. Unless they have gone completely over to the dark side, they usually think they are doing the right thing. They know they are breaking laws but, in their world, laws establish the ground rules for the game they are playing. The law is a means of choosing sides for each team. But once they've chosen sides they are usually team players and they live and play and die by the rules of their side. Their actions and thoughts can be fairly convoluted because they truly trust no one and often times they don't believe or understand that they are one of the bad guys.

The place fillers are like bit players in a movie. These guys can be happy or sad but, more often than not, they are just doing their jobs. And even though they tend to appear stereotypical, they too can be complex. Life is about trying on a series of masks. Sometimes to fool others and sometimes to delude ourselves. The place fillers are masters of the masks. As a result you can't believe everything they say but you can't discount it either. It's more of a filtering process.

A lot of the neighborhoods that I've been checking out look fairly normal on the surface. But I am scouting for certain alleys and buildings. The ones with a recent dark past. I'm looking for the part of town that makes you check the door locks as you drive through with your windows rolled up. A place where rumor and fact are just a matter of timing. Where a gunshot is never mistaken for a backfire.

So I'll be moving into a room over the diner or maybe I'll take a corner suite overlooking some intersection of places and events. Where the sodium vapor lights sizzle in the rain and the only sounds you hear are the hiss of tires on the wet pavement, the tinny music coming from a joint down the street and possibly a woman screaming in the distance... or was it the wind?

I'll be in my perch, taking down everything I see and hear each night. And in the daytime I'll walk around and see what people have to say about it. I'll try not to take sides and, hopefully, I'll answer more questions than I ask.

When I get back it's going to be with one helluva story.

A Time and Place for Everything

I have always been told that there is a TIME and PLACE for everything. This has always intrigued me. Mostly because, whenever I was reminded of this gem, I was being chastised for doing something wrong. So I learned the benefits of timing and of placement.

Like you don't play touch football in the church basement. I can still feel the ear twist as I was led down the corridor, being lectured to, "There's a time and place for everything, young man!"

Or the time I was eight years old and was caught kissing Marian Hilliard on her front porch. Her father told me to go home and shouted after me as I hurried down the front walk, "There's a time and place for everything, young man."

After a while I didn't need anyone to point this out to me. If something wasn't working or didn't seem quite right, I would question whether my timing or my placement was off.

Like the time with Wanda in the Volkswagen. I still think the timing was perfect. It was the placement of the gearshift that was giving me problems.

Or, one time I thought I found the perfect place, but my timing was, shall we say -- premature.

So I was wondering how this would apply to other things. Like automobiles. I've always heard that getting the timing right on the motor is very important. But, oddly enough, people rarely talk about its placement.

Or airplanes. How can a non-stop flight be on time? Or delayed for that matter?

Or weddings. It is very important to be on time for your own wedding but you have to wonder what life would have been like if you had been standing one girl down at the time.

Or dying. Elvis taught us that everyone has an appointed time; but placement provides dignity.

Time and Place are like the mischievous twin offspring to Murphy's Law. Murphy claims if it can go wrong -- it will. His children say if it can go wrong -- it will at the worst possible time and if it can go wrong - it will in the worst possible place.

Like the time I went off the high dive at the class picnic and lost my swim trunks in front of everyone I knew. Murphy and his demonic twins were working overtime, that day. Everyone laughed and I was embarrassed.

But something good may have come of that long ago incident. It may have actually planted the seed of nudity in my brain. Recently, I've been spending a lot of time without my swim trunks in front of everyone I know... and as it turns out, everyone was right: there is a time and a place for everything... and I've found it.

Nudist's Survival Guide

You can never save money by going to a resort but there are a few ways to economize. I imagine that most nudist resorts are the same in certain ways. Few of them, for instance, are supported by non-profit foundations set up by billionaire recluses obsessed with promoting tit and ass tanning. Most resorts are trying to turn a profit.

Which sounds fair. They provide people with a place to stay, a pleasant, (hopefully) sunny atmosphere, with music, food facilities and a nudist friendly environment. We bring the money.

The resort where I live has, for the weekend visitor, several ways to stay depending upon your budget and your tolerance for camping. We have motel units as the most expensive and least rustic approach. There are also hook-ups for RV parking. These sites are reasonable to rent and you bring the comforts of home with you. Next would be the smaller pop-up trailers that aren't much more than a hard-shell tent on wheels. But still more convenient than actual tenting; also an option.

So the resort tries to accommodate different budgets. But I was thinking of other extreme (read cheapskate) ways to save money at a place like this.

For instance -- sunscreen lotion. A lot if it comes in spray applicators. If you can stand near enough to a person putting it on (and slightly downwind) you could probably get enough overspray to do the trick. You could also enthusiastically greet someone who has just applied their lotion with a big hug or you could shake hands with their husband. Either way gets you some excess lotion that you can rub in for free. Of course, if the overspray and excess came from several different people, using different SPF ratings, you could end up looking like a calico cat.

Another way to save money would be to offer to take the "empties" to the trash. A lot of people don't completely finish their beer or soda. It would be a cinch to combine the remainder of several bottles and cups and have a free, refreshing blend of grape-beer-snapple-diet Dr. Pepper-wine cooler. You could probably bum some ice from someone. Then let's Par-tay! (Warning: watch out for cigarette butts. Although an inexpensive source for free nicotine you could choke on them.)

You get the idea. If you spent all of your extra cash to get into the resort there are ways to economize. Also, if you are handy with the ladies or quick with a joke somebody will always invite you to a party. You will never starve at a place like this.

So far, I haven't needed to use any of these tricks myself. I tan naturally and therefore avoid the SPF squad. I drink hard liquor and mixed drinks and throw my own parties. So I'm good for now. But if I'm ever "stuck" at a nudist resort and I've lost the wallet I had velcroed to my ass -- I know that somehow I'll muddle through.

Jack and the Magical Kingdom

Once upon a time there was a boy named Jack, who lived in a Magical Kingdom. It had hills and valleys, streams and trees. There was a big pond to swim in and a forest glade where he and his friends would gather for parties. Jack would spend all day exploring the Kingdom. Playing games and enjoying himself. Life was grand.

But Jack hadn't always lived in the Magical Kingdom. He used to live Outside. Outside was different. It was dirtier, and noisier, and things moved very quickly. Everybody had something to do Outside. Everyone had a Task. And there was less time to play.

Jack liked to play. He liked to run and jump and swim and dance. He liked to lay in the soft moss by the big pond and watch the clouds go by. He liked to talk to his friends about nothing in particular. Jack very much enjoyed moving to the Magical Kingdom. Life there was grand.

Now, there is a funny thing about some boys; this one in particular. Jack would lay on the moss by the big pond for the umpteenth time and look at the umpteenth cloud and sigh. A big, deep sigh. And he wouldn't know why. He would run and jump and swim and dance for the umpteenth time and sigh. And he wouldn't know why. He would talk to his friends about nothing in particular for the umpteenth time and he wouldn't know why. And he would sigh.

And here is why.

When Jack left Outside he tried to forget about the dirt and the noise and the things that moved quickly. He tried to forget about having something to do. He forgot about having a Task. He had time to play. And play... and play... Every day, Jack would play.

He would run and jump and swim and dance and lay on the moss by the big pond and watch the clouds go by and talk to his friends about nothing in particular and run and jump and swim and dance and lay on the moss by the big pond and watch the clouds go by and talk to his friends about nothing in particular and run and jump...

Well, you get the picture.

Jack missed the dirt and the noise and the things that moved quickly. He missed having something to do. And he realized something else. The thing that he knew he would never miss; the thing that he moved to the Magical Kingdom to avoid -- the Task -- was the one thing Jack forgot to leave behind.

Outside, the Task dictated what time Jack got up each day, how he dressed, where he went and who he talked to. It took all of his useful time and wasted it; leaving him a few meager hours of Jack time. And it made him unhappy living Outside.

So when Jack moved to the Magical Kingdom he expected to be happy. He didn't know that the Task was difficult to put down, to leave behind; that it could live in his head and make him sigh.

Now, the first time Jack ran and jumped and swam and danced he never wanted to stop. The first time he lay on the soft moss by the big pond and looked at the clouds it was a perfect day. The first time he talked to his new friends about nothing in particular he laughed with joy. So he wanted more.

And the Task said, "Fine."

And the Task said, "Jack, hurry up. Every one else is already running. Hurry, you'll miss the jumping. Quick now, they're about to swim."

And the Task said, "Jack, don't lose your spot on the moss or you can't possibly enjoy the clouds." And, "Quick, you have to contribute to the conversation about nothing in particular!"

And the Task became... well, a task.

This was when Jack became Wise. He realized that Tasks are hard to put down. Tasks are hard to leave behind. That they are sometimes there when you think they are gone. That they can make you sigh, when you don't even know why.

He also realized that you can have too much of a good thing; and that no one can run and jump and play every day. That there were good things about Outside and that there can be bad things about the Magical Kingdom. And that he had a choice of what to do every day.

So now, our boy Jack might run today and jump tomorrow. He might look at the clouds from under a big tree and lay on the soft moss and count the stars at night. And sometimes, every now and then, his conversations may have a particular meaning. Like this one.

Communication Device Challenged

One of the things I pride myself on is the ability to communicate. And I love computers and electronic devices. More importantly, I understand computers and electronic devices. I just have the worst luck getting them to communicate with each other.

I am communication device challenged. I have CDC.

Now, when I say I understand computers, I mean it. I started learning back with the earliest home computers. My first computer was the ADAM. It had no RAM memory, ran off of a cassette tape drive, used BASIC computer language and hooked to a TV screen. I taught myself BASIC to write lines of code to create pixelized stick figures that could move on the screen. Woo, woo!

Then I had one of the earliest PC clones that ran on DOS. Then a better one. Then a Brand Name. Then Windows. Then the internet. Then notebooks. Then flat panel screens. And now a MacBook Pro. All the while I taught myself how they worked and found ways to use them.

I bought books, read magazines, upgraded components, rebuilt motherboards and configured drives. I explored BBS and FTP sites before they had graphic interfaces. And grew and learned with the explosion of the internet.

And every step of the way I would hit a brick wall when I tried to get one device to communicate with another. I would read the user manuals, follow every instruction to the tee... and it wouldn't work. Modems, internet, intranet, WAN's, LAN's, wireless routers, repeaters, IR, bluetooth, you name it. They never work on the first try for me.

They require blood, sweat and tears, first. They require their pound of flesh. There is seldom anyone else around when I am working on these projects but they aren't satisfied until they humiliate me. And then they work.

It is totally capricious and totally arbritrary. One minute nothing. The next it works. As I said, I follow the manual and instructions word-for-word. I cross every i and dot every t and these devices won't cooperate. And then they do. I can do the same thing ten times in a row, no variations, and it will work on the eleventh try.

It is willing to work for me; but I must be broken, first.

Currently, I have a desktop PC, a Sony Vaio notebook, and my MacBook Pro working together in a wireless local area network (LAN). I got a new HP printer/scanner/copier combo to replace my old HP printer. I was able to print wirelessly from the notebooks with the old printer. I read the manual, followed the instruction set-up guide... and nothing happened. The notebooks can't find the new printer. Eventually I got the Mac to find the printer but they must have been mad at each other or something. Because they weren't talking.

So I go 'round and 'round and 'round this bush all afternoon. I walk away. I come back. I un-install everything. I read everything again. I follow the instructions again. Nothing.

Finally my wife comes home from work. I'm sitting in my office, manuals and pamphlets strewn over my desk, the brand new printer is on its stand, mocking me, and I have that crazed look in my eye. "How's it going?" she asks.

One of the things I pride myself on is the ability to communicate. "Arxghhh," I replied.

Just as she began to silently tip-toe backwards out of the room I continued, "I give up. I have tried everything it says to do. I have tried everything I've ever learned or read and I can't get the network to recognize the printer."

I then proceeded to walk her step-by-step through everything the instructions said to do. Showing her that I wasn't an idiot. That I could follow simple, goddamn instructions. God damn it!

"So I did all of these things," I summarized after doing it one more time for her, "I click on this tab and... SON-OF-A-BITCH! There it is!" I pressed the print key -- and it printed, too.

But not before it broke me and made a fool of me, once again.

I'm not sure how I became communication device challenged. Maybe it is a Gypsy curse. Maybe God is fucking with me; seeing how far He can push me before He loses the bet with Satan. All I know is I did not do anything any differently on my ten previous attempts to get it to work. And then it did.

Oh, and by the way, I may be writing tomorrow's blog with crayon from a mental hospital. I'm planning to upgrade my wireless router later today.

The Green Pea Soup Story

Back in the bad old days I used to work for a real asshole. In fact most of the people I worked for at that company were assholes. Not your garden variety asshole, mind you. But the grade A, gold-plated, arrogant prick kind of asshole. The kind of people who abused power and whose friends could only be described as cronies. But I digress.

Ernie liked to abuse waitresses. He would talk down to them; send them on pointless errands; yell at them and act generally dissatisfied with their service. He would usually make such a fuss that other customers would be relieved when he finally left.

He was on a diet one time that called for 1/2 a banana with breakfast. The poor waitress brought an entire banana. He naturally complained. When she explained that they had no use for the other half of the banana and that he should just eat how much he wanted, he insisted that she take it back and bring him what he asked for. She brought back 1/2 a peeled banana on a small plate. Ernie went apeshit. WHY was the banana peeled? He sent it back again. By this time the restaurant's manager was involved; everyone around us was feeling uncomfortable and now Ernie was complaining about not getting his entire breakfast at once. He had the waitress in tears; left a meager tip and went to work with the smug, self-satisfaction of a true asshole.

Another time Ernie had all the salesmen at the branch office, I was one of them, and we went to an upscale restaurant for dinner. The kind of place that had table cloths and cloth napkins; where men were the waitresses and everyone had funny accents. Wine was ordered by the bottle and the entrees cost as much as a tank of gas. That kind of place.

We all had a few drinks at the bar to loosen up and were eventually seated. (This was the place where I first found out about Grey Goose vodka.) None of us were feeling any pain and somebody asked Ernie if he was going to behave at dinner... UH, OH! He had forgotten his place. Nobody said a word. You could hear my silk shorts rustle.

Then Ernie turned to the offending sap and said in a saccharine-sweet, menacingly soft voice, "What exactly are you referring to, Matt? Is there something you'd like to say to me?"

"Uh, no Boss! I'm good. It was the booze talking. Uh... I'm just going to shut up and go sit over here now." he mumbled, backing up and pointing to the far end of the long table where we were being seated.

So Ernie sat down to dinner already pissed off.

We all proceeded to order $30 appetizers and Ernie got the green pea soup. By the time his soup was served most of us were diving into the chilled lobster and crab or fresh mozzarella and tomato appetizers. He complained about the slow service. UH, OH! Our ears perked up but we all kept looking at our plates.

He carefully selected his soup spoon, inspected it, polished it with the cloth napkin resting in his lap, dipped the spoon in the soup and took a sip. "Waiter!" he bellowed.

The waiter was there in an instant. "Yes, sir?"

"This soup is cold. I waited for it while everyone else was eating their appetizers and now it is cold." Ernie pushed the bowl away from him. "Do something about it." He sat back, crossing his arms.

"Yes, sir. Right away. We are very, very sorry for the inconvenience." And the waiter took the soup away.

When the soup was returned, Ernie then sent the waiter for a fresh spoon. By now we were all done with our appetizers, talking among ourselves, keeping one eye on the asshole. The waiter came back with the soup spoon and Ernie took another sip while the waiter lingered. He slammed his spoon down, pushed the offending bowl of soup away, again, and said, "Its still cold!"

This went on for two more rounds. Ernie became increasingly vocal. We all cringed a little lower in our chairs; our night out being ruined. The other diners seated around us were obviously put out by his antics. The other wait-staff hovered a little closer, their body language tight.

When the soup came back for the third time it was steaming hot. The waiter silently set the bowl and plate in front of Ernie. A fresh spoon was laid beside the plate. The waiter stepped back and... well, waited. By now, Ernie is in his element. He was the total, center of attention of the entire restaurant. He picked up the soup spoon, inspected it, wiped it with his fresh napkin, dipped the spoon and took a steaming mouthful.

Suddenly you can see his jaws fly apart while keeping his lips together; his eyes shoot wide open and noise is coming from the back of his throat. He looks around quickly, grabs his napkin and spits the hot soup into it. "God Damn it!" he bellowed and gulps down some water.

I was facing the waiter and saw the satisfied smile flicker across his face. Most of the salesmen, me included, were slightly trashed and someone laughed out loud. It was like a loud noise in an avalanche zone. Suddenly we were all laughing. And the people at the other tables began applauding. And laughing.

Ernie burned his tongue and the roof of his mouth so badly that he couldn't eat dinner that night. I guess that sometimes it seems that fate (or a pissed of wait-staff) will eventually put an asshole in his place. We all had a good laugh at his expense and have The Green Pea Soup Story to tell. Most people would have been embarrassed, licked their wounds, learned a lesson and moved on. Ernie learned nothing. But we did.

The next day we received our annual reviews.

More -- Its News to Me

Once again, just reading the headlines and trying to guess what the story is about. Its funnier this way and there is less chance to be corrupted by the liberal media. These are actual headlines.

• Poland wins name change for Auschwitz death camp -- It was at a Chinese auction. They really wanted the steak knives... or
  
• Poland wins name change for Auschwitz death camp -- They are going to call it the Auschwitz Death Resort.
• Pot may indeed lead to heroin use, rat study shows -- We're going to take the word of some rat dopers?
• Israeli warplanes attack Beirut airport -- Its part of the peace process.
• Slain rappers family wants to expand suit -- Apparently he's still growing.
• Vanuatu is world's happiest country: study -- Careful. It may lead to heroin use.
• Congressional hearings threaten illegal immigration bill -- Now, if they'd just threaten the illegal immigrants we might make some progress.
• Review of Big Dig ordered after falling cement kills woman -- You think?
• 350 detained over Bombay train bombings -- SOMEONE in this room knows something and none of us are leaving until he steps forward.
• Living alone raises risk of heart attack -- Who wants to spend time with that bastard?
• House to vote to renew voting rights act -- They better hurry or they won't be able to vote to vote to vote.
• Russia wants to store nuclear waste - Because keeping it in their pockets is messy... and Mom yells when she does the laundry.
• GOP joins symbolic vote on minimum wage -- And we'll pay symbolic taxes and go to the symbolic polls in November.
• Massachusetts court deals blow to same-sex marriages -- Heh, heh, heh. He said blow.
  

My Heroes Have Always Mumbled

We were sitting around the other day talking about our favorite movies and movie stars. Now, one of the things you have to know about me is that my brain is hard-wired differently than most people I know. I call it Big Picture thinking. It's what Robert Redford was supposed to be good at in Three Days of the Condor; taking seemingly random ideas and events and seeing the big picture that connects them.

Admittedly, a list of movie stars and celebrities already has connective tissue, but that didn't stop me from running it through the old noggin one more time. What I came up with is this. For some crazy reason, my favorite actors, singers and comedians all mumble.

Some of them mumble naturally and some of it was required for roles they played. But they all mumbled. And they were all on my A-list.

Some of my favorite singers are Bruce Springsteen, Margo Timmons of Cowboy Junkies, Julee Cruise and Randy Newman. Some comedians who have really cracked me up are W.C. Fields, Norm MacDonald, Pat Paulsen, Steven Wright, Pauly Shore, Tommy Chong, Woody Allen and Bobcat Goldwaith.

Of the actors, I have always enjoyed Jimmy Stewart, Sylvester Stalone, James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, Marlon Brando, David Jansen, Jim Backus, Christopher Lloyd, Buster Keaton and Gary Cooper.

I'm not really sure what this says about me. I think mumbling can denote a quiet, insecure, understated, little-boy charm. It can also evoke a tough and menacing presence. I've been accused of both at different times. (But I've always been misunderstood.)

Sometimes I mumble to see if people are paying attention. Sometimes I mumble when a response is required and I don't want to be heard. My wife will tell you, I mumble when I am distracted. Sometimes I can't even finish a thought. (And sobriety has nothing to do with it.)

All I know is, that I was surprised by the big picture on this one.

One of my favorite lines from a Bogie picture goes something like this, “You know what he'll do when he comes back? Beat my teeth out, then kick me in the stomach for mumbling.” (The Big Sleep – Humphrey Bogart, 1946)

You've gotta love it.

Minimalism 101

I was thinking about brevity the other day.

The American Dream

It has been 140 years since the American Civil War ended slavery. (I know, a lot of you will say the war wasn't about slavery. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, for simplicity sake: there was slavery before the war, there wasn't slavery after the war. O.K.?) This entire nation was torn apart. Brother literally killing brother. They sometimes fought and died in support of personal ideals and sometimes because they were caught up in the maelstrom of the great winds of war.

But America has bled and suffered over the issue of slavery. (I use issue here meaning topic as well as progeny.) The course of an entire nation as well the lives and livelihood of it's citizens were forever changed. Family bloodlines ended. Lives were cut short. Widows mourned. But a great social wrong was righted -- a lesson learned.

Now, there is a movement afoot to compensate black Americans for the slavery of their ancestors. I freely admit, I can only imagine the horrors of slavery. But I can also imagine the bloodiest period in our history that sought to correct that wrong. And a society that had to slowly overcome a national, prejudicial mind-set, grow in it's enlightenment and mature in its thinking. With growth there are growing pains. When learning there are mis-steps. With new ideas comes confusion. But eventually we grow past the pain, stand straight, walk with confidence and see things clearly.

America, as a nation, is at that point.

But does the man apologize to his former child for his early stumbling steps? That child no longer exists. The exercise is pointless because as the child learned the man was formed.

And what other wrongs were suffered in the forming of this great nation? Children working in sweat shops for pennies a day; coal miners working under dangerous conditions, living in company housing, and eating company food, only to be told on payday that they owed more than they earned. The dangerous, thankless, back breaking pain of building a transcontinental railroad.

Racial and religious prejudice was not limited to the blacks, either. The Irish and the Poles, the Italians and the Jews, and many others all had times and places in this country where they had no heat in the winter, jobs weren't available to their kind and their meager scraps of food came from either virtual slave labor, charity or theft. And they were forced to watch their loved ones die because they could not afford a doctor or the medicine.

These were the growing pains of a nation born of hardship and deprivations. A nation of people thrown together by fate. A people escaping from old lives and running towards new ones. Religious refugees, adventurers, slaves, prisoners, businessmen, and whores. All in search of the dream of freedom in a place called America.

We have a history that was at moments noble and at others shameful. But it is just that... history. We are who we are today, individually, because we live in a nation of opportunities where anyone can succeed. And our individual failures are just as likely if we can convince ourselves that our mountains are too high and our valleys too deep.

It has been seven generations since the American Civil War. It has only been four generations since my grandfather toiled twelve hours a day in a coal mine in western Pennsylvania, his lungs and sinuses and eyes forever blackened by the dust; his wife scrubbing floors for the boss's wives; his children playing in the cinders along the railroad tracks. Every dime he made he owed back to the company and the only thing that broke the cycle was the failure of the mine. But his children sought other opportunities and their children (my generation) only heard about the mines and the hopelessness of just forty years earlier. My children are college graduates with good careers and my grand children may never hear of that world.

And I believe it is an insult to the rest of America, it is intellectually specious, and culturally demeaning to the blacks of this country to single them out for reparations for past wrongs. America was built on hardship. Some of it voluntary -- most of it wasn't.

I say to those who think they are owed something -- you always will. And to those self-appointed do-gooders who think they are helping -- you aren't. If you want to help, get out of the way and watch America work.

I Only Have Eyes For You

My love must be a kind of blind love.
I can't see anyone but you.

I was thinking about how people are blinded by love. They seem to see only what they want to see and believe what they want to believe. I've seen this for years. Friends who have married complete bitches or bastards. And they are the only ones without a clue.

Are the stars out tonight?
I don't know if it's cloudy or bright.
I only have eyes for you, dear.

And I have seen friends marry kind, beautiful people that they don't deserve. Wives or husbands with a natural and complete devotion that surpasses all reason. Some times my friends take them for granted and sometimes they have enough self-awareness to realize just how lucky they are.

The moon may be high,
But I can't see a thing in the sky.
'Cause I only have eyes for you.

Sometimes we search for an unattainable ideal. I have a female friend who has an actual checklist. Her perfect man must possess certain characteristics and be able to answer certain key questions to pass muster. When I suggested that maybe she was setting her standards too high and that that man does not exist. She replied, "Well, maybe not yet."

I don't know if we're in a garden
Or on a crowded avenue.

So I feel sorry for this imaginary future guy. My friend is so blinded by her supposed ideal that he will be competing with an idealized version of himself. The poor, sorry bastard will never measure up. And my friend will never be satisfied either. While she is looking for Mr. Right, her soulmate may be sitting next to her.

You are here, so am I.
Maybe millions of people go by.
But they all disappear from view.
And I only have eyes for you.

I suggested one time that maybe the checklist wasn't such a good idea. That maybe forty items were too many to satisfy. Eventually she grudgingly agreed. Not that she was setting her standards too high. Oh, no. It's just the caliber of available men.

So she is still blinded by her ideal and is having a series of disappointing relationships because she has pre-fallen in love with the perfect man. Who will never exist.

I did get that one concession from her, though. She has whittled the list down to twenty points. So if you are ever out to dinner with a slightly zany blond and you aren't sure how it's going; if she pulls out a well worn checklist on a dog-eared sheet of yellow paper, you'll know that at least you had potential.

(lyrics by Al Dubin)

Freeze Frame - The Nightmare

I was having one of those weird, repetitive dreams last night where I was able to freeze moments in time. Awake, it sounds really cool. In the dream it was nightmarish and since the dream wouldn't end it became a pain in the ass.

Freezing time is a pretty interesting concept:

• What if someone had a medical condition that is presently incurable but we know we'll eventually conquer it?
• What if little Billy is about to get hit by a truck and the only way to save him was to freeze time?
• What if you knew that the next person through the door was going to deliver the most heart breaking, life changing news you ever heard?
• What if you were in a grocery store that was being robbed, the trigger is pulled, the bullet has left the gun and you've frozen the moment to save the helpless victim?
• What if you were camping in the shadow of a massive dam that suddenly bursts; a wall of water is crashing down on you? You freeze the moment.
• What if you were in a passenger jet that suddenly decompresses and begins diving towards the earth, but you are able to freeze the moment?

All of these things actually happened in my dream(s) last night. It was the kind of deal where I would wake up from the dream, say to myself, "That was weird.", roll over and go right back into the dream again. That was the pain in the ass part.

The nightmarish part was that once I was able to freeze the moment during each vignette of my dream, I was frozen right along with every thing else. I was aware, my thoughts continued, and unless we all stayed like that for eternity, I had to decide, in every single case -- to restart time.

So I had to decide someone would die from an incurable medical condition. And not only let Billy get hit by the truck but stand helplessly by while I watched the inevitable unfold. I had to start time to have someone rush into the room and tell me my wife died. I had to let the girl in the grocery store get shot and we all had to drown under a wall of unstoppable water. And I had to sit in the airplane, watching the ground rush at us, listening to the last screams of people who knew they were dying.

Somewhere in my subconscious I must have thought it would be really cool to be able to stop time and prevent disaster. It is probably the part of my brain that still wishes the world really had super heroes... and that I was one of them. But the logical part of my brain wouldn't allow me that minor deception, even in my sleep. Thus nightmares are born.

Acts of God

A while back I wrote a blog about the difference between Sarcasm and Irony. In it I concluded that sarcasm is the purview of man and that irony is the purview of God. I was reminded of this during the recent flooding in the northeast and accounts of insurance companies weaseling out of paying by declaring the flooding to be an Act of God.

I know you can get special riders on your insurance to cover flooding and I was just wondering if they call it the Irony Rider?

I've always been confused by what is considered an Act of God and what isn't. Floods are a grey area. If a dam bursts or a flood control mechanism made by man fails then sometimes you are covered. If the skies open up and a honkin' lot of water comes down to wash you away you probably aren't covered. During Katrina people were covered for the hurricane but not the storm surge. I guess splitting hairs can save millions (of dollars).

Most people feel good about having insurance and I guess that's what we are really paying for. That good feeling we get when we write the check every month. I'm sure the insurance companies feel good cashing the checks and they probably feel even better when they find a way to weasel out of paying up. It's like welshing on a bet. (By the way, were the Welsh poor losers? Where did that phrase come from?)

So back to Acts of God. Why does my insurance cover damage caused by lightening and not flooding? They both come out of the sky, delivered by a vengeful and ironic God, don't they? And what about wind? I think that wind is mostly covered.

Do the more socially liberal insurance companies cover more things because they deny the existence of God? Or don't they have the courage of their religious convictions when it comes time to pay up on millions of dollars in claims?

And what about atheists who want to buy insurance that covers Acts of God? Can you imagine the irony of an atheist, first, asking for that kind of insurance and, second, arguing with the insurance company about what is and isn't an Act of God?

Finally that brings me to different religions. Are there certain acts of God attributed to the God of one religion and denied by believers of a different religion? Say, for instance, do insurance companies in Arab countries consider terrorism to be an Act of God? And if they don't why are they doing it in His name and hope that He will reward them for it?

Maybe being a passenger in a terrorist car bomb is like being the ultimate insurance rider of an Ironic God.

This Blog is Going to the Dogs

I'd like to start out by saying I do not hate dogs. And I do not really think they are unpatriotic. Remember Rin-Tin-Tin and Lassie? Wait... Rin-Tin-Tin was Canadian and Lassie was British in the movies. I'm not sure that counts. But if it did they would be FINE examples.

But, honestly, no dogs were hurt in the blogginging of yesterday's blog. A gerbil lost an eye but it was his own damn fault and too complicated to go in to here.

I will admit I am uncomfortable around dogs for the reasons I mentioned yesterday. After all, I only have one penis. If it got mangled by a well meaning but stupid dog, all of the apologies in the world wouldn't bring back my precious. And the little yippie ones that can't reach it are just annoying.

But that doesn't mean I don't like them. Blame it on age. At this point in my life I don't like being around kids either. I'm waiting to see Cars on video. I always eat in the bar area of restaurants to avoid the baby and toddler crowd. And they splash in the pool. I guess they are mostly annoying, too.

And although most of my stuff is moderately nice (replaceable) I just don't want my furniture chewed on and poop everywhere. (Was I talking about kids or dogs on that one?) So, it's not that I don't like dogs -- I just don't like being around dogs. And I'm not vocal about it. I stand there with one hand protecting my dick and listen to all the dog (and kid) stories. Some of them are quite amusing and interesting. But they don't make me want to get a dog.

I've had dogs. Some of my best friends are dogs. But I wouldn't want my sister to marry one. What?... Never mind. Anyway, I was thinking about making it up to all the dog lovers I may have offended yesterday by citing some examples of famous dogs.

• Blair -- was the first dog featured in a movie. He was a collie in a 1905 movie called Rescued by Rover.
• Lassie -- was created by Eric Knight and published as a short story in the Saturday Evening Post in 1938 and as a novel in 1940. All of the "Lassies" were male dogs and descended from the original.
• Goofy - first appeared in 1932 as a minor character called Dippy Dog.
• Rin-Tin-Tin -- first appearing in Where The North Begins in 1925, Rin Tin Tin went on to make 25 movies, sign his own contracts with a paw print, and at the height of his success was his studio's major wage earner, earning approx. 5 Million Dollars.
• Snoopy -- was a regular member of the Peanuts gang and starred in the movie Snoopy vs.The Red Baron.
• Spuds MacKenzie -- was the original party animal.
• Benji -- made a bunch of Benji movies. I guess you had to be there.
• Underdog -- was a super-canine who talked in rhymes, and was the alter-identity of Shoeshine Boy. He was usually called into action by his girlfriend and ace TV reporter Sweet Polly Purebred by saying "Oh where, oh where has my Underdog gone?". The TV show debuted on October 3, 1964, on the NBC network and continued until 1973.

Dogs are great but they are not for everybody. (Like baloney and onion sandwiches.) Yet there has got to be some kind of pet suitable to my lifestyle and temperment. Currently I'm thinking about either a stuffed iguana or a pet rock.

Dogs Are Unpatriotic

While I was watching the fireworks the other day I was also watching the people around me. This is an old habit left over from my days as a secret shopper at Frederick's of Hollywood. (I found out later that this was an actual paid position and Frederick's was in on the secret. Knowing that would have saved me and the mall security guys a lot of time and effort.)

But I digress. I'm watching the fireworks -- and looking around, as is my habit. I noticed a number of people brought their dogs with them. Since becoming a nudist I have been nervous around dogs. They have been bred for too many years to fetch sticks and to jump up for hot dogs and bone-like treats to allow me to relax. So I usually try to present the smallest target possible when dogs are present by cupping my hand over my bone-like treat. It doesn't look real cool but I had other uses for it later that evening.

So there I am watching the fireworks, with one eye on the people and their dogs, and looking like a three year old boy that needs to pee when I finally noticed how the dogs were behaving. Every time the night sky would explode in a burst of color and noise the dogs would cower, back up or cringe. Very few of them actually liked the fireworks.

And I thought, "How unpatriotic!"

I never knew dogs were unpatriotic. But it all makes sense, now. We have mis-understood and mis-interpreted dogs for years. We call them Man's Best Friend but women are the ones who always want to go the pet stores at the mall. And there are always women working at the animal shelters every time I've gone. I mean, we haven't even been able to get their sexual preference right.

And have you ever noticed how dogs are constantly denigrating our national symbols? In fact they are known for this behavior. We always think of dogs peeing on fire hydrants and trees. Fire hydrants symbolize the brave men and women who are the first responders in times of local crisis and natural disasters. Trees are symbolic of America's enduring strength. Trees have their own holiday, for God's sake. And these unpatriotic animals are PISSING on these symbols of strength and freedom and courage.

Which leads me to wonder what kind of pets the terrorists have. I picture the terrorists carrying around these little pocket dogs, talking baby talk in Arabic to them. I see little doggie turbans and tiny knitted doggie vests packed with C-4. And I can imagine them sitting on their master's lap as their car bomb vehicle rushes towards some innocent target; big eyes and crazed doggie grins on both the animal's and terrorist's faces alike. Both dreaming of the glory of Allah and the seventeen virgin bitches in heaven.

Death Takes A Holiday

I was talking with a friend the other day and he mentioned the recent flooding in the northeast. Then he repeated a news story he heard about a girl who was trapped on her front porch by the flood waters when the house behind her collapsed and killed her. And then he said the oddest thing. "Too bad it had to happen around the holiday."

I did a mental double-take and began thinking about that. It's a shame he/she had to die around the holidays is actually a fairly common phrase. So much so that people rarely think about what is being said.

Are they saying it's a shame the deceased is going to miss the holiday? And then what? It's O.K. to die on July 5th? But thank God she saw the fireworks! Has anyone ever said, "Well at least he didn't die during the holidays"?

Or are they saying it's a shame the deceased had to ruin the holiday for the rest of us? "Cause, like, dead people are a downer, man." If that's the case, I think that may be bordering on insensitive. Besides, I have a lot of living relatives who are perfectly capable of ruining the holidays. Thank you very much.

Which leads me to wonder how far we should take this people shouldn't ruin holidays for others with their own death sentiment? I mean, I understand how Mom dying can make the turkey taste a little dry, or choosing a miniature coffin for Tiny Tim might make your new Gameboy seem trivial. But what about minor holidays? Like Arbor Day or Groundhog Day? Is there a point where the holiday and someone's death don't compete? Is it O.K. to die on April Fools Day?

I keep hearing how depressing the holidays are anyway. Isn't that just as good a time as any to deal with a family death? Why get all bummed out twice? And next year you'll have a double reason for your depression. Hell, at that rate, weird Uncle Bob can piss the family off for years. It's like a gift that keeps on giving.

Finally, I was wondering how many holidays actually celebrate death?

• New Years Day -- the death of the old year
• Martin Luther King Day -- I'm not sure if this celebrates his birthday or commemorates the day of his death, but either way, we wouldn't have the holiday if he had survived his untimely death.
• Lincoln's Birthday -- dead president
• Valentines Day -- death of bachelorhood and finished sentences
• President's Day -- more dead presidents
• Washington's Birthday -- dead president
• St. Patrick's Day -- dead saint
• Easter -- Dead Son of God
  
• Tax Day -- dead checkbook
• Mother's Day -- yeah, my Mom ruined this one
• Memorial Day -- let me think now
• Flag Day -- war dead
• Father's Day -- you guessed it, the insensitive bastard.
• Independence Day -- more dead soldiers
• Columbus Day -- dead Italian, dead Indians
• Halloween -- all things dead and rotting
• Veteran's Day -- more dead soldiers
• Thanksgiving -- dead turkeys

That's kind of creepy isn't it? So I was wondering, since so many holidays celebrate death, why is it a bad thing to die around the holidays?

I guess it is because holidays are for the living. But then, doesn't that make it ironic that death is the ultimate holiday?

Familiar Faces, Familiar Places, Constant Guides

Since I started reading as a child I have probably averaged two books a week. They have been my constant companions practically my entire life. I have explored genres and made quite a few friends along the way. I have been entertained, educated and enlightened. I've laughed at the sheer joy of discovery and cried at the loss of a beloved character.

Through it all I became the man I am today.

The very first book I remember reading was a story called Beautiful Joe. It was the story of an ugly mutt that changed the life of a little boy. I was that boy. I can honestly say it awakened a lifelong thirst for the written word.

Since then I have traveled to space with Andre Norton, Robert Heinlein and Arthur Clarke. I laughed my ass of at Frederick Brown and soared into the heart of a star with Samuel R. Delaney. Larry Niven made me understand that aliens could be just like us and Clifford Simak made the fantastic believable. James Blish taught me that mankind will endure.

Sometimes I became involved in lives and locales that were so much larger than life they needed to be revisited time and again by their creators. Sherlock Holmes, The 87th Precinct, Doc Savage, Lucas Davenport, Philip Marlow, Dave Robicheaux, Chaingang, and Fu Manchu. I've been to Shangri-La, and Titan. Gaslit London and New Orleans. Ringworld and the deep south.

I have traveled in time to the Roman Empire, Arthur's Camelot, and Civil War America. I've fought bloody battles and have made love to simple farm girls. I have explored the furthest reaches of the dark continent and have been to Krypton and back.

I have been there at the founding of civilizations and have knelt at the Cross. I walked with Saul on the road to Damascus and have been transformed. I have survived the Roman games and have presided over them. I built bridges against impossible odds and died at the hands of a lover.

And I grew up. My tastes have changes and my thinking has matured. But I have never lost my sense of wonder at the beauty of a mutt named Joe.

Focus!

Back when I was a tech rep in the printing industry I used to give seminars to our customers. In the big city papers this happened at ungodly hours. When I did my presentations in the daytime I would be introduced to the class by a production manager. At the 3 AM sessions I was on my own.

These 3 AM meetings were usually for apprentices on the 3rd shift. They were tired, just wanted to get through the night and saw my seminar as two hours of rest. So with no bosses around and a non-involved audience, I did things to keep myself amused.

One time I had a short sleeve white dress shirt on. I took off my tie, buttoned the top button, clipped about ten pens in my pocket, put on a logo ball cap and my spare pair of eyeglasses. I came into the classroom, changed the pitch of my voice and introduced myself as one of the dayshift production managers. I then proceeded to introduce tonight's guest speaker.

As I got into it I realized that no one was paying attention and that I could say anything. So I did. I claimed our speaker had 37 patents in the printing industry. That his maternal grandmother was Alexander Duessenburg, the inventor of the movable gear press. That he learned his trade in a union shop in the 1730's and that he flew here from North Dakota in an experimental linear accelerator. And a bunch of other stuff. No one even blinked.

I thanked them for their attention and assured them the speaker would change their lives. I walked to the door and told them he'd be right in. Once outside, I put my tie on, loosened it and unbuttoned the top button, I tossed the pens and hat aside, took off my glasses and put on a sport jacket. When I re-entered the room I was a different man.

I stood just inside the door, looking out, and thanked my host for the kind introduction. When I closed the door and turned around no one had moved. I walked to the front and began the intro for that night's material.

One of the apprentices was staring a hole through me. I thought What the hell, let's see what he has to say. "You look like you have something on your mind." I said to him.

He continued to stare at me, sat a little straighter and said, "You're that other fella, anitchya?"

"Yeah," I confessed. "That was me."

He stared a little longer, recrossed his ankles in front of him and asked, "You got any more of them hats?"

Oral vs. Rectal Thermometers

A friend of mine was working his way around the pool the other day. He had a silly new joke and was cracking people up as he went.

If you imagine a sea of beautiful hard bodies lounging naked in the hot sun, sweat glistening on sensuous curves and flat bellies... you've never been to a nudist resort. Regular people, from regular lives are nudists. I assure you, maybe only 20% of us look like that.

So Mike was going from group to group, asking them, "What's the difference between an oral and a rectal thermometer?" Some people gave it some serious thought and others merely shrugged and said, "What?"

HE would pause for effect and say, "The taste!" We all pretty much cracked up.

Naturally I took the question as more of a challenge than some of the others. I'd heard him ask the question of the people behind me so I was prepared when he got to us. He walked up to us, gave us his handsome, little boy grin and asked his question.

I paused a beat and said, "A rectal thermometer is measured in smaller increments."

He gave me a funny look and said, "Huh?"

"That way it is more anal." I explained.

"I hate you." He said and walked away.