Captain Inexplicable -- Super Hero!

Well, I donned the old tights and cape again. It has been over ten years since the world has seen(?) Captain Inexplicable. But since I have the power to cloud men's minds, I'm the only one who knows that.

As a super-power, the ability to cloud men's minds is a pretty cool one. But it takes the heart of a true super hero to not use it for evil. I could use it for all kinds of things and, I must confess, that before I completely understood my powers and my great responsibility to use them for good, I did experiment with them. But this was back in the 70's and all the super heroes were doing it.

I used to tell girls that I was The Green Lantern's cousin on his father's side. Man, that line worked every time! I got more proximity nookie than a rock star's brother. I can only imagine the babes he was taking back to the . . . Cave? . . . Fortress? . . . What the hell do you call a giant emerald colored lantern, that only you can see, that you can plug into as a source of infinite will power, that is a portal to alien dimensions and is your secret hide out? The Socket? Well, I never really knew the guy. I just told the chicks I did.

I also used to use my power to get discounts. I would have dinner in a fine restaurant -- like Denny's or Eat and Park -- and inexplicably, the waitress would believe I had paid the bill and left a large tip. I even got their phone numbers sometimes. And I didn't have to sneak in the back door of movie theaters. I could just walk right in, collect my complimentary popcorn and ju-ju-bees, and see the movie of my choice. Of course, The Flash would already be there with his feet up. (He was always early everywhere he went.) The Elongated Man had slipped in under the door again and if Batman showed up we never knew it.

But as I matured I began to take my powers more seriously. It wasn't all fun and games and the 80's weren't a good time for super heroes. Wonder Woman began to put on a little weight and suddenly spandex was no longer her friend. Aquaman lost the election in Atlantis and ended up living in a fish tank in Jersey City. And Robin finally came out of the closet. (Like everyone didn't know already.) Ironically, it caught The Dark Knight totally by surprise.

So I kept catching the bad guys by convincing them the paddy wagon was the get-away van and shit like that. But the crooks started wising up and I wound up selling used cars to people who wanted to think they were driving Hummers. Eventually even that stopped being funny.

And it is harder to cloud men's minds now-a-days. Between the politicians, and the global warming crowd, and the news media the competition is pretty tough. But as I said, I did don the tights and cape again, yesterday.

My wife got home from that business trip and I must have overdosed on black and white movies, circus peanuts and adult beverages because the next thing I knew she was walking up the sidewalk and the house was a mess. So I quick changed into my costume (which isn't easy with spandex tights) and by the time she walked through the front door, she believed the house was spotless and that the air was Glade fresh.

It's not easy being a retired super hero. But it is good to know that Captain Inexplicable still has a few moves left.

BTW, the sex was incredible that night . . . as far as she knows.

MS BOHICA*

*Bend Over Here It Comes Again!

Have you ever found yourself forced to upgrade your software programs just to use them? Have you ever seen a minor upgrade available for a minor program and said, "Sure, why the hell not?" And then you find out it's not working with some of your bigger programs so you say, "Screw this, I'm going back to the old version" but the uninstall is not working, or you cannot find the older version to reinstall it, or the system will not allow you to retro-install and it keeps upgrading to the newer version and suddenly you are really screwed because now you have to download and install the newer version of your internet browser to get things to work again and to be completely compatible and stable you need to buy and install the newest operating system and now some of the features you really need in your office programs are not functioning correctly and you have to buy and install the latest version of the office program and . . . Welcome to the Wonderful World of Microsoft.

I have been through this vicious cycle more times than I care to think about. I hear about the new wiz-bang operating system but always say, "I'm going to wait until it's been out for a while. There are always some bugs that need worked out." And then some minor little something comes along -- a window pops up one day and informs me that there is an upgrade for some insignificant widget that I'm using and would I like to upgrade now? I shrug and say, "Sure." And I hit the button.

Have you ever had one of those "Oh Shit!" moments? When you immediately KNOW you just bit the big one? When your blood runs cold and you would give the house, the car and your wife's boob job to get the last three seconds back? Because you KNEW better! You knew BETTER! YOU knew better! But they got you again. Welcome to the Wonderful World of Microsoft.

The reason I am talking about all of this today is because it is MS Upgrade Season, again. The media is full of stories about Microsoft's newest wiz-bang Vista operating system and there are, typically, just as many other stories about how it is not ready for prime time. And Microsoft is beginning to work overtime trying to find ways to worm their way into your computer.

Just keep in mind it is all about the MONEY. Your computer is running fine, all of your programs are stable, your productivity is good, the printer is working and you have achieved that delicate balance between downloading the porn you need and the resulting spam. Everything is good. But Microsoft has to keep the money pouring in so they are going to find ways to force you into unwanted and un-needed upgrades to a still unstable new operating system.

These are the same people who make you press CTRL-ALT-DEL to escape a frozen program when all we should have to do is hit the fucking ESC button. So they not only don't care -- they are laughing at you!

Today, I got an email from Yahoo. It said in part:

Dear Yahoo Toolbar User,

We've been working with Microsoft and have discovered compatibility issues between some older versions of Yahoo! Toolbar and the new Internet Explorer 7.0 which Microsoft is about to release. In addition, some older versions of Yahoo! Toolbar don't always work properly with the new Yahoo! Mail.

To resolve these issues and ensure continued functionality, please upgrade to the latest Yahoo! Toolbar.

Well, they are not going to get me again. I am writing this blog on my Apple MacBook Pro and my office computer is a Mac Mini. I do keep a Sony Vaio with Windows XP around -- just for shits and giggles but Microsoft will not force me to do anything ever again.

That is why I say, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!"

By the way, is there any truth to the rumor that Bill Gates named Microsoft after the two main features of his penis?

An Economy of Movement

I believe in having a certain economy of movement. Now, that doesn't necessarily mean I am lazy because I am busy all the time. To me, it means I like to plan ahead. Here is an example:

I have been batching it all week while my wife is out of town. Today is the day I do the dishes. On the surface that might seem like I have a lot of dishes to do. But not really. I used paper plates and napkins when I could. I ate out once. And I usually skip breakfast.

So I stacked all of the dirty dishes in the sink until today. I figure I am actually saving money this way. I only have to make a sinkful of hot, soapy water one time instead of four. I only have to waste my time once. And when I am done I will have a greater sense of accomplishment than I would after four, individual minor accomplishments.

I dislike performing minor, repetitive tasks. That is probably why I never worked on an assembly line or was never real big on masturbation. I like the bigger, broader in concept, manly projects. Like turning a garage into an office or understanding women.

I like the feel of a power tool as it rips through wood like STDs through Junior High. I love the smell of deck stain in the morning. I love the feel of a hammer striking wood. Or even the tactile sensation of my fingers tapping on the keyboard. I don't really care for the grease lifting action of new Dawn. And I hate drying dishes.

So my MO is to plan ahead on the minor tasks. To group them into bigger, one time projects. We take our garbage to dumpsters here at the resort. I keep the small garbage bags in the garage until I have a "load". I usually like to maintenance both cars, the golf cart and the ATV all in the same afternoon. That way I deal with the tools, the oily rags and the fluids one time instead of four.

I guess what all of this means is that when I am sitting in my recliner watching an old, black and white movie or when I am reading or when I'm on the deck listening to music and smoking a cigar and the dishes are piling up in the sink, or there is garbage in the garage or the Wrangler is low on window washer fluid, I can honestly say, "I'm working on it. Hell, I've got three things going at once!"

Windows on the World

I have been browsing various blog sites to see what else is out there. And although there are (by last count) 87 mega-gajillion blog sites, most of them are an acquired taste or it is necessary to know the individual in order to find them entertaining. A few are worth looking for.

There are, obviously, the "for profit" sites. These are basically street vendors along the information superhighway. The problem with these sites is the same problem that a lemonade stand would have on a real super highway. The real money is being made by the guys with the billboards for the malls strategically placed near convenient exit ramps.

There are also "clever photo of the day" sites. Some images are pretty good, but most of them look like they were taken by a drunken third grader with uncle's new camera. What I have a hard time understanding is how they can be smart enough to set up a blog page and actually download (upload?) the images, yet can't figure out how to focus the camera.

There are the "highly scientific" looking sites that are either pretending to be something way beyond my comprehension or we have been invaded by Tau Ceti . . . again.

There are the "foreign language" blogs. I am aware that the internet is a sort of all over the friggin' world kind of thingy and that English is not the universal language and that my blogs are in a foreign language to other people from other places. I realize all of this. But just because I don't trust foreigners doesn't make me a xenophobic -- does it?

There are the "erotic" sites. Some of these are kind of cool. Some are kind of sad. I'm just surprised that all of the sensitive types aren't trying to shut them down. We wouldn't want to offend anyone with the human body now, would we? Trust me, being a nudist, there are plenty of offensive things about the human body that have nothing at all to do with sex.

There are the "hobbyist" sites. These cover every anal detail of everything from coin collecting, to comic books, to early sound recordings, to making butter by hand. Everyone who has ever had a passing interest in anything has a blog about it. Unfortunately, they all come off sounding like they are still living in mom's basement and sit by the mailbox waiting for the new catalogs.

There are the "travelogue" sites that make a trip to Aunt Martha's (you know -- the one with the plastic on the furniture) seem exciting. I mean, who DOESN"T want to see MORE slides of the Grand Canyon or some friggin' corn field in Kansas?

There are "family" blogs where the entire family gets to be nerdy. And BTW, why don't you just draw a map and leave a key under the mat for all the deviants who cruise the web?

There are "political" blogs of every stripe. Anyone who has ever had a cogent thought or something intelligent to contribute is sitting right next to every nut job with an ax to grind. It is actually sort of fun trying to spot which is which. This level of passion tends to elevate the rhetoric.

There are also the "humor" blog sites. They run the gamut from cartoons, to joke-of-the-day, to indexes of jokes sorted by category. Some of them are very good and very thorough.

I have found sites trying to be helpful and some that are hateful. Some are inspirational and others are bleak windows into dark psyches. There is the poetic and the prosaic. The carnal and the innocent. The technical and the un-technical thingy stuff. And more.

But, what they all have in common, is an unprecedented look at mankind. The blog-0-sphere is a tour-de-force of what makes us tick. A window into our humanity and a blueprint for alien invasion.

And Suddenly . . . You're Home!

For many people the idea of "home" is a given. Simply put, they have lived in their houses for 20 years or more. They are forever, intrinsically melded with the place they live. Years ago this was more common. Mom and Dad would live in the house where they raised their family and would stay there until they died. I have a very good friend that bought the house next door to his father's house shortly after he first got married and has lived within several miles of where he grew up his entire life.

I, on the other hand, must have some Gypsy blood in me. I mentioned in an earlier blog that we have moved thirteen times in 34 years of marriage. Growing up, my dad moved many more times before that. So you would think the idea of "home" would have become a little confusing for us. Personally, I think it clarifies the issue.

For us, "home" is where our heart is. It is the people we come back to. It is our safe haven when the rest of the world is too crazy to deal with. It is our refuge and our sanctuary. It is a place where we can be ourselves. Utterly and completely.

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't believe that "home" is just a state of mind. It requires a physical location, as well. We have lived in some places that we always thought of as temporary stepping stones. Way stations in life's journey. But while we were there, we brought the love and care in with the rest of the stuff.

We have been in places where we never completely unpacked and in others where our roots became deep and strong. I have had five mortgages over the years. Five times where we thought, "This is it! This is where we stop moving." We spent seventeen years in Hazleton, PA, to provide a stable home life while the boys were in school and growing up.

Next month will mark three years here at the resort. We have made many changes to make this place our own. I have turned the garage into an office, built a party deck on the back of the house, remodeled inside, AND I am getting ready to unpack the rest of my books. That may not seem like a big deal to most people but, to me, it is an indicator that we are home.

I love books. I love their texture and feel. I love the worlds they take me to and the people and ideas they introduce me to. I love their sense of permanence. But I hate packing and moving them. They are a pain in the ass and they are heavy. For me to be willing to unpack the rest of my books tells me I am home. I'm not just here until something better comes along.

Life is meant to be lived. I will never lose my curiosity about what is around the next corner or over the next mountain nor will I ever shirk a responsibility. I've always done what I thought was right for my family -- wherever that took us. And now, the right thing is to settle down. We can enjoy and explore the world from right here, knowing that wherever our new life takes us . . . we can always come home.

I'm Just a Lonely Boy

Well, my wife left this morning for a business trip. She will be gone for four days and, as usual, she packed for eight. She had her nails done, bought new shoes, got something at the Deb Shop and did other gal stuff.

Once she had herself ready, she had to make sure I would be O.K. She cooked a pot of chili, made roast beef for sandwiches, bought me snacks that I don't even get when we have company, and made lists of where things are.

Last night she had to get rid of all the things a terrorist would carry in his purse. Things like lipstick, tweezers, hand lotion and fresh pairs of contact lenses. You know, I'm aware that James Bond could kill someone 20 different ways with a toothpick, but I think we are giving these towel heads too much credit. "Stand back, Infidels! Or I will disembowel this stewardess with my hand lotion!"

But we have been pretty lucky so far. Like how could the terrorists know that shoe bombs could be deactivated by foot odor? Apparently "camel toe" has another meaning in Pakistan.

And I did my part in helping her get ready. I moped around, asked crazy "what if" scenario questions, ate so much of my special snack stuff that she had to go back to the store again Sunday evening, asked her where the life insurance policies are, and had incredible good-bye sex.

I was looking forward to sleeping until 10AM, not making the bed, not shaving for two or three days, spending the days in gym shorts and the same tee shirt all week, taking naps, watching old movies on Turner Classic Movies, sitting on the deck reading and having a cigar, watching prime time TV while eating popcorn and drinking adult beverages and just doing guy stuff. Then I realized I do all of that stuff, anyway.

Now, all I have to look forward to, is her coming back.

Odds 'n' Ends

Here are a few odds and ends that have been bouncing around the ol' noggin'.

There a Thong in My Heart Tonight
(Sung to the tune of There's a Song in My Heart Tonight)

There's a thong in my heart tonight,
My cardiologist and nurse had a fight,
She was dressed very scanty,
I wound up with her panties,
There's a thong in my heart tonight!


Wendy's

We were at Wendy's the other day and we got to talking about how stores are named. I suggested that Wendy's was a originally a southern chain (the south isn't known for their spelling bees) and that the owners intended to call it Wednesday's. This was to compete with another famous southern chain T.G.I.Frisbees.


Cars

If Marlon Brando had been in the new Pixar film Cars he could have delivered the line, "I could have had glass. I could have been a car-fender. I could have been somebody, instead of a bumper -- which is what I am."


Cars and TVs

I read that the average home has more TV sets than people and that reminded me that, in the L.A. area, there are three cars for every person. My first thought on the second one was, "Well, that explains why the highways out there are so crowded." Then I thought about it for another second and came to the conclusion that even if everyone out there was in their car driving, that still left two-thirds of the cars parked. So the statistic was meaningless and was intended to elicit a knee jerk reaction. I guess the same thing goes for people owning multiple TVs. Although you can watch two TVs at once and you can't drive two cars at once. So never mind.


He Died and Went to Margaritaville!

Danny Flores, who played the saxophone and shouted the word "tequila!" in the 1950s hit song Tequila!, has died. He was 77.

Self-defecating Humor

I have always enjoyed self-deprecating humor. My assumptions have been that if you say it before others do you are one up on them; they would look stupid repeating your joke -- so you are safe in the future as well; others will think that if I am willing to say it, it mustn't be true; and mostly because I think that kind of humor is funny.

I did know this one ditzy chick who didn't like it when others used self-deprecating humor. She would say things like, "You shouldn't put yourself down like that" and "Why do you have such low self-esteem?"

Personally, I've always thought it required a healthy self-esteem to be able to make yourself the brunt of your own joke. But isn't that the point of the joke, as well? Real humor comes from unexpected directions. So it is funnier when, out of the blue, you give yourself a shot.

One of the things I occasionally say upon receiving a compliment for something I've done is, "Well, even a blind squirrel gets some nuts?" I guess this would make self-deprecating humor a kissing cousin to false-modesty. But so what? If I were truly modest (I can neither confirm nor deny the reports of my modesty), would that make it funnier?

Another reason for self-deprecating humor is that the American melting pot has become a cesspool of diversity whose by-word has become political correctness. There's nobody left to make jokes about. You might offend someone. I was watching Survivor on Thursday night, 8 o'clock Eastern - 7 Central, when a member of the Asian team was stopped by his teammates from telling an Asian-centric joke. And they got into this big philosophical debate as to whether singling out a specific race for a joke is funny or not. All I'm hearing is, "Blah, blah, blah . . ." because I never got to hear the punchline to the question, "What do you call a Korean with three dogs?"

When I was growing up I thought I was Polish. I didn't care. If a Pollock joke was funny, I told it. If someone else told one and it was funny, I laughed. Nobody thought about the socio-political ramifications of their actions. We were telling jokes.

Now, everyone has to walk on eggshells. Mustn't offend the Negro Mustn't offend the Oriental. Mustn't offend the towel-heads or the Jews. It might start a war. You can't draw cartoons depicting Muhammad or quote historical figures because of past insensitivities.

Bahhh! They are all crazy and it makes being funny that much harder. So all we have left are jokes about ourselves and cows. (I'll probably get an angry reply from the National Dairy Ass-ociation or the Bovine Anti-defamation League.) Sheep are funny -- but then they expect you to call them and take them out to dinner and shit. All that leaves is me.

So, I guess that means some blind squirrels get all the nuts.

Granny-lore

I was walking down the walk in front of my house yesterday morning and saw a woolly caterpillar. According to granny-lore, the wider the middle black stripe is on a woolly caterpillar, the more severe the winter will be. The one I saw was the prettiest shade of a golden light brown and had no center stripe at all. I immediately cursed Al Gore and his Global Warming crowd.

But really, all seriousness aside, I have never seen a one color woolly caterpillar before. I got down on my knees to look more closely at it. For those of you that know me, getting on my knees indicates a serious interest (my knees are aging in dog years). What I saw was one of the wonders of nature -- a bug that was mostly not too disgusting. The fluid movement as its body undulated along, the shiny little bug eyes and the furry golden coat made this woolly caterpillar . . . well, kinda cute.

So, I said, "Huh!" and five minutes later I was back on my feet continuing my walk. The woolly caterpillar beat me to the porch.

Later that afternoon I was going out to my office in the garage and I spotted another woolly caterpillar. This one was a bright shade of yellow with little spots of dark brown frosting the tips of some of its woolly caterpillar hair. It too was quite pretty and was definitely lacking any black stripe in its middle.

One time is a freak of nature. Twice in the same day is weird. But I don't think these woolly caterpillars have been exposed to anything toxic. The closest nuclear power plant is more than fifty miles away; I live on top of a mountain so any streams around here can't be too polluted; and my neighbor hasn't been around recently.

All that leaves is granny-lore. According to the recent signs, we are in for a very mild winter.

You heard it here first.

(No woolly caterpillars were hurt in the writing of this blog.)

The Night Watchman

The ground mist gathered in the low places illumined by the nascent dawn's light. It drifted about the boles of the ancient trees, moistening the moss that seldom saw even the mid-day sun. It added to the heavy dew already dripping from fleshy leaves like alien rains. A breeze gentled tendrils of the mist down the walk to the black, glistening streets.

Somewhere in the distance something clattered to the pavement and a cat yowled. Then there was silence again. The street was still dark, awaiting the resurrection of dawn. Here and there pockets of light beckoned a wayward son or warded off invasion by miscreants enboldened by the gathered darkness.

A car door slammed and strangers stirred in their slumber; dreams interrupted or redirected by the intrusion. Alarms sat poised on night stands, gathering energy to herald the new day. Tires hissed on wet pavement as night travelers sought refuge against the encroaching dawn.

And the old man sat at his front window. Observing. The gentle hand of Morpheus eluding him. Teasing him with the promise of rest but only delivering inactivity while others slept. Thus it had been and thus he expected it would be. Ever to be watching. Waiting. Hoping to be awakened in his night chair but knowing it would never be so.

I'd Like To Thank . . .

I've been thinking about all the awards shows recently. Did you know that one of the Emmy categories is for Best Production of an Awards Show or Dog Show as a Prime-time Special? And they have so many old actors and actresses on the daytime soaps that they are now giving an award for The Most Days Without an Accident.

The USA Today newsrag runs a story every time a new movie comes out about that movie's Oscar potential. It talks about why it might be a contender, who the competition is, why it deserves an award, what the sentimental factor is, and what its box office potential might be. That is way too much pressure on me, the movie goer.

I don't care whether Ben Affleck's career needs a shot in the arm via a major award or if Jack Nicholson should get one more while he is still alive. I'm not thinking about the second unit cinematographer or whether the Best Boy has the Best Grip on things. I just want to watch the movie.

It seems to me that Hollywood has gotten the cart before the horse. (BTW: Does the use of "before" in that last sentence imply "in front of" or "prior to"?) The best movies were probably made despite Hollywood's best efforts. Sure they can pump mega-bucks into certain flicks to virtually assure a big box office but they can't do that all of the time. What ever happened to everyone doing a good job because it is their job and then at some later date someone else saying, "You know, that giant monkey movie was the best one we saw last year. Let's all go to dinner and tell them what a good job they did."

Actors, carefully picking and choosing their roles based upon awards potential, sicken me. Like that loud-mouth weasel Sean Penn. In All the Kings Men he has chosen a project that is already famous as a great movie, it had a great performance by Broderick Crawford, and is based upon a great book. So Penn takes several years between projects to give himself time to run around the world bad-mouthing this country and our president and figures that the "right project" will make everyone forget all of that and pony up $30 for a night out with the Missus.

I think we would all enjoy TV and the movies a lot more if all of the actors and actresses would just shut up about their personal lives and politics and awards and . . . well, I don't know . . . act? We, the viewing audience, are asked to suspend reality when we watch a show or movie but are so bombarded with the behind the scenes crap, the actor's politics, and the writer's agendas before we see it, that it is difficult to see Willie Stark on the screen and not Sean Penn, the actor/activist, portraying Willie Stark.

The whole process has become too cynical. The success of a movie is measured in dollars -- not in laughter or tears, as it should be. Yes, money makes the world go 'round but every now and then we could use a little movie magic, as well.

The Curse of William S. Porter (O. Henry)

My best guesstimate is that, over the years, I have read more than 4,000 books. That may seem like a lot but that is only 2 books a week for 35 years. Since I am 54 years old, I figure it is a conservative number.

The reason I mention this is because there is one book I have been reading, but haven't finished, for close to twenty-five years, now. And it's not because I don't like it. I love the author. And I've loved every word I have read so far. It is because I am afraid to continue.

I should further explain that I do not consider myself a superstitious person. I don't avoid walking under ladders. I don't throw spilled salt over my shoulder. I don't say, "God bless you" when somebody sneezes. I step on all kinds of cracks (even when my mother was alive). I do, however, avoid black cats but I avoid all cats (allergies). And that thing about whistling past a graveyard? I don't remember whether it is supposed to be bad luck if you do or if you don't. But if I knew, I would whistle (or not) in the face of the supposed danger.

I do have a couple of personal quirks that could be chalked up to superstitious-like behaviour. I'm not proud of them and I think they go back to an early belief that God punishes or rewards certain behaviours or actions. A more universal version of this concept would be called Karma. A more folksy version would be, "What goes around, comes around." If you are nice to people, they will be nice to you. If you are a prick, expect to get pricked back.

One of my quirks is a fear of expecting good things to happen. As soon as I realize I am hoping for something good, I clamp a mental vice on the thought and say, "If it happens, it happens. But I'm not going to get my hopes up." I guess I'm afraid of being disappointed.

Another one, and the subject of this blog, is my unreasonable fear of reading this particular book. The book is The Complete Works of O. Henry. It is a one volume edition containing thirteen books consisting of 286 stories and poems. I started reading it around 1980 when I was thinking about quitting my job and moving my family to Colorado. In a matter of days a few things fell into place, I got busy with the details of the move and the book got packed away.

When we decided to leave Colorado after too short of a time (a story for another day), I coincidentally came across the unfinished collection and thought the short stories would make good bed time readings. After a very short time, all the pieces fell into place and we made our now famous Gatlinburg trip into Georgia. The book was again boxed away.

It was about this time that I began to go a little bit nuts about the cause and effect (if any) surrounding my reading of this book. I began to perceive that major changes occurred in our lives when I read O. Henry. To strengthen this absurd notion, I was not satisfied with our situation in Georgia and was looking for a way out. I said semi-facetiously, "Maybe I'll read O. Henry. It seems like every time I start that book we make a major move." Within days I had a job offer from out of the blue. So we moved to South Carolina.

At this point The Complete Works of O. Henry was my personal talisman. I wanted to move from a rental house to one with a mortgage and I read O. Henry to close the deal. When we wanted to move back to Pennsylvania -- out came the O. Henry. I've since used his mystical powers to change jobs one more time, purchase two more houses and broker my retirement deal. Whenever I wanted a major change to occur I used O. Henry to affect it.

I know. It's silly. It is all coincidence. Those things were going to happen anyway. There is no rational cause and effect relationship between reading The Complete Works of O. Henry and any of those events. The reading of the book and the doing of these things were parallel events. My rational mind understands that.

But I am 1,319 pages into a 1,692 page book and I am at war with myself. Part of me cannot stand leaving a book unfinished. And part of me is afraid to summon another major change because I really like where I am and what I am doing . . . but O. Henry really is one of my favorite authors . . . but I don't want to upset the applecart . . .

So there is my dilemma. I'd like to hear what you think. I know it is superstitious nonsense -- but what if it's not?

How Can I Put This?

I have a number of ways to avoid giving direct answers. I learned some of them while observing corporate weasels. Others came from the "keeping their options open" crowd. And some I came by honestly, having been married for 34 years.

I have heard and said such things as:

• You'll never know the amount of craftsmanship that went into this product.
• Purchasing our product will have a definite impact on your bottom line.
• Dollar for dollar, this is the product I'd most like to sell you.
• Let me check my calendar and I'll get back to you.
• My wife/boss/secretary is in charge of my schedule.
• Honey, don't we have that thing that weekend?
• My cat/neighbor/grandfather/mom is dying/in poor health - so my time isn't my own.
• Wow, hon. That dress is certainly something else.
• You are the most gorgeous woman I'm talking to.
• Hey, some of my best friends know people like that.
• Mmmm, this chicken/soup/dessert is really interesting.
• You'll never know how much I appreciate this.
• Did you see that game this weekend?
• If I don't write things down they never get done.
• There's a good chance you'll see me there.
• As far as you know . . .
• No, those pants don't make your ass look big.
  
• I feel a lot more like I do now than I did before I got here.
• I was just thinking about calling you.

And . . .

• Of course not, I had to get up to answer the phone, anyway.
  

A Poke By Any Other Name

Having lived in several parts of the country, we have encountered come odd colloquialisms. Growing up in Western Pennsylvania we thought everyone drank pop. We didn't have to travel too far to get some odd looks and have to be told by the waitress, "You want soda, honey." It has taken me years to get used to this. In fact, I hate to give in, so I usually call it soda pop. It communicates what I want and I don't feel like I have compromised too much.

Another Western PA thing was to call a bag a poke. If I asked a cashier in a supermarket for a poke now -- she'd probably give me one. Which doesn't make any sense. If I were thrown in jail, you could say they put me in the pokey but it would be wrong to say they but me in the baggie.

When I was in Texas I realized they were calling the trunk of the car the turtle. I can almost understand this one. The hump-back shape of the trunk lid in the older model cars did look turtle-like. And it was the slowest part of the car, getting there last and all.

In South Carolina we ran across a couple more. Down there you don't push a button, you mash it. I wonder what they called mashed potatoes? Maybe they just baked them then pushed them around on their plate with a fork for a while. It might explain why they all switched to grits. They also said "Hey" instead of "Hi". Where I grew up, if someone said, "Hey, John!", they were trying to get my attention. So when I first started working in South Carolina, six or eight people every morning would say, "Hey, John.." So naturally I would go over to see what they wanted. That is a lot of silly conversations for one morning.

In the Boston area, if you want a milkshake, you need to order a frappe. If you do order a milkshake, they will give you flavored milk with no ice cream in it.

And then there are submarine sandwiches. This is different all over the country. They are also known by heros and hoagies. A baked hoagie is a grinder. Except in a little deli in Anderson, South Carolina that was run by an Indian guy (the Slurpee kind -- not the tee-pee kind). Besides making the aforementioned sandwich, he also served gyros. Only he pronounced them "hero." So I walked in, checked out the menu, ordered a hero and got a gyro. By the time I left there I was a "veddy, veddy BAD man!"

I tell you all this because this morning my wife said she was going to poke her head out the door to see how cold it was. And I thought, back home, I'd be sending my bag out to do the same thing.

Day is Done, Gone the Sun

It's not that we drank too much last night -- I think we were served some bad ice.

It's kind of a weird life here at the resort. Things seem to happen just the opposite from the rest of the world. For most people, you gain weight in the winter and lose it for and during the summer months. With all the parties and cook outs and company and drinking here, we tend to gain weight in the summer and lose it during the off season. I gained 16 pounds this summer!

Ironically, the few clothes I wear are getting tight. We've gotten food and drinking advice from people from all over the country. Most of it is pretty worthless, though. It involves eating and drinking less.

But along the way, we have made some great summer memories. The parties on the tiki deck. The friends, the food and the fun. The blender drinks at the tiki bar. The cigars as we watched the final embers of the waning day descend beyond the horizon. The weekend dances. The music drifting up the hill to tuck us in at night. Ah, summer!

But all good things must come to an end. Tonight is the last dance of the season. This is the last weekend.

Back to the bad ice. Last night as we staggered back home from the dance we were somehow discussing the toll the summer has taken on us. Nina, being the good wife she is, usually leaves the witticisms to me. However, last night, she couldn't resist. As we stumbled into bed, she muttered, "Eat, drink and be merry! For tomorrow we diet!"

Help Me . . . I'm melting!

The USA Today newsrag ran another "politics passing as science" story yesterday. The headline read: This was the hottest summer since 1936, report says. The subhead claimed: Climate chief sees trend towards warmer weather. The intent of the story was to scare people into swallowing the "global warming" nonsense.

The refuge of all bad politicians, and the easily duped media in their pockets, is half truths and intimidation. The story went on to say: "The USA sweated this year through its hottest summer in 70 years, with temperatures not seen since the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, according to a government report."

"From June 1 to Aug. 31, as summer is defined by the National Climatic Data Center, the continental USA had an average temperature of 74.5 degrees, based on readings from hundreds of weather stations nationwide. It was the second hottest summer temperature the government has recorded since it started keeping track in 1895. The only one warmer - by about two-tenths of a degree - was 1936."

They included a graph showing the ten hottest summers since 1895 to further inflame us. I've reproduced it below:

• 1936............74.73
• 2006...........74.50
• 1934............74.27
• 2002...........73.89
• 1988...........73.86
• 1933............73.59
• 1931............73.50
• 2003...........73.45
• 1937............73.40
• 2001...........73.37

At this point we are supposed to conclude that we are spiraling towards heatwave oblivion because of "greenhouse gasses" and the evils of industrialization.

What I get from the graph is that only four of the years listed are in this decade (2004 and 2005 being notably absent). In fact, listing 2001, 2002, 2003 and 2006 seems to show a broken pattern, not one of escalation.

It also shows that 1931, 1933, 1934, 1936 and 1937 provided a hot decade 70 years ago. Using today's pseudo-science, temperatures should be averaging in the mid 90 degrees by now. But they aren't.

All any of this shows us is that weather occurs in patterns and cycles. Sometimes it is hot and sometimes it is cold. As to the "melting of the icecaps" hysteria, we are simply still at the trailing end of the last ice age and the last of the "extra ice" is still going away. The glaciers and ice caps have been shrinking for as long as man has recorded history. But suddenly Al Gore has noticed it -- so everybody panic!

Yes, we did have a hot summer. We may have more. The winter might be cold or it may be a wet one. It's just weather. So, get a grip.

Reality Check . . .

Sometimes I don't know which voice to respond to. Some of them are definitely shouting louder than others. But doesn't the whispered plea or the pitiable whimper garner more attention? Who is to say? And whose story do I tell today?

I am like everyone else. I like to follow the path of least resistance. Take the easy way out. Paint with broad strokes. But I resist. I fight my weaker self and often go against the grain. Sail into the wind. Roll the boulder uphill.

Anyone can tell the amusing story. But to draw the reader, if but for a moment, into the skin of the teller, to taste the bitter irony and then cause them to laugh in spite of themselves is more difficult. Most humor is unexpected. Try to telegraph the obvious joke and still make them laugh.

Comedy, drama and chaos all dwell in the details. The dust motes that drift in the slanted light that penetrates a motel room at the end of nowhere. The chill mist that creeps against a cabin door and causes a scared child to pull closer to the family dog who dreams of dark wanderings of his own. The fugitive who patiently rubs the fine finish of his employers luxury car while considering the man's teenage daughter. These are the details of life.

The line between reality and fiction is necessarily vague. To know the one dispels the other. The reader asking, "Did that really happen?" means I have succeeded. It is, indeed, a fact that all writers are liars. It is also true that we are truth tellers. Done correctly, the truth transcends the lie. It will instruct and edify. What matters reality if we have learned something about ourselves in the process?

Fact and fiction also dwell in the details. All is true. All is a lie. It all depends upon how receptive the listener and how creative the teller.

Echos of the Mind

I've never been able to remember the actual accident. I just remember slowly waking up, the rough gravel against my face, not being able to move, or wanting to, really. It was peaceful and painful at the same time. I remember hearing a car door slam and someone shouting something in the distance.

The next thing I remember is a voice telling me I would be alright and a light shining in each eye successively. My head ached, throbbing with each sound and voice. And I was surrounded by sounds and voices now. And they kept asking me questions, now.

"Do you know your name?"

"How old are you?"

"Where do you live?"

"Did you see who hit you?"

. . . who hit me? Did he say 'who hit me?' Was I hit by something? Why don't I remember that?

I tried to answer them but I don't think I was making any sense. They had me strapped to a gurney, now. I couldn't move my head, which was probably just as well, but I am claustrophobic and the immobility was horrible. Faces would hover over me momentarily, look in my face or eyes, ask me things I was too slow to answer and then disappear. I remember the sky was a pale blue that day. Just a few wispy clouds. It was all I could see when they weren't in my face. But there were so many voices and sounds and sirens . . . and . . .

I remember bits and pieces from the ambulance. The metal roof . . . the racks of supplies . . . a hand on my wrist . . . the pain in my leg beginning to assert itself . . . the dispatcher on the radio . . . a kind voice telling me to take it easy . . .

They must have given me something for the pain in the emergency room. The next thing I knew I was in a surgical recovery area and my wife was holding my hand. A nurse was saying, "There he is." I guess she meant me.

"I think I had an accident." I mumbled apologetically.

"You were hit by a car while you were jogging." My wife explained.

"I remember coffee at the table and tying my shoes . . . " I said.

"Memory loss is common in accidents like this." the nurse interrupted. "How are you feeling, Mr. Bonus?" she asked me.

"Kinda sleepy. And I'm thirsty." I answered truthfully.

"I'll let the Doctor know you're awake." She said as if he would bring me something to drink.

So, he came and went. I stayed in the hospital for a few days because of the broken leg. It took months to heal. I missed work. I gained weight, just sitting around. I limp when it is damp and in the winter time. And life went on.

I still jog. But not as far anymore. I stay on trails and go to parks a lot now. But I just can't shake the idea that somebody hit me with a car, saw me flip ten or fifteen feet into the air, tumble onto the gravel berm . . . and just drove away.

I still don't remember the actual accident. But I'll never forget it either.

You Know You Have a Problem If . . .

I was thinking that 12-Step programs would be more successful if they only had, like maybe, three or four steps. Believe me, I've been drunk and you can't keep track of that many things at one time. It's all I can do to remember their motto: One Drink at a Time! (Or something like that.)

Even God only had Ten Commandments. And who can remember more than four of those? I always get hung up on the one about my neighbors wife. That one always seemed so important to Him so I usually get to wondering what God's neighbor's wife looks like. I'll bet she's hot.

But back to the 12-Step thingy. Why twelve? Why not eight or six? My guess is they started out with four and then had to keep adding them on the fly because of misbehaviour at the meetings. I think the same thing happened at the Commandment Organizational Pre-meeting. They were sitting around arguing over what is and isn't murder (#6) when Somebody noticed Shiva messing around with Budda's wife in the Sacramental Cloak Room. Budda jumps up and yells, "That's it! From now on, we've got a new rule!" And you couldn't blame him. I mean, that Shiva guy was all arms.

And there are so many 12-Step programs, anymore. I had a friend who used to go to the AA meetings just for the cookies. It turns out . . . well, you get the idea. Did you know there are actually 12-Step programs for people with social addictions to 12-Step programs. The only problem is that no one can tell if anyone is making any progress. Are they doing good by showing up at the meetings or would it be better if they . . . well, you get the idea.

So twelve, huh? Maybe if I wrote them down somewhere. Oh well, I guess I'll start with number one and see how it goes.

Hi, my name is John . . . and I am a smart-ass!

Today in History

Today is Monday, Sept. 11, the 254th day of 2006. There are 111 days left in the year. This is Patriot Day.

Today's Highlight in History:

Five years ago, on Sept. 11, 2001, in the single worst act of terrorism committed on U.S. soil, nearly 3,000 people died when two hijacked jetliners crashed into New York's World Trade Center, causing the twin towers to fall, a commandeered jetliner smashed into the Pentagon and a fourth hijacked plane crashed in western Pennsylvania.

THAT is why we are at war!

THAT is what they want to do again!

Class dismissed!
.
.

Prelude to a Gunfight

The trailsman stopped in the center of the dusty street. Ten paces separated him from his opponent. The sun glared overhead, casting deep shadows under the brims of their weather beaten hats. The backs of their shirts were stiff with dried sweat-salt, the centers wet and clinging with new perspiration.

Their hands twitched as they hovered over the pistol grips; ready to strike snake-like. The offence had been slight but the whiskey and the watching women made the situation deadly. More rot-gut was downed and after a few quick asides to either the whores or the other saddle tramps, they all pushed outside. Into the blazing sun. The dust. The wind.

Their eyes met . . . and held. Each man waiting for the other to move first. To satisfy the code. To prove he was faster. Somehow more worthy of life. Rope-like muscles played and flexed under sun darkened skin as their fingers tattooed an unheard melody in the air . . . inches from their guns . . . waiting . . . watching.

A blackbird suddenly took flight; its great wings flapping noisily between the men. One man, the younger one, was startled into action. His hand was a blur as it found the pistol grip, smoothly whipping the gun up and out of the worn holster, bringing the barrel forward, thumb cocking and finger pulling the trigger simultaneously . . . shooting from the hip.

He was fast. God help him he needed to be. But his shot went wide as his opponent stepped forward and turned sideways, presenting a smaller target in a different place. As he did so, the second gunman was more deliberate than his rival, his draw was still lightening quick but he brought his arm straight up, paused a split second to aim, and fired. Finding his mark.

The first man spun around, grabbing his upper arm, as he tumbled into the dusty street. He lay, unmoving as the victor walked forward, cautiously, boots crunching small pebbles amid puffs of dust. The skin creased at the corners of his deep blue eyes as he spit in the dirt next to the fallen man. For the second time in a minute, his hand moved lightening quick as he grabbed the other man's wrist and yanked, bringing the "corpse: to his feet.

"Damn it, Frank." the wounded man complained. "Ma is gonna have your hide for ruinin' another shirt." He fingered the bloody crease high on his upper arm. "And that stings like hell!"

"Then quit shootin' yer mouth off in front of the whores." He told his kid brother. But then something like admiration slipped into his voice as he draped his arm over the smaller man's shoulder and conceded, "You almost got me that time, Jesse. You almost got me."

The Future Isn't What It Used To Be

A friend of mine is a Mad Scientist. At first I thought, "What kind of research are they doing over at Mad Magazine?" Then I was watching a late night movie on one of the higher channels and I thought, "Maybe he's a crazy scientist, a lunatic, a wacko -- hopelessly un-sane." But something told me that wasn't correct, either.

So one day I was over at his place, brewing some tea on a Bunsen burner, and I asked him point-blank. "What kind of Mad Scientist are you, anyway?" He shrugged and said, "A pretty good one, I guess."

"No! No!" I said. "I mean what type of Mad Scientist are you? . . . What does the Mad part mean? . . . Like, why is it painted on your door and stuff?" I thought that was clearer.

"Oh, that." he replied. "It's mad as in angry or upset."

"What are you angry about?" I wondered.

"Actually, I'm more frustrated than angry." he tried to clarify. "More miffed than mad. But none of those things looked right in the Yellow Pages ad."

"Oh. Well, I'm beginning to know how you feel. Now answer the damn question before I get scientific on your ass!" I nearly shouted.

"I'm mad about the future." he confided.

"The future?"

"Yes. It's all wrong. I think someone futurer than us is messing around with the time-line."

Why do you think that?" I asked.

"Remember when we were kids, we thought there would be flying cars and spindly skyscrapers and robots and lunar colonies and micro-communication devices by the 21st Century?" he asked.

" . . . Yeah . . ." I said hesitantly.

"Well, we're in the future and all we've accomplished from the list is this lousy cell phone." he gestured to a photo-flip phone on his workbench.

I picked up the tiny device and opened it up, "Cool! Is this that one with the MP3 stuff and TV previews of my favorite Fox shows?" I asked.

"See!" he said. "That's my point. We've gotten so wrapped up in the minor shit that we forgot about the flying cars and the nude female android servants with the green cotton candy hair. Where's all the cool stuff?" he demanded.

"So what does this have to do with someone futurer messing with the time-line?" I asked him.

"It's the only explanation," he said. "We had a virtual blueprint of the future back in the 1950's. Between Popular Mechanics and Modern Science and the sci-fi mags, it was all layed out. Even Time and Life got in on it. We had World's Fair exhibits! We had plans!" he finished, slumping in a lab chair.

"And the futurer messing part?" I prompted.

"I think they have found a way to transmit a ray or beam from the future that makes us satisfied with the meager realities of the present . . . thereby taking the heat off themselves until they can get their shit together."

"That seems like the simplest explanation to me." I encouraged him, quietly taking a step backwards. "So, what are you doing about it?"

"At first I lined my baseball cap with aluminum foil to block the rays. Then I realized that was silly. If I knew enough to do that I must already be immune. So now I'm working on my own time machine. I'm going to travel to the future and kick some ass."

"How's that working out?" I wondered out loud.

"So far I've gotten mixed results. I've been able to create a time stream with this row of clocks and watches here. And I put this chair in the middle, hoping to ride the current. But I haven't been able to verify my results."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's very difficult getting them all set to the same time. And some of them wind up and some are on batteries and some are the self winders that required the wearer to move around and they are just sitting there. So, when I hop off the time stream for a sandwich or something, depending upon which watch I look at, I can't tell if I've gone slightly into the future or slightly into the past."

"My guess is that you are closer to now than you were before you started the experiment." I offered.

"That was my thinking, exactly!" he enthused. "The next phase of my experiment is to set the clocks and watches at progressive time differences and to move the chair around to different points in the time stream."

"Do you think it's safe to change more than one variable at a time?" I tried to keep my face neutral.

"We got into this mess playing it safe!" he shouted. "Now is the time for ACTION!"

With that he straddled the white kitchen chair, pulled a pair of goggles over his eyes, and just sat there -- a string of watches and alarm clocks stretching before him and behind him. I thought I heard the distant echo of a cuck-coo going off among the various ticks and tocks.

As I let myself out I realized I had learned one thing. With scientists like my friend, I now understood the science behind global warming and where all the flying cars had gone.

Getting My Crank On

I was reading what passes for journalism, written by what passes for journalists, in the USA Today newsrag yesterday and I got a little cranked up. Fortunately, I have a means of un-spinning the liberal slant and a venue to shine the light of common sense on the issues. I call it yelling at the newspaper in my living room.

(headline) Most fliers accept intrusion in the name of security -- Untrue spin by idiot journalist. The truth of the matter is that most fliers do not accept the personal intrusions, they endure them. Why? Because every time we hear or read about someone who complains too loudly (anything louder than a whispered aside to fellow disgruntled travelers), the complainer is declared disruptive, pulled aside, detained, delayed and possibly arrested. So because we act like sheep, fearful of cattle prods, this putz of a journalist declares us to have accepted this treatment.

• We do not like taking our shoes off.
• We do not like emptying our pockets.
• We do not like leaving behind all of the stuff we like to carry around with us.
• We do not like the long delays followed by the mad dash to make the flight.
• We do not like big dogs sniffing our crotches.

Using the definition of "going along with the program to avoid personal trouble or embarrassment" for the word acceptance, is like saying the majority of 18th century African slaves accepted their slavery. Or that the Jews were down with the Nazis. Doing what we are compelled to do is hardly acceptance.

(headline) Report: U.S. not ready for disaster -- No shit! If we could anticipate every possible scenario of every middle-eastern madman with a bomb and every variation of natural phenomenon (hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes, etc.) and know and train precisely for every contingency and minimize the impact of such events . . . then I guess they wouldn't be disasters, would they?

The very definition of disaster says, "a sudden event that causes great damage or loss of life".

But what we have here is not so much a "news" story as another "hit piece" on the administration for being "unprepared" for disaster. It is another game of "attack dog journalism" where the dog gnaws at a "no win situation" bone for the sole purpose of slanting public opinion. We will never be prepared enough to satisfy everyone, especially the critics who prefer failure to what's good for America -- if it suits their political agenda.

(headline) Democrats urge ABC to withdraw 9/11 movie -- Guess what? There is a movie coming out that may actually tell the truth about the events, political bungling, and liberal policies that led up to the 9/11 disaster. It portrays a White House that is so tangled up in the Monica Lewinsky scandal that it left the nation on autopilot. And apparently, former members of the Clinton administration do not want the light of truth shown on their incompetence.

Wow! Aren't these the same guys who nodded in approval when Michael Moore was disseminating his vicious lies about George Bush? Where was their moral outrage then?

"But it might affect me, personally!" they are heard to whimper.

This is known as the true battle cry of all liberals. It also explains their stance on war.

. . . Eye of Newt . . .

Renny placed the jawbone upon the stone alter and reached for the leather pouch. In it was the fine white powder, the ground remnant of the unicorn horn. He sprinkled a little of it into the stone bowl, adding it to the exotic herbs and other arcane ingredients. As he stirred he carefully noted the tiny amounts of sparkling pixie dust that seemed to rise above the mixture. Pleased, he began to chant the ancient words.

When he first started his work, things were much different. He worked in a lab with computers and test tubes and microscopes. Real science. Not this nightmare of mumbo-jumbo he was forced to endure. He was a man of SCIENCE. Not some third rate sorcerer.

All he ever wanted to do was find an inexpensive way to transport goods over long distances. Teleport -- actually. He believed it could be done. The science was solid. His figures checked out. When he finally got the grant he couldn't wait to get started. Within months he was ready to test the device. And it worked. After a fashion.

He was supposed to teleport a few grams of a radioactive isotope from a staging platform to a receiving platform, twelve feet away. Instead, his entire lab flashed and blinked and vibrated and sparked from this reality to the next. He had found a way to move between dimensions.

As it turned out, each dimension, or reality, had its own set of rules. Laws of Nature. Scientific Principles. What-not. The tools of quantum science did not necessarily work everywhere. But magic did. In some places. And not only did the rules change but so did he -- and his lab. Sometimes his lab was the bright, white and chrome, room he was used to. Sometimes it looked more like a rec room in someones basement. Sometimes, as it did now, he was in a cave, illuminated by torch-light.

As the room and equipment changed, Renny had to figure out what rules were in play in each dimension, based upon what tools were in his lab after each jump. He had reasoned, early on, that whatever reality he found himself in, he was the same person, doing the same research. So he would inventory his equipment, look at his notes (if any) and recreate his experiment as best he could. Hoping to jump back home eventually.

One time, God help him, he had to get twelve cats to walk two abreast through an obstacle course made of cardboard boxes. Another time, he was six inches tall in a normal size lab -- but the science was solid in that one. Still another time he found himself in a room full of chemicals and beakers. His solution lay in creating the correct chemical combination that would . . . well, you get the idea.

This time he was wearing an honest-to-god sorcerers robe, star encrusted, pointed cap and all. And chanting words from a book whose pages appeared to be made of human flesh. But he kept on. Chanting, waving his arms and occasionally sprinkling in another ingredient until, at last, he sensed the familiar vibration begin to build and he knew he hit pay dirt. His vision began to waver, the torch light flared and dimmed and with a crack of lightning -- he jumped.

The room he found himself in was decorated in bright primary colors. There was little furniture in the room and he found himself sitting on a yellow rug surrounded by an ocean of Leggo Blocks. He held up his hands and found them to be tiny and pudgy. Looking down at his dimpled knees and pink legs he realized he was wearing a diaper. And it needed changed. So Renny said what any scientist in his position would say, "Waaaaah!"

Fever Dreams

I've had the flu for three days now, and except for the sick and miserable part, it's been pretty cool. I'm talking about the medicine induced fever dreams.

I have always enjoyed a vibrant dream life. And I usually remember most of my dreams. I have idyllic sitting-by-the-stream dreams, highway dreams where I am driving a sleek black sedan down an endless night-time highway, busy dreams full of repetitive tasks that somehow hold the key to the universe, conversational dreams bubbling over with witty banter, lost-in-the-big-building dreams, erotic adventure dreams, and dreams populated with dead relatives.

But fever dreams are the best. In them I go furthest afield from my known realities. Lovecraftian Cthulhu-type monsters, my wife cast as an evil nemesis, cars going up hills so steep they fall over backwards, at times I possess the power of self-flight, or I experience life aboard a generation ship wandering aimlessly among the stars, and floating. Everything is floating, lifting, spinning. I try to raise my arm and my hand is the size of a small car. I turn it this way and that, marveling that I can move something that size. I lay my hand on the covers and feel an immense weight upon my leg, my eyes close again, my arms and legs receding to nothingness as I float effortlessly above a blackened, surreal landscape of charred tree stumps and ground fog, back lit by a purplish glow. Suddenly something moves. It is approaching rapidly. Too fast for me to get out of the way. I can't see what it is through the mist. I hear a growl, deep throated and hungry. I try to turn and slip in some wet muck. I can hear claws on cobblestone and now I can see red eyes penetrating the Stygian darkness, another brief moment of floating, and a weight lands on my chest . . . I jerk awake.

I lay there, sheets soaked with night sweats, heart pounding, my hands gripping the blanket. My breathing is shallow, wheezing; my head aching too much to turn it. And as the dream is shredded and blown away like night fog in the morning breeze, I think, "Cool."

Drink Responsibly . . . but Drink!

What ever happened to responsibility? I am talking about being responsible for your actions as well as living up to your responsibilities (promises/obligations). We are living in a world where a handshake IS as good as someone's word. And so is a used tissue.

Our fingers always seem to point away from ourselves; transferring guilt or responsibility to others. I picture future generations of humans evolving into people with tiny, mostly useless arms. (Think T-Rex). The only things they will be good for is snacking, channel changing, text messaging, water volley-ball and finger pointing.

Yesterday we had a guest blogger, here at Escape Velocity. He was here by prior invitation as well as necessity. I was, in deed, too blotto to produce a coherent blog yesterday BUT I assumed that going in, and had it covered.

Someone asked me if I didn't have any blogs saved up for a rainy day. I explained, that would be like saving up sperm. "Excuse me, madam, I would be otherwise having sex with you, but I'm too drunk to make the effort. Never-the-less, I would like you to have this little bottle of my sperm and a promise to do better next time."

So, my buddy Danny played drunken goat herder, valet parking attendant, bed tucker-inner and guest blogger. And I am proud of him. Although I'm not sure why I slept in my rain soaked clothes on top of the covers and Nina was naked, dry, and powdered and woke up in his bed. He said something about something being easy and something about something else being hard at the same time. I am assuming he was talking about the varying degrees if difficulty we presented him . . . or something.

All I know is, at breakfast the next morning, I was able to sit there smug in the knowledge that I had a good time at the party the night before and that my blogging obligation was fulfilled. Danny and Nina were looking pretty smug, too. It's nice being able to share with your friends.

Designated Adult

First let me say that you need not expect the quick satirical wit which you normally find here in this hallowed blog. I am not John. My name is Danny, a close and long time friend of John's and I will be your guest blogger for the day. With this being said PLEASE -"all anal retentives"- do not call or send emails trying to correct my spelling, structure and/or grammar. This is a blog - not a writing assignment.

The reason I am writing today is that John is --- well --- incapacitated. In all honesty he had too much of a good time last night and his present condition does not make him able to perform his normal blogging duties. Hell, he'd be lucky to find the computer let alone write. You see there was a party last night and John and Nina took this oppurtunity to celebrate their 34th wedding anniversary. They knew this ahead of time and being responsible adults they asked if I would make sure they got home in one piece. In other words "During the party would you mind not getting to soused so you can drive us and our car one mile to our house without killing us all?"

What could I say. They are two of my dearest friends and they would do the same for me or so John claims. But I agreed to be on my best behavior and green tea ice tea was my drink of the night. The following statements are facts and I'll let you know right now that no human, animal or piece of plant life was harmed in any way during the events that followed --- although certain nocturnal beasts may have second thoughts about being in the vicinity of John's house from now on.

As it turned out John and Nina made good on their promise. At this point you are probably wondering why I didn't name this blog Designated Driver. Well I found out that driving the vehicle is only a small portion of the duties involved with the job.

As we were preparing to leave the party I had to first collect all the loose items that were brought to help John and Nina achieve the inability to drive. I then had to gather up John and Nina. John was still able to walk a relatively striaght line if not staggering while he did it but Nina had to be -- hmm -- assisted in making it to the exit.

After propping Nina against the wall I went to find the car. John had dropped off Nina and I before the party because it was raining. He then drove off to find the most remote location to park - making sure there were no lights within a hundred feet. This may truely give you an idea of just how sick John is.

After finding said car I had to figure out which one of the keys would unlock the door. Oh - did I mention it was raining. Have you ever had the thrill of trying to pick the right key in total darkness while a fine drenching rain is coming down.

Next I drove up to the club and prayed that I could work the electric door locks correctly so John and Nina would not have to stand outside in the rain. I didn't want to witness two people wondering why they had lost the ability to open a door and there is nothing worse than a wet drunk.

After they had poured into their transportation Nina started to cry uncontrollably. Apparently she was upset with being blitzed out of her mind. This had a somewhat disturbing affect on her husband. He started laughing!!! Not small semi-quiet chuckles. No. It was loud and long and constant. A typical ROFL.

The crying and corresponding laughing continued until we arrived home. At this point my job description changed to goat herder. As I was helping Nina get out of the car and keeping her from greeting the ground with her face John decided it was a great time to start wandering down the street away from his house laughing the whole time. Once I had reined him in we were able to get into the house. John managed to find his own way to the bedroom leaving a trail of debris and clothes in his wake. I got Nina to the bedroom and as gently as possible put her in for the night. I don't think she would have cared or felt anything if I had drop kicked her there.

With both of them now tucked in I returned to the living room to sit and contemplate my agreeing to take on the title of Designated Adult. They are my friends. They have given me many a good time. They have been a part of my life for more years than I care to remember. They can never be replaced. Listening to the fading sobs and muffled chortles I decided that if my friends ever were in need my services again ---- I'd find another party.

. . . and Counting

On the day I was married it was all I could do to keep from laughing. It was the most solemn moment of my life and I was cracking up. There I was, standing in the front of a Methodist church, facing the aisle; two ministers were standing behind me and my best man was completely uncomfortable in his tux.

Nina was a beautiful bride. But she looked like Bo Peep. This was in the seventies. And styles were . . . different. I had mutton chop side burns, hair to my collar, a grey pinstripe tux, platform patent leather shoes with HELP ME written in magic marker on the soles. It was my wedding day.

Nina had a wide brimmed hat, ringlet curls framing her face, an empire waist gown and all I could think of was Little Bo Peep. She was walking down the aisle, on the arm of her uncle; I was nervous, sweating bullets, watching this vision of loveliness and I had to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing. All she needed was the sheep and the hooked staff. I hadn't seen her gown before we were married (as was traditional) and was completely surprised by her fashion choice. It was beautiful and silly at the same time.

The seventies were fucked up. We thought we we real trend setters and all we were was in the face of our elders. Much like the low rider pants, the exposed boxer shorts, and the skewed baseball caps that are part of wedding ceremonies, today.

I had a choice of velour and madris and light blue for my tux. But I have always been conservative, so I got pistripes with six inch lapels. Nina apparently got her gown from the Brothers Grimm.

She told me later that she thought I was mad at her during the ceremony because of my stoic expression but I was just trying to keep from laughing. I could not get the Bo Peep image out of my head. It was that contageous, laughing in church, deal that happens every now and then. Once you start -- everything is funny. So I could not start laughing and I was biting the inside of my cheeks to avoid beginning. I did such a good job that Nina took it as anger.

34 years later I am still being mis-understood. We celebrated our anniversary yesterday and Nina thought it would be a blog worthy topic. I told her that it needed to fit certain criteria to be blog worthy. She can't imagine that 34 years of marriage wouldn't qualify. I disagreed. One of my criteria for writing blogs is humor.

Nina thinks our marriage has been a hoot. I fail to see the humor.

Happy anniversary, baby!

Choking the Chicken

I imagine that being a Boy Scout is a different experience today than it was when I was a growing up. Oh, I'm sure the core values are still being taught, but they've probably changed the lesson plans some. In this case, I hope so.

Scouting is all about teaching impressionable children how to survive in the woods with bullies. That's the short definition. We did other things, too. We learned fear and avoidance of bullies in city settings, as well. In places like church basements and VFW rec halls. You don't know what fear is until you come up against a paramilitary psycho, in the woods, who is proficient with knives and ropes and knots, who knows how to kill and eat things in the wild and can hide the remains from scavengers. School yard bullies tended to threaten a more generalized harm.

I mentioned the current lesson plans as having changed. I have to check it out, but I heard they give merit badges for duct tape and baling wire, now.

We really did get a merit badge for killing and eating something in the woods, though. In the current era of political correctness, over-protective parents, lawyers who specialize in fraternal organizations, and PETA, I doubt if the current batch of Scouts are killing any animals. I think the current merit badges have replaced the image of a bloody rabbit being held by its hind legs with an image of a can of Spam. Even PETA hasn't been able to track down what, if any, animals are harmed in the production of Spam.

So, back to my story. When I was twelve or thirteen, a bunch of my scrawny friends and I spent a week in the woods, mostly hiding from a much bigger kid named Lance. Lance was only a year older than us but rumor had it that he shaved already. That was one way to get a reputation for being tough, back then. Lance also has dried apple slices strung on a string and claimed they were Cub Scout ears. And he spent a lot of time sharpening his knife. So we mostly avoided him, when we could.

Our assignment that day was to break into two man teams, kill a chicken, clean it, cook it and eat it. No problem. The Scout Master provided the chickens, probably figuring if we had to catch something in the wild we would all starve to death. Everyone except Lance, that is. Every now and then, I would sneak a glance in his direction. He would be munching on a Cub Scout ear and my blood would run cold.

So, how to kill a chicken. Some kids used their Boy Scout knives . . . or tried to. Others used a hatchet to hack the head off the hapless chicken. There was much discussion as to who would hold the chicken down and who would do the actual whacking. There weren't any fingers lost that weekend but there weren't a lot of clean kills either. By the way, from an adolescent point of view, chickens running around with their heads HALF cut off are funnier, longer.

Even as a child I always tried to learn from other peoples mistakes. So my team mate and I hung back. Partly to see how not to do it and partly because we were scared spitless and didn't have a clue what to do. I was also a tidy child, as well, and I wanted to avoid the arterial spray. So we came up with a plan. We decided to hang the chicken.

Did you know that chickens can fly when they have to? Our little chicken noose and chicken gallows didn't accomplish shit. (I worked for an hour on the trap door, alone.) Plan B was to manually strangle the poor bird. Apparently chickens are proficient at holding their breath, too. Who knew? Plan C was to wring its neck. They don't like that either. Finally, when we weren't looking, the chicken committed suicide. Or we think it did, 'cause it stopped struggling and was just laying there (with a tiny gun at its side and a note pinned to its chest).

We still had to chop its head off, pluck it, clean it, etc. Oh, another little gem they threw at us was to avoid the green organ. "Don't cut or break the green organ. It is full of poison," we were told. Like we weren't traumatized enough. At this point I think I would have traded places with the chicken. Eventually we had the bird cleaned, mounted on a green wood spit, a fire going, success right around the corner . . . and it started to rain.

It rained for three days. No one had any chicken. We lived on cold canned soup, peanut butter sandwiches and Spam. (These were the days before Monty Python made Spam funny so no one giggled.)

And I learned a valuable lesson that weekend: If civilization fell, Boy Scouts would be our last line of defence and it doesn't pay to choke your chicken in the woods with a bunch of your friends.

Naked is the Best Disguise

I spend a lot of time with secretive people. I don't even know the last names of some of my best friends. And I'm not sure we are using their real first names. This is what the CIA company picnic must be like.

The reason for the subterfuge is the fact that we are all nudists. And this is fairly ironic. Nudism is a bold statement of "Here I am" - moles, wrinkles and rolls of fat or smooth skin, flat bellies and perky nipples - "take me or leave me!" Nudism is about freedom; of shedding the cares and trappings of a repressive society; a statement of our true selves.

We are a Proud, Tan people. Ready to defend our lifestyle to any and all. To stand tall in a world of social midgets. To tell our friends and family and co-workers that we . . . Yeah, right!

From what I've seen, we are the dirty, little secret that no one outside the resort can ever know about. Sons and daughters are our first line of cowardice. Then parents, brothers and sisters. And don't forget about work.

I hear things like, "No one where I work can ever find out about this place." And, "I couldn't ever tell the kids, they would dis-own us!" Or, "The, err, ah, Senate must nevah discovah where, err, ah, I spend my, ah, spahre time." Things like that.

And I really do understand the need to keep uptight co-workers, judgemental friends and unforgiving family members out of the loop. But if we can see each others' private parts, here at the resort, and I can know about that strawberry mole on your wife's left breast, why isn't it safe for us to be in the loop? We have just as much to hide as you do. (Unless you are fatter than me, have any degree of fame, have a job worth not losing or family that cares.)

We have gotten so used to no last names that we are introduced as or referred to as "Johnny of Nina" or "Wendy of Nathan". If we do hear a last name, there is no telling if it is real or not. And everyone wants to be so mysterious; I have three friends who claim to be in the mob and another who "works for the government." I spend my days keeping them all apart.

O.K., I guess I'm exaggerating to a small degree. But the veil of secrecy does extend into the resort at times. People are still afraid that their friends from the nudist lifestyle will someday meet their friends, etc. from the real world. So last names are seldom used and other info is often vague. Information is revealed based upon depth of friendship and need to know.

So the irony stands. We choose to reveal all -- yet reveal very little. Our nudity has become merely another mask, another guise in a world that celebrates diversity yet judges our differences harshly.

Maybe that is why we do it. This is one of the few places where we can cast off most of the meaningless trappings of a materialistic society and be equal among many. But anonymously. Maybe naked is the best disguise.