Coincidence?...

We were sitting around the partially built fire-pit the other day, just shooting the breeze. It was a pleasant evening and we didn't really need the fire anyway. We were sippin' our various drinks. A few of us were smoking cigars to keep the bugs away. The conversation was mostly light. Eventually it drifted to one of our favorite topics. Coincidences.

First let me explain, that as a former tech adviser to the printing industry, I don't usually buy into this whole coincidence thing. When you can control all of the variables in any given process - things don't just happen. However - as most of my female friends are always quick to point out - things happen for a reason. So I'm usually willing to compromise and call them a favorable convergences of circumstances.

Such as the TOTAL coincidence that a friend of ours works as an airline attendant AND the petite red head had to recently fly somewhere. AND, (here it comes) they are BOTH using the SAME airport! I KNOW! It's freaky!

Then there is the deal where another friend retired from the railroad industry and actually met a guy in the hot tub HERE AT THE RESORT who's FATHER worked for the railroad. BUT, the REALLY freaky part is that they are BOTH retired! I KNOW! It's freaky.

When I scoff at these Tales of Mind and Mystery I am usually decried as a nay-sayer. "Oh yeah," they say. "Then how do you explain all of the coincidences between Lincoln and Kennedy?"

"I don't have to." I retort. "Although the whole Lincoln slept in Monroe, Maryland and Kennedy slept with Marilyn Monroe thing does give me goose bumps." I had to admit.

"What about the Rule of Three?" someone asked. The Rule of Three states that famous people will die in groups of three. Such as Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens AND the Big Bopper. Of course, the fact that they were all in the same plane kind of helped that one along.

One of the things I've also found fascinating about the Rule of Three is the sub-section A part that most people subscribe to. This is the part where we hear that George Carlin died and although everyone starts looking to see who else just died or we start watching to see who will be next, it is also necessary that the people who complete The Three be of the same stature.

So if John Belushi and Rosie O'Donnell both died we would have to wait for two more to make The Three. George Clooney, Barbara Striesand and Alan Aldo would be a good mix. We would have also accepted Celine Dion, Ed Asner and Rob Reiner.

The Rule of Three is also a good indicator of just what the world thought of you. If you are lumped in with two minor celebrities it could ruin the whole wake. And, as we all know, nobody throws a party like a dead guy.

So, is it a coincidence that everybody needs another round of beers AND I have a refrigerator on the tiki deck? I'll let the gods decide that one. But with the good friends I have, I would definitely call it a favorable convergence of circumstances.

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Breakin' ALL the Rules!

A lot of my friends think I'm a little too organized. They think that it is funny that all of my shirts are hung facing the same way, arranged by color and that all of the hangers are one inch apart. They laugh that all of the cans in my pantry are in straight rows with all of the labels facing front or that my liquor cabinet is similarly arranged as well as by type and brand. A couple of wise asses actually call me Adrian (Monk).

I can't help it if I have a certain sense of order. Toilet paper should always roll off the top of the dispenser. Why would I keep half of my chicken in one part of the freezer and the other half with the frozen veggies? Do I gain anything if my crystal ware touches each other in the cabinet? What's the difference if I use shoe trees for deck shoes and sneakers? So what If I starch the collars on my Hawaiian shirts?

The other day the petite red head asked me if she could smoke in my car. I told her she was smokin' wherever she was. When I stopped laughing at my own joke she said, "No, really. Can I smoke in your car?"

So I answered her question with another question. "Why do you feel like you have to ask me that?"

"Well," she said, "I didn't want to break one of your rules."

That stopped me dead in my tracks. Finally I said, "Of course you can smoke in my car. I do all of the time. But, more importantly, you need to know that I don't have any rules that you can't break."

"Really?" she answered.

"Really." I responded.

Suddenly it seemed like she was looking at me for the first time. A soft, lazy grin spread slowly across her gentle features, her hazel eyes glowing with mischief. "I'll be right back." she said. With that she grabbed the keys to the golf cart and ran out the front door.

When I followed her to the door I saw that she was starting up the golf cart that I had carefully backed into my driveway and had parked parallel with the walkway and precisely two feet from the garage door. The front wheels perfectly straight, the steering wheel aligned like the face of a clock.

She pulled the cart into the street, did a quick U-turn and reparked it at an angle across the driveway, partially blocking my office door, the wheels turned the whole way to the left. When she came back she tossed the keys on the end table, rather than hanging them up on the left-most hook where they belonged.

She gave me a little kiss and said, "I've been wanting to do that for weeks!"

As I stood inside the front door, looking at the chaos across the street, my hand on the door knob, my whole body slightly vibrating, I heard her in the kitchen moving my coffee maker three inches to the left and slightly askew with the wall.

Finally I muttered to myself, "Rules are just rules - but some things are just crazy!"

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Giving Good Foot

"Hmmmmmm......"

"Oh........mmmmmmmmmmm........ooooooooh........."

"Yeah.......that's it. Oh.......there........yes.........that's.......... IT!"



Which got me to thinking. The petite red head and I were talking about Reflexology the other day. Specifically foot rubs. Supposedly, there are spots on your feet that are somehow connected to most of the other spots on your body. If you can find the right pressure point you can relieve tension, ease pain or excite pleasure. All from the comforts of a basic foot massage. Cool!

And I can see the benefits of this for certain applications. Such as migraine headaches. Or maybe back pain. I'm not sure how it works for internal organs and stuff but I'd be willing to bet someone is making a claim, somewhere.

I guess I see the benefits falling into several categories. The first being the things I just mentioned. Things that are tough to directly deal with. I mean, you can't exactly run down to the spa and have your brain massaged whenever you get a headache. Or fluff your colon if you have indigestion. Can you?

Then there is the direct benefit of a foot rub. It just feels so damn good! I am sure that professional masseuses, reflexologists, and hookers know exactly what they are doing and how to get the maximum effect from a foot massage.

But erotic minded couples do well, too. The latter category has several things going for them. First, they could be all thumbs and need a manicure and their partner would still find pleasure in their touch. Secondly, the one giving the foot rub is getting similar pleasure because they know they are giving pleasure. And thirdly, if you rub a foot long enough, you ought to hit some of these pleasure response centers just by accident. So when the rubbee says, "Ohhhhhh........right there!", unless the rubber is retarded or something, they will stay there and the rubbee will say, "Wow, you give good foot!"

Which brings me to the third category. Finding THE spot on the foot. Somewhere on the foot is an elusive spot that theoretically could bring orgasmic pleasure. It is, I am sure, very difficult to find. Otherwise, high school kids would be doing it behind the barn and The Sharper Image would be selling imported Orgasm Shoes.

I also believe it is much like the "tickle response". Supposedly, people cannot tickle themselves. I think even if we had a pedal G-spot we could not give ourselves a foot-gasm. Otherwise, open-toed shoes would be much more popular.

All of which got me to thinking... again. If I could find the exact spot each and every time, the petite red head and I would never leave the house. We would sit with our feet in each others laps and say things like, "Now you do me."

"But I did you last time!"

"No you didn't! I did you!" And so on.

I could set up a web page and charge $29.95 for a down-loadable diagram where X marks the pedal G-spot. Foot-gasms Guaranteed. Which would be good money. Until the first asshole with a planters wart sues me for false advertising. Which is another reason to route your ISP through a dozen servers in several foreign countries. You can't bee too careful.

But I guess, for me, the bottom line is that it is great to give pleasure through a good foot rub. And it would be really cool to find that pedal G-spot. But, then again, why should I do it by remote control - when I already know where the "gee-whiz!" spot is?

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Shallow Graves

Body disposal is an important part of any decent murder plan. It's like a government scandal without the paper-shredding. Or washing your Hawaiian shirts and not ironing them. Many people are in prison today because they did not have a well thought out end game.

Of course, a lot of psychopaths nearly got away with it anyway. Like the time two Milwaukee police officers returned the 14 year old boy who was wandering naked down the street, heavily drugged and bleeding from his rectum, to Jeffrey Dahmer. When confronted, Dahmer told them that the boy was his 19 year old lover and that they were having a drunken argument. THAT was much better!

But usually, once the foul deed (murder) is done, it is just not good etiquette to leave the bodies laying about. It is the quickest way to get noticed. So body disposal does become important.

What made me think about all of this is that I spent part of my week digging a fire pit in my back yard. It took me six and a half hours over two days to dig a five foot diameter hole, twelve inches deep. And, "No," I didn't use a teaspoon. I just happen to be cursed with very rocky soil.

Which got me to thinking about the guy who commits, up until the burial, a perfect murder. He has the body wrapped in a tarp, placed in the plastic lined trunk of his car. Next to the body are two stolen shovels (just in case one breaks). He has several flashlights and a rake to smooth out the newly disturbed earth. Perfect.

Then he encounters soil like mine which required a pick, a heavy digging bar, a shovel and a gravel rake. It'll take him about an hour and a half just to cut the sod away. Without a pick to break up and loosen the obstinate rocks he'll probably break the tip of his shovel off in the first ten minutes of the actual dig.

By the time he realizes his problem, it is too late to change plans. He has already carried the body a quarter of a mile into the woods, just off of the main highway. He's made a second trip for all of the tools and has just wasted an hour and a half cutting away the sod. It is only 45 minutes until dawn (because most heinous deeds are done in the wee hours) and within an hour he will be able to be seen from the highway.

This is why we hear the term "shallow grave" so often. Poor planning and rough terrain. When was the last time you heard about hikers coming across a body buried six feet down in a proper burial vault? It never happens.

So take my advice. If you are planning that "perfect crime" - plan ahead. Pre-plowed farm land is nice. Or perhaps a quaint little murder on a sandy beach. It wouldn't even hurt to dig the grave before the crime. Because haste makes waste. Or at least 20 years to life.

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...but does he LIKE like her?

What year is it? For a number of reasons I feel like I'm back in high school again. Of my group of regular friends and correspondents it seems a large number of us are recently separated or divorced or between significant others. And some of the conversations I've been involved in are straight out of third period.

(The names have been changed to protect the hapless.)

It seems that Suzie likes Joe. But even though Joe likes Suzie, he also likes Joanie. Joanie likes Joe as a friend but really isn't looking for a boyfriend and Suzie would really like a steady beau. But Joe doesn't want a committed relationship although he really likes Suzie... and Joanie.

And I'm the doofus who is passing notes for them between periods.

Then there is Bill. Bill seems to date a different girl every week. All of his friends welcome the new girls and take the time to learn their names. We all encourage Bill and the girls all seem nice. Yet, by sometime mid-week they've broken up and he's on to the next one. What I'm wondering is how he keeps getting his class ring back?

Then there is the case of Debbie and Rick who were friends of Elaine and Mike. When Elaine and Mike broke up Debbie and Rick stayed out of it. Until one day Mike got a call from Debbie wondering if she and Rick could hang out with Mike. Mike said, "Sure. C'mon over." Later on Mike found out that Elaine has been hanging out with Debbie and Rick and she was sending them to Mike's to spy on him. Which Mike thought was funny because Debbie and Rick would have been the first people Mike's hung out with since Elaine left.

And the high school analogy is apt. I mean, I'm 56 years old and actually found myself saying, "I know he likes her - but does he like like her?" What the hell's wrong with me?

At this stage of our lives you'd think the whole dating, courtship rituals would have sorted themselves out in our heads, would have begun to make some sense, and we would have a procedure for this stuff. This is, after all, the generation that gave the world the inter-web, right?

But it seems that the spark between people, that certain something that excites us and makes us act all goofy, does not go away with age. I don't truly remember the extent of my own high school goofiness but I'm sure it didn't have anything on the me of today. Recently, I've begun to think of it not so much as a spark as a short circuit.

Whatever it is, though, and however goofy it may make us seem, it is this spark between two people that brings us back to life when our prior "true love" ends. It provides us with a reason to look forward to tomorrow and to be happy today.

To quote Bobby Vinton:

Only love can break a heart... and only love can mend it again.



Now if my face would just clear up!

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The Trouble with Hairy (Legs)

I have a problem with spiders. Every morning and every evening I have to kill a bunch of spider webs on my front porch and on the tiki deck. It does not matter how diligent I am at removing them - they keep coming back. The problem is worse when I leave the porch lights on at night.

I picture a crew of spider construction workers with their little hard hats, the flashing sawhorse lights, the beep-beep-beep as they back their little spider asses to the next area to be filled in, spewing webbing as a cement truck would a load of concrete. Only a third of them are working. The rest are either "supervising" or "taking a break", leaning on little spider shovels and glaring at passing fireflies.

Personally I find spiders creepy. When I was a teen-ager I moved my bedroom to my parent's back basement to avoid sharing a room with my siblings. I had a cot in one corner, poor ventilation and nascent claustrophobia. One night I awoke in the dark. I was thirsty and I reached above me and pulled the string that turned on the bare bulb over my bed. Hanging parallel to the pull string was a single strand of spider webbing. Suspended by the webbing was a big hairy spider - about six inches from my face. After that I didn't find sleeping in the same room with my sister nearly as disturbing.

Yesterday, I was killing another batch of spider webs when the petite red head asked me if I ever killed the actual spiders. "Huh?" I replied sagely.

It had never occurred to me. I just kept killing more and more elaborate constructions. Then I got to thinking. I wondered how many generations of spiders grew up and were evolving through selective breeding to survive my daily attacks. Was I actually breeding a heartier form of super-spider? Would I awake one morning to find myself wrapped in a cocoon of webbing, suspended upside down from the ceiling? With thousands of chittering arachnids fighting over the remains of my neighbor and claiming "dibs" on me?

I believe that a lot of nature is put here as an example of how "The Big Guy" intends things to run. Spiders are indeed creepy. But they also serve a function. Eating bugs and scaring teen-age boys in the dark are two of them. They also give me something to do twice a day. Sort of a break from the routines of living in paradise.

As for selective breeding, I got to wondering if we weren't doing the same thing with our fellow human beings. You know, breeding a stronger, smarter, more virulent form of, say, terrorists - or maybe even ex-spouses? It is damn near Darwinian.

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The God's, Themselves

The whole nature vs. nurture debate came full cycle today when a friend of mine told me I was God. My first instinct was to say, "Whoa there, big guy! I only bought you a drink!"

Actually, I was talking with him about the nature of God and he was telling me about how each of us are of the God essence. That everything was God and God is everything. And that once we understand this, it is easier to accept what life throws at us. He went on to say that our Egos are actually intellectual constructs that divert our true God nature away from good and the oneness we should feel with our fellow man and the universe and, indeed, ourselves. And that our Egos explain how an evil person could still be of the God essence.

Well, I've never been a dog to let go of a good bone so I had to ask him if not believing in myself was a new form of atheism. He knew that I knew better than that, however. I mean, what with my being God and all.

And, I have to admit, once I had gotten used to the idea, a certain smugness settled over me. I cast an imperious glance at the mirror across the room and was surprised (and pleased) to see that God wasn't taller. And He had a magnificent tan, to boot.

What finally brought this spontaneous worship service to a Graceless halt was when it occurred to my God-like brain that my friend was saying that HE was God, too. Then I got to thinking about the thought processes that had to have led him to his religious philosophies.

Finally, I had to ask him exactly how much of his ego he had tied up in this philosophy, anyway. Of course I already knew the answer. You know, being God and all.

Oh, and by the way, God's wife is HOT! You know who I mean, what with YOU being God and all.

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I Can Do That!

I had a mis-communication with the petite red head the other day and in typical guy fashion I tried to fix it. First I sat and did a quick mental re-wind of the conversation just to make sure I wasn't hearing the voices in my head incorrectly. When I thought I had it right I slowed it down a bit and started listening for inflection.

This was difficult because total recall can sometimes be confusing. In my memory, we were sitting under the tiki gazebo on the deck, smoking little cigars and drinking something cool. As I was recalling the memory I was sitting under the tiki gazebo on the deck, smoking a full sized cigar and drinking something cool. Somehow the memory and reality momentarily merged and I ended up lighting my big cigar in the middle - where the end of the little cigar was in the memory.

So, having to my satisfaction retrieved the conversation, I concluded that I had completely misunderstood something she had asked me and that what she was asking was too important for me to have blown off. Oh, Oh. Trouble in Johnnyland!

So how do I fix it? The simplest way would be to ask her about it and then talk about it. The guy way of fixing it is to write her a long rambling email exploring not only what I think she may have been asking me but about several variations on the theme, as well. I told her about everything I thought she was thinking and everything I thought she thought I was thinking and everything she thought I thought she was thinking... You get the idea. Then, just for shits and giggles, I threw in something from a previous mis-communication. Just to keep it interesting.

Then, to keep it light, I asked her how her day was going. I didn't want her to think I wasn't being cool about the whole thing. You know?

And this is why I like the petite red head so much. She didn't care about how badly I was mangling things. She didn't respond to my volcanic eruption of blather. She simply said, "OK, you need to just sit on the deck and read and QUIT THINKING."

Which was pretty good advice and in typical guy fashion I accepted it as another project to work on. Already picking a cigar, wondering how much Cognac I had left and where I had put my Lives of the Later Caesars, I absentmindedly emailed her saying, "I can do that."

(She thinks I'm funny.)


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The Teacher and the Atom Bomb

There are pivotal moments in everyone's lives. Points in time, after which we are no longer the same. Like pebbles in a stream, diverting our lives in new directions. Mine was in fourth grade.

The teacher, Miss Eberhardt, told us we were going to practice a Civil Defense Air Raid alert. She emphasized how important it was to follow the instructions carefully because it could "save our lives."

That was some heavy shit for an ten year old.

She said if we heard the Civil Defense siren, no matter where we were, we were to run to our classroom, get under our desks, get our heads down by our knees, put our hands over the back of our necks and wait for the all clear. Oh, and by-the-way, this was to protect us in the event of the RUSSIANS dropping an ATOMIC BOMB!!!

As I said, there are pivotal moments in everyone's life. This was one of mine.

This was the moment I began thinking clearly. This was the moment I realized how full of shit adults were. This was the moment I found out how funny life was.

You see, even though we were living in a paranoid society that built bomb shelters and stock-piled food and water and tried to scare the shit out of little kids, it was the same society that produced science fiction atomic mutant monster movies. I had seen the stock footage atom bomb blast a dozen times. I knew that everything in a half mile radius would be vaporized and that the shockwave and heatwave would travel many miles more. I knew that beyond that area, creatures like the Amazing Colossal Man and giant mutant ants and radioactive neck leaches would finish off the survivors.

So how the hell would kneeling under my desk with my hands over my neck stop any of that? Why didn't they just tell us to close our eyes and stick our fingers in our ears?

I mean, REALLY???

So, I went along with the program. When the teacher said for us to all face away from the windows because of the bright flash and possible broken glass, I asked why we didn't have safety glass. Then I put my hand up again and asked if we could bring sun glasses to school. Then I asked the kid next to me if we were putting our hands over our necks to protect us from the radioactive neck leaches.

Then I put my hand up and asked what happened if we heard the siren on the weekend? Was there a plan to let us into the school? When she said that we should go home or to the nearest house I asked how we could be safe there without the added protection of the school desks? We were, after all, talking about an ATOMIC blast. Right?

After a few more rounds of this I could see that even Miss Eberhardt had begun thinking more clearly. When I asked what would happen if we were sick that day, she laughed. And I guess that was really the moment. She didn't even object when I offered to sell my desk space for lunch money to the kids with little brothers and sisters not yet in school. For a week or two there, it was better than a paper route.

The late fifties and early sixties were wonder years in many ways. For some of us the fear and paranoia shaped a generation hellbent on rebellion. For others, we learned that laughter is stronger than fear. Many of our parents discovered that martinis took the edge off of the Cold War at night. But I will always remember Miss Eberhardt and will forever associate eraser dust with atomic ash.

Help Yourself

There are basically two kinds of hosts and two kinds of guests. The secret to a good party is in making sure everyone is on the same page.

Both kinds of hosts will say "Sure, help yourself!" then kind of wave distractedly towards whatever is needed with his free arm or hand. His other hand or arm is busy flipping meat on the grill, pouring drinks or is encircling the petite waist of the best looking redhead at the party.

The difference between the two kinds of hosts is that host (a) means "I have everything laid out for you and I'm kinda busy here so - help yourself." And it is obvious where the drinks, food, and bathrooms are. Host (b) is a different breed. He genuinely gives from the heart. He would give you one of his shirts to wear when you spill a drink. Give you a cigar from his private stock and literally means, "What's mine is yours - help yourself."

The difference between the two kinds of guests are very similar. Guest (a) has a sense of boundaries and tries not to make a mess; cleans up after themselves. Doesn't double dip. He hears "help yourself" as a polite invitation to enjoy what has been laid out for him and to enjoy the party. Guest (b) is a different breed. He takes the "help yourself" offer as a challenge. He'll root through the library desk until he finds the keys to the liquor cabinet then shows up on the deck with a bottle of thirty year old scotch. He'll buff his shoes with the hand towels from the master bath. He'll find the private cigar stock and take some "for later."

As I said the secret to a good party is the proper matching of hosts to guests. Ideally, you want a "host (a)/guest (a)" kind of party. The kind where the host pays attention to all the details before his guests arrive so that he can enjoy his own party and that petite redhead. And the kind where the guests are there to enjoy some good food and friendship.

Another O.K. scenario is when guest (b) shows up but host (b) is there giving away the store anyway. Although it does sort of take the wind out of guest (b)'s sails when host (b) actually opens the private liquor cabinet and says, "No, I insist, take the bottle. Help yourself."

Where it gets a little dicey is when guest (b) tells his wife to carry "the big purse" to a host (a) party. Or if host (b) offers to send a case of Robert Mondavi to his hapless teetotaler guest (a). Someone is bound to feel awkward.

Fortunately, most of the host (b)'s are protected from themselves by their real friends.

And most of the guest (b)'s are busy either getting caught by other guests or they couldn't make it that night because they had a load of Holiday Inn towels to wash.

The Nature of Change

So, I've been thinking about human nature.

We seem to be able to interpret the same events with wildly differing perspectives; even within ourselves. We may look at a trauma or a drama that comes into our lives as the end of the world... or possibly a new beginning.

And I think it goes beyond our mood or distance from the event. Wounds heal. Anger ebbs. Moods change. Those are superficial reads. This is more visceral. More basic to our humanity. Universal. It has more to do with our fight or flight instincts than our actual thought processes.

Have you noticed how everyone claims to hate change? We grouse about everything. From the Coca Cola formula to new car styles. From the price of gas to this week's Pizza Hut specials. I'm still pissed off that they don't make Buckwheats cereal anymore. What's it been? Thirty years?

And yet...

The best times of my life have occurred during change. High school, the birth of my sons, selling the house and moving 1,200 miles to take a new job. Changing careers, again. Changing my mind.

The challenge and the excitement of new horizons and unknown adventures have always been a lure for people everywhere and everywhen. When primitive man ventured into that next valley he didn't know what he would find. Yet his curiosity moved him forward towards danger. And he felt alive. And we're still pushing beyond the visible horizons today. We've exchanged the wooden club for hard drives but whether we're tripling the capacity of a microchip or are preparing for a return to the moon, mankind never feels so alive as when it seeks out the new beginnings. The next adventure.

That bring me back to the beginning of this piece. The duality of our nature. To fight or flee.

I had a fair number of changes in my life over the past half dozen years. I didn't like any of them. I had some health issues, I retired before I really wanted to, I sold a house I loved, and I had a marriage of thirty-five years end. It alters your perspective. (I don't find myself haunting the cereal aisle looking for Buckwheats as often as I used to.)

But I recently learned why I've been discontent. Why I've resisted the changes. I have been fleeing. I had chosen not to fight. I was not looking for the unknown adventure to be found over the next horizon but was returning to my cave in fear of the unknown. I truly believed it was over for me. The stars were winking out one by one as the darkness engulfed me.

But what I had failed to realize was humanity's capacity to adapt. It is a hardwired imperative.

Eventually I realized that the stars also go away because of the dawning day. And that it is much easier to see the far horizons in the new light. So here I stand, wondering what's over that next ridge.

And why the hell it took me so long to wonder about it.