Escape Velocity

This Is Our Fall Back Position

2011-11-06T09:37:00.004-05:00

I really love Brewster Rocket's take on daylight savings time.
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Mixed Signals

2011-08-22T20:53:00.011-05:00

I was driving on the perimeter road around our local mall, today, and came to a stop sign. Mounted under the traditional red, octagonal sign was another sign that read - 15 MPH. On the same sign post!

My first thought was make up your mind.

My second thought was which one should I obey?

My third thought was I'd love to hear this one played out in traffic court.

My fourth thought was about sex in order to fulfill my Guy Contract that states that all men think about sex every 37.2 seconds.

But back to the confusing signpost. What was I to make of this sign? Was I to come to a complete stop, then slightly floor it? Or, was I to consider 15 MPH as having fulfilled my complete stop obligation?

And what about the cars around me? Were they all going to make the same decision I was expected to? Which, I still had to wonder, was what exactly?

Was my decision to be based on traffic conditions? Such as how you can make a right turn on red? Or was it more like the Motor Voter laws, which I assumed allowed drive through voting? I took my driving test over 40 years ago and I am pretty sure a lot of things have changed. Like how it's O.K. for illegal aliens to drive without a license and have no I.D. but upstanding Americans better have their shit together.

Then I thought that maybe the confusing signpost was a prank. Then I got paranoid and thought maybe they made it purposely vague so that they could pull you over no matter what you did. Instant probable cause.

So what did I do? Well, just before the intersection was the entrance to a McDonalds. I turned right, pulled in there, circled the building and parked facing the access road. After observing the situation for several minutes, I saw many cars slow down and stop before proceeding safely on. I also saw a number of cars slow slightly and continue through the intersection. They weren't any freaking help at all!

So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I turned left out of McDonalds and went three quarters of the way around the mall in the wrong direction to avoid the intersection.

I can assure you, this is not over. I plan on sending a strongly worded letter to the Mall Management Office.

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The Hanging Tree

2011-08-18T22:35:00.012-05:00

Ever since I have moved, I have a different view from my back deck. It took me a while to come to terms with this unintended consequence but I pride myself on my ability to adapt. That being said, I have in my back yard what can only be described as a hanging tree. It is a fifty foot tall oak with a large horizontal branch about fifteen feet up. Often times, late in the afternoon, I will sit on my deck, sipping the major export of Scotland while enjoying a fine Dominican cigar. I like to contemplate how people in different parts of the world are toiling away at their tedious little lives so that I can while away a pleasant summer evening. I also, on occasion, think about the hanging tree.

I can picture a cowboy, on horseback, throwing a noosed rope over the branch and tying the other end off to a nearby tree. I can see three more horses moving through the cornfield, slowly approaching the tree. As I hold this mental image I lean back in my deck chair and I hear it creak slightly under my weight...

... the worn leather creaked slightly as I involuntarily leaned back in my saddle, away from the dangling noose. "You boys aren't serious about this, are you?" I tried to keep my voice steady.

"Serious as blisters, Johnny."

As Jubal moved his horse closer to me, he reached for the dangling noose and my horse skittered sideways, away from the sudden movement. I saw this as probably my only chance to do anything before they got that rope around my neck. Since my hands were tied behind my back, I reared back, grabbing onto the back edge of my saddle for better balance and brought my leg up to try to kick Jubal from his mount.

But Doc was behind me, grabbing a bunch of my shirt at the nape of my neck and jammed the barrel of his .44 under my jawline. "This ain't our first rodeo. Now settle down." he whispered in my ear. My horse was jumpy but was boxed in by the others and calmed down. As if obeying Doc's command.

Jubal snatched my hat from my head, tossing it to Lucas. "Luke, you need a hat?"

The hat hit Lucas' shoulder and fell to the ground. His eyes were hidden in shadow beneath the brim of his range hat. His mouth was an angry slash across the bottom half of his face. Sitting motionless in his saddle, he let his eyes roam the treeline, looking for intruders. "Get on with it." he finally responded, ignoring my hat on the ground.

With a quick movement, Jubal looped the noose over my bare head and his gloved hands tightened the knot, cinching the rough hemp against my throat. "Now if this here were a proper hangin'," he explained, "with a gallows and all, you would drop down and your weight would snap your neck and it would all be over real quick like." Jubal always did like the sound of his own voice. "But... we don't have no fancy gallows. All we got is this here hangin' tree. So when we whack your pony here, he's going to ride off without you and you're just going to dangle like and then you're going to slowly strangle and you're feet'll kick and you'll try'in use your arms but they'll be tied behind yer back and for a little bit you'll look like yer dancin' on air. Then the fight'll go outta you. But you still won't be dead. You're face'll turn red and then it'll turn purple. Yer eyes'll bug out and yer lungs'll feel like they're gonna bust. But still you won't be dead. You'll just be hanging there all still like but yer brain'll still be workin'."

He reached up and tilted his hat back with his thumb and grinned his tobacco stained teeth at me. "Hell, if'n I keep the noose loose enough, you might swing fer half an hour before you die." He looked around to Doc and Lucas. "Ain't that right, boys?"

Lucas scratch a match on his britches and slowly lit a cheroot. Then he growled again, "Get on with it!"

I wanted to reason with them. But the noose was so tight I could only manage an inarticulate croak. Now I began to desperately scan the treeline. Hoping for help... for someone to stop this insanity. Hoping for anything to give me more time. The day was cool for this time of year but my shirt was soaked with my own sweat. I twisted to the left to look at Jubal and to the right to see what Doc was doing. Lucas' horse huffed and I twisted that direction.

This couldn't be happening! What the hell had I done that was so wrong, anyway? Jubal moved away to sit next to Lucas. I twisted desperately around to see what Doc was doing. While I was distracted, Lucas drew his pistol and fired into the air, spooking my horse. He reared up and for just a moment I teetered on the edge of eternity, my weight still in the saddle, my booted feet trying to grip the metal stirrups through the leather soles, my toes curling in vain. Then the horse was galloping off through the cornfield as I looked on in surprise and shock...

"What are you thinking about?" she asked from the other side of the table.

"Huh?" I asked, coming back to reality.

"What are you thinking about? You had a funny look on your face."

"Oh... nothing really. I was just wondering how old that tree was."

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Guys and Dolls

2011-08-09T09:24:00.008-05:00

I saw a guy in drag the other day. Heeshee was waiting in line at the Walmart pharmacy. My first thought was, I wonder what Heeshee has caught. Then I wondered what Heeshee was spreading. Then, the salesman in me wondered who made ladies shoes in that size and if there was much of a market for them.

So I walked past this human side show in my never ending quest for Buckwheats cereal. It was discontinued sometime in the mid 70's and I keep hoping they'll bring it back. I really liked that cereal.

Later I saw the hopelessly confused dragmeister in the produce isle inspecting the cucumbers and carrots. Then, I made a mental note to stick to the Dole's Very Veggie Mix and leave the tubers to the professionals. While I was ruminating, Heeshee was joined by two other members of the Boys are Girls Club of America. Then I began wondering how you pee standing up if you are wearing pantyhose.

After a moment, I noticed them notice me noticing them. Not wanting to be known as the guy who was forced into white slavery by three angry men in dresses, I pushed my shopping cart on past them. But not before I nodded politely and said, "Gentlemen."

Which brings me to the actual meat of this story. I have a lady friend who absolutely hates to be called a guy. At first blush, you wouldn't think this would be much of a problem. She is curvy, and soft, and pink, and... and... you'd never mistake her, in a million years, for a guy. But if she is in a room of men and women and someone comes in and addresses them as, "Hi guys!", she will immediately say, "I'm not a guy."

Which brings me back to the trans-sexuals. Just as my lady friend is adamant about her sexual identity, these misfits if science are insisting on new categories. What was considered sick and perverse just 50 years ago (shortly before Buckwheats mysteriously disappeared), is now mainstream.

But morality aside, I was wondering about something else. By my last count (I'm making these numbers up) there are cataloged 73 separate, distinct sexual positions and, according to the new government health laws, there are seven, legally recognized, sexual gender categories. So I'm wondering two things: A) Why seven? With two original sexes, and all of the slice and dice variations, wouldn't you think it would always end up with an even number? And 3) Are the 73 separate and distinct sexual positions factoring in the seven legally recognized, sexual gender categories or do they now become a multiplier? Making it 511 possible sexual positions.

I, personally, have only ever completely mastered four of them. Well, five if you want to count that thing with the cat.

I guess what I am saying is that that is way too much sex for just seven, legally recognized, sexual gender categories. When does anybody get any work done? Maybe the recession has hit at a good time for America, sexually speaking. What with all the enforced free time, and all. It gives more people time to explore their sexuality and question their gender choices. Maybe this was the CHANGE everybody voted for in the last election.

One of the interns here at the International Escape Velocity Headquarters was just giving me a neck rub and was reading over my shoulder when she asked, "Did you ever think that you're not secure in your own masculinity?" Which got me to thinking. Maybe that's my lady friend's "guy" problem. As pretty, and sexy, and lovely, and curvy, and pink as she is... maybe she's not secure in her femininity. Maybe she has some trans-gender leaning that she is secretly ashamed of and, therefore, for the sake of her own psyche she has an overwhelming need to point out to everyone who will listen that she is "not a guy".

Which brings me back to the guy in drag at Walmart. I mean, it's not like I don't have empathy for the poor miserable slob. Because I, myself, am a man who very much wants to be in the body of a woman... I just want to get in there the traditional way.

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Another Spring Forward

2011-03-13T14:38:00.004-05:00

The Creepy Funeral Guy Story

2010-12-06T17:06:00.009-05:00

So, the Brown-haired Beauty and I were canoodling on her couch the other day when she made an astounding observation. "You have a smart ass comment for everything, don't you?"

"Not to that I don't," I replied. All forward shields at maximum.

"No... but I can tell you're thinking of one."

"Or three," I answered honestly.

"I'm not criticizing you." she elaborated. "Sometimes you're almost entertaining."

"Gee... I..."

"Gotcha!" she laughed. "But really, you do seem to have a pretty funny punch line for everything."

"It's my super-power," I admitted. "I was bitten by a radioactive bed-bug while on a school field trip. Now I have the proportionate craziness of one."

"Well, I have a story that doesn't have a funny punch line." she said. "And I doubt even you will be able to come up with one."

"Oh. A challenge."

"Let's make it a bet. Winner chooses the prize."

"You're on." I said with out hesitation.

"O.K., but you have to make me really laugh."

"No problem."

She settled back against the leather cushions of the couch and began her story:

"I was thirty years old at the time. It was late in the year and my mother had died several weeks earlier. It was her desire to have her body left to science."

"Which science," I asked, "astronomy?"

"No, and that doesn't count. I'm not done with the story."

"Sorry. I was just warming up."

"Anyway, when a person leaves their body to science, the body is still handled by the funeral home on it's way to the university or medical school. The funeral home charges $400 for transportation and doing the paperwork.

"I was sitting at work several weeks after my mother died when I got a phone call from the funeral home. The man on the phone told me that they had some documentation that needed to be returned to me and that they normally mail it out, but he said he was going to be near my work address and he wanted to know if he could drop it off in person. I said O.K. and we set a time.

"Later on I got a call that there was someone to see me in the lobby. When I got there I met a kind of creepy older guy in a dark suit. He was going bald, had a scraggly mustache and brown, crooked teeth. And dandruff. He introduced himself and instead of just handing me the papers and leaving, he just kept talking in a raspy smokers voice. He just wouldn't stop.

"Finally, I interrupted long enough to tell him I had to get back. He looked a little hurt or put out or something and then he asked, "Look, I've really enjoyed meeting you and since it's kind of the holidays, I was wondering if you'd give me a kiss." My first thought was, "Ewww!" Then I thought how horrible it was that this creepy jerk was trying to take advantage of me during my time of grief.

"I'm not really sure what I said. I guess I mumbled some kind of excuse, clutched the papers to my chest and hurried from the lobby.

The Brown-haired Beauty sat there on the couch for a minute obviously reliving the revulsion of that moment. Then she looked up and met my steady gaze. "Well?"

"Well," I repeated, "If I were you I would have told him "Gee, we just met. Maybe we should wait a little longer. Why don't we wait until my father dies?" "

I won't tell you what my prize was. Let's just say I wasn't treated like a creepy funeral director.

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...Mouths of Babes...

2010-09-30T19:40:00.009-05:00

Get your minds out of the gutter. The blog title refers to a Biblical quote that is often misunderstood to mean that "out of the mouths of babes (children)" comes wisdom. Regardless of the original intent, the inference remains.

I had occasion to return to my home town after many years absence and was surprised at my reaction and my welcome. I left Butler in the very early '80's and occasionally returned for the odd holiday or wedding or funeral. This was the first time I had been back since my divorce.

I admit to having had some trepidation about returning. It had been, by my reckoning, about 7 or 8 years since my last visit. During that time I lost my job, had to retire for health reasons, lost my home, and eventually lost my wife. Not exactly the stuff of a "Hail the conquering hero" homecoming. Quite frankly, I was too embarrassed to return home.

But, for some reason, I was in the right frame of mind when I received an invitation to my niece Stephanie's wedding. So I accepted.

When I got to my sister's house I was welcomed with open arms. Nobody asked me a lot of awkward questions and, more than anything, I was happy to be there. I had fun with my nieces and nephews and I honestly think they had fun with me. It was a beautiful wedding and a really fun reception. I got to reconnect with cousins and old friends that I hadn't seen in too many years.

And then I was introduced to the granddaughter of my second cousin. She was only 5 or 6 years old but we had a very memorable conversation. I had stopped, during the reception, to ask her if she was having fun. She said "uh huh" then asked me a question.

"Why don't you live here anymore?"

I thought about it a second and answered, "Well, I moved away because of my job."

"Do you still have that job?" she asked.

"No." I replied. "No. I don't"

"So why don't you live here now?" she asked.

I looked around the room at my sister and my extended family and said, "I really don't know, honey. I really don't know"

During the non-wedding related time of my trip, I had had occasion to wander around Butler county and visit my old haunts. I went past the house I grew up in, and the grade school I went to (now an apartment building). I drove past my old junior and senior high schools... through several neighborhoods where we had lived and began raising our children... past churches we used to attend... and past a number of old girlfriend's houses.

Many things had changed but many remained virtually the same. But the most important thing that had remained the same was the friendship of old friends, the closeness of community and the love of and for my family. Some things never change.

So why was I living close to 300 miles away from my home and family? At first I would have said I was following my career. But I'm retired, now. Then I would have said I was raising my family. But the boys are raising their own families in Ohio and Texas. Next I would have said that this is where my wife works and has her career. But we are divorced. So why am I still here?

My number one reason for remaining here has been the friendships I've made. I have met some truly wonderful, interesting and fun people over the past decade. Some of whom I will never forget and others that I expect will remain my friends wherever I may go.

But in another sense, I feel that, though I have washed up on the shores of a seemingly tropical paradise, like Robinson Crusoe, my soul longs for home. I have been marking time, trying to figure out what is next.

And I really did not know what that might be until a little girl asked me, "Why don't you live here anymore?" When she asked me that, I did not know how to answer her. Now I do.

I have a lot of logistics to work out, but screw Tom Wolfe, I'm going home.

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Mixed Metaphors

2010-08-28T13:09:00.008-05:00

I write my own jokes. Some might even call it humor. I like to attribute it to my smart-ass gene. I've been told that I get this from my great, great, grand step- uncle Tex Bonus. Or maybe it was my uncle's niece on my mother's side, Daisy, the Grand Duchess of Portland, Maine. No one really knows.

A lot of people (3) have asked me where I get my ideas. I usually reply, "I dunno. Maybe it was something I ate."

More than likely, I'm just repeating the shit I hear the voices say.

Over the past several months, a lot of my friends (6) have heard me say the following snippets. I call them snippets because "one liners" doesn't apply. (Mostly because they're more than one line.)

There is one good thing I have to say about my ex-wife - she was into anal. No matter how clean I wanted the house, she'd go along with it.

I read that Pillsbury just bought the Trojan company. Their first new product is a self rising condom.

Politics is one of the few endeavors to allow us Absolute Certainty with Virtually No Information… …Religion and Meteorology are the other two.

I was wondering, if AA has a 12 step program, does AAA have an 18 step program?

You know how high heels can tighten a girl's calves and make her ass look great? Well, I once saw a lady who was so ugly her ass made her shoes look bad.

A lot of people think only tight, hard bodies go to nudist resorts. Actually, a lot of women go because they can't go to regular beaches. I mean, where would they even find a 10 piece bikini?

The other day a friend told me she bought a puppy on the internet. I just stared at her a second, then said, "Wow. What kind of printer do you have?

Several years ago I got a hot tub for my wife. It was the best trade I ever made.

Mommy, what's a mixed metaphor? Your daddy is. Why, Mommy? Because he is hung like Einstein and is as smart as a horse.

So that's what a metaphor is!

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I was strolling through the mall with the Blond Bombshell the other day when I decided to test the degree of her blondness. As we approached one if the big maps I said, "I want to show you something."

We stood gazing at the map for a few moments when she squealed, "Oh, look! They have a Claire's Boutique!" The squeal was accompanied by a squeeze of my hand.

"Yeah, that's great. We'll go there in a little bit." I said somewhat distractedly. "But first I want you to look at something."

She stood there looking at the map a few more seconds and finally asked, "What?"

"See the red dot that says -YOU ARE HERE-?"

"Yeah?"

"Now follow me." I said and I took off at a brisk pace for the center of the mall. When we got to the next big map I said, "Now, look at that."

"What am I looking at?"

"The red dot." I answered.

"Yeah?"

"It now says I am here." I said, trying to sound a little exasperated.

"Yeah... well, you are." She said as if to a little boy.

"O.K. Let's do this one more time." I declared. With that I grabbed her hand and headed off for the far end of the mall. When we eventually got there she had begun complaining about her shoes. Or, more accurately, her feet. So when we arrived in front of the final big map I needed to refocus her.

I pointed at the map and said, "Well?"

She looked at the mall layout depicted before her and said, "I still don't get it."

"I don't either." I admitted. "I mean, how does it know?"

"Know what?"

"Where I am!" I exclaimed. "Obviously this thing is tracking me somehow." I paused a moment and said as if in deep thought, "Maybe it's reading the GPS in my cell phone."

She was quiet for several seconds then asked, "What if you left your cell phone in the car?"

"Well... I guess I'd have to ask someone where I am." I said slowly.

We just stood there, staring at the mysterious red dot declaring -YOU ARE HERE-, presumably deep in thought. Finally, I said, "Do me a favor. You stay here and I'm going to walk down there a ways. Let know if the dot moves."

"O.K." she answered, seriously.

I set off, retracing my steps past several store fronts before I turned around and mimed "well?".

She looked at the map and back at me and back at the map again. Then she started towards me on those sexy little heels. When she got to me she was a little out of breath. "I think I have it figured out!" she exclaimed.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yep." she nodded with a big grin. "When you walked over here the dot didn't move!"

"So?"

"Well, it's obvious, silly. The map is tracking me!"

The moral of the story is: I never know when the Blond Bombshell is messing with me.

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Group Life Insurance

2010-07-10T11:13:00.007-05:00

I received a piece of bulk mail from AAA today. They were offering up to $200,000 of group term life insurance (for just pennies per minute). Now, I'm not really in the market for life insurance because I have always viewed death as a last chance to be a burden on my family. But even still, something intrigued me about this offer.

So, being the troublemaker, er... wiseguy, er... thorough person that I am, I read the fine print.

It turns out that in order to collect on group term life insurance, the entire group must die at the same time. So, figuring, "what are the odds of that?" I decided that anyone who signed up for group term life insurance would be stupid to die before the rest of the group so, demographically, it must be a pretty safe group.

So I signed up.

There are a couple of codicils, however. The policy is voided in the event of group suicide. But it does pay double indemnity in case of group accidental death. So, if we all decided, as a group, to kill ourselves, we would have to make it look like an accident. Like a tragic group bowling accident... or, say, we were all in a giant rowboat during a tornado. Or maybe a group hunting accident.

All in all, it was a pretty good mail day.

I will, however, have to re-think that age old question my mother used to ask me, "If everybody jumped off a bridge..."

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Fathers and Sons

2010-06-17T15:42:00.026-05:00

I was talking with my friend Jonesy the other day when I couldn't help but ask him what was wrong. We were sitting at my tiki bar drinking Dr. Pepper on shaved ice with crushed cherries. The sun was hot. There was no breeze.

"Oh, I'm having trouble with my younger son." he answered. "He's having trouble dealing with my divorce and he absolutely hates that I live at a nudist resort." He stirred the ice with his finger. When he lifted the glass, the beaded moisture left a ring on the bar. I'd wipe it up later.

(Note to self: put the coasters on the tiki bar.)

"What's he been doing?" I asked.

He put the drink back down near the ring.

(Couldn't he at least hit the same spot each time?)

He gave me a wry smile, "Every time we talk he feels like he has to beat me up about living here. He won't give it a rest. He thinks it's wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies."

"I thought the orgy thing was a secret?" I feigned incredulity. "Have you told him that people around here look like people you meet anywhere?"

A nudist resort does not automatically attract beautiful, hard bodies. In fact, just the opposite is true. Most good looking young people enjoy the dress up, the clubs and the sexy flirtations. The people who come here skew older and, as an act of gross rationalization, claim complete body acceptance. This allows them to be over weight and out of shape - without embarrassment. In fact, most of the people here would not go to a clothed beach because of how bad they would look in a bathing suit.

"Yeah. But he doesn't believe me. I even snuck a picture of Adele." He pulled a photo out of his pocket. Adele was a very sweet but large lady of our mutual acquaintance. Picture taking at the resort was mostly forbidden. We also knew that Adele was a free spirit and that she wouldn't mind.

He handed it over to me and said, "I was going to send it to him with the caption:

.............................See Son, It's not all about sex!

I glanced at it and handed it back to him. "Cute." I said. "Adele's husband, Roy, might object."

Jonesy took the photo back and looked at it again. "Oh, wait! This is Roy!" He tucked the photo away then picked up his glass and sloshed a little as he turned on his stool.

(Oh, look! You missed a spot.)

I changed the subject and asked, "What's your son do?"

"Besides bitch at me like we're married?"

"That's rhetorical, right?" I always have to check after that incident with the traffic cop.

He nodded, then said. "He's a teacher in Ohio."

"Oh!" I answered, trying to sound impressed. "He must be real bright."

"He is. if you're impressed with night lights. He was recently turned down by Mensa Lite. He spelled his name wrong on the application. I asked him how that could happen and he claimed it was a union thing. The teacher's union is very strong in Ohio."

I never know when Jonesy is messing with me. "What's Mensa Lite?" I prodded.

"Mensa Lite is for pseudo-intellectuals. People who talk about their degrees rather than their accomplishments. People who talk about the book reviews they read, rather than the books they have read. People who think Al Gore is an intellectual."

"So, why're you so down on him?" I wondered.

"Maybe it's because he won't let up on me. Maybe it's because when his mom left me he never once asked me what had happened or even how I was doing." He paused and picked a piece of cherry out of his drink, dripping across the bar and onto the deck.

Then he seemed to rouse himself, remembering that he was supposed to be making a joke or something. That was Jonesy's coping mechanism. Mine was wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies.

"You know," he said, "I remember the night he was conceived and, I gotta tell you, the sex wasn't that great."

There's the old Jonesy I know!

He sat a little straighter in his chair and I could see the gleam in his eye. He was getting ready to be on a roll. I picked up my drink and sloshed a little on the bar by way of encouragement.

"I kid around about his mother being unfaithful but I am almost 100% certain I am his father."

"How so?" I played the straight man.

"When he was born he had my last name." I smiled and he continued, "Did I ever tell you why we named him P.J.?"

"Uh, uh."

"Because his mother had called dibs on B.J."

"Cute." I said. I began to fondly remember Jonesy's ex-wife but he wasn't done yet.

"Isn't it ironic," he asked, "that being an actual bastard is passed on through the mother?"

I had to laugh.

"And why isn't there a specific name for illegitimate females? I think bitch would have been a great choice. But it was already handily taken by adult women." Jonesy has been a little bitter since the break up.

I sucked on some ice, tasting the cherry juice.

"I am wondering one thing, though."

"What's that?" I mumbled through the ice.

"Even though I am as certain as a guy can be that his sons are legitimate, does my recent divorce make them Bastards by Proxy?"

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The Golden Age of Fornication

2010-06-10T09:16:00.025-05:00

"Birth control pill for men still a way off"

Really? Birth control pills for men?

That headline leaped off of my news reader this morning and struck me like a ton of condoms. I mean, say it isn't so!

It reminds me of the southerner who, after a vasectomy, had sex in a tuxedo. He told his wife, "If I'm going to be impotent, then I'm going to dress impo'tant!"

The only viable reason I can think of for a man to need a male birth control pill is because she is too blond to remember to take hers. But, then again, if we can figure out how to slip a roofie into her Cosmo I'm pretty damn sure we can manage to hide a birth control pill in her Big Mac or a morning after pill in her omelette.

Is it because women are too lazy? Or maybe it's just the opposite. Is she so intent upon wanting it all (the Career, the sporty car, the house, the 2.3 kids, and the sex without consequences) that remembering to take the pill is just one thing too many. Let the man do it.

I grew up in an era when there were larger families; 4.7 children on average. Back then, women ovulated and men ejaculated. It was uncomplicated. Maybe a little messy... but who cared. Men didn't do the laundry.

Being a .7 child (I was a little puny back then) I got to view life in what I call the Golden Age of Fornication. Back when every man a woman slept with truly believed he was her first. Back when the back seat of the car wasn't filled with car seats and flat screen DVD players but was made for laying down and moving around a little. When condoms were birth control and if she got pregnant... Well, he didn't really believe he was her first, did he?

But now we have fifty different styles of condoms, some kind of vaginal O-ring thingy, defoliant foam, birth control pills, morning after pills, 5-day after pills and legal abortions. The odds are that if you weren't born before 1973, you probably won't be.

If I were tackling this problem from a practical point of view I would look at what I am up against. (No pun intended.) Women make one egg a month. A man can generate 1,000 sperm a second. It's like trying to control the Mexican border. Wouldn't it be easier to just get rid of the Americans?

But really, all seriousness aside. Men already have vasectomies available to us. Right? So, why not add another layer of protection into the mix? Why not make a pill for men that kills our sperm production, day-by-day, on a pill-by-pill basis? And leave the important stuff to the women.

Then again, I thought chemical castration was for criminals.

P.S.: There is no such thing as safe sex. There are still about twenty other things that can go wrong.

P.P.S.: The reason men don't need birth control pills is that they can't get pregnant. It would be like a woman getting a vasectomy. Science might get it to work, but our hearts wouldn't be in it.

P.P.P.S.: Why do we need all these different kinds of contraception, anyway? Hasn't anyone ever heard of a blow job?

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I Feel Like I've Been Jacked Around

2010-05-24T21:11:00.026-05:00

Two ground breaking TV shows ended this week. Lost and 24. Many positive things have already been written about these shows but I am not going to be another gushing fanboy. What I am concerned with here are the messages these two shows left with us. And why I disagree.

I'll bet Jack Bauer wishes he had ten more minutes in his most recent 24 hour day... so that he could wake up in Bobby Ewing's shower (Dallas)... or wake up with Susanne Pleshette (Newhart)... or find out he was a part of an autistic child's snow globe daydream (Saint Elsewhere).

Is it possible for an entire season to jump the shark (Happy Days)?

The season painfully ground to a halt in pursuit of an ephemeral and mis-guided peace treaty that never caught any traction with the viewers. Who cares if a liberal president is disgraced through their own corrupt machinations? We can get that on the 20 minute news cycle.

Nor does it matter if the president did the right thing in the end. In her position as the leader of the free world she should have been doing the right thing step by step. Her only reason for coming to her senses was that she got caught... and that Jack shamed her into it.

Then we were able to witness the First Bitch of an imaginary mid-east country transform herself from an unreasonable shrew into an Arab Mother Theresa while her daughter goes from selling out her father and country in order to sleep with a guy to becoming a super-patriot of her country.

Apparently, these three women prove that it doesn't matter how venal or corrupt they are if they think the means justifies the end.

Then we were supposed to believe that Chloe, Jack's biggest cheer leader, started the day out as a temp brought in to help CTU and was made Director of the agency before the end of the day.

I wrote a blog several years ago that was called "The Women of 24". I still stand by my premise that, if you eliminated all the time wasted in the sub-plots involving all of the wrong thinking women in the show, it would have been called 3 or maybe 4 at tops.

In the end of 24, Jack found a kind of redemption or vindication and we were left with another blurring of the lines between the good guys and the bad guys. The president ordered Jack freed but sent him on the run, out of the country, for his life. Meanwhile, all of the bad guys kept getting full presidential pardons. She couldn't have done that for Jack? At the end of the day, apparently, the message we're supposed to take from the show was that the "good guys" can kill, maim and lie as long as they are better than the really bad "bad guys".

If, in the real world, our American president and hierarchy were this corrupt and self-serving then there is no hope for... O, never mind. We already have one of thOse.

Which brings me to Lost.

It turns out that all 6 seasons were about the other Jack working out his personal redemption before he died shortly after the plane crash in the first episode. We know this because the final scenes, after Jack stumbles out of the bamboo and dies, were of the wreckage strewn beach devoid of people when, at that point in the pilot, the survivors were wandering all over the beach.

Which is what the writers denied was going on for six years. But I guess if they had admitted to it in the beginning nobody would have tuned in nor would they have been able to waste all of that (our) time building up to the cheesy Twilight Zone ending.

(This might explain, however, how Hurley never lost any weight stranded on a desert Island.)

I know everyone got all gushy at the final episode's hopeful message of personal redemption. The problem with this premise is that, like all other liberal, feel-good theologies, it is nonsense.

If we don't, through our faith, good deeds and relationships, work out our redemption throughout the course of our lives - it is too late after the plane crashes.

The flaw in religions that deny a specific God, offer easy gimmicks for salvation and that do not teach a punishment for evil, is that the seekers gain a false sense of hope and security that will not serve them well in the end. Mankind is not well served by TV shows and a culture that denies these things.

We need to be taught, and believe, that there is a very specific God who requires our faith and commitment to Him and that there is good and evil in this world that demands of us to choose. This is the true test of righteousness. When we choose. People who deny this are unwilling to face up to the responsibility and consequences of their own actions and choices. Unfortunately, they are making their choice in their denial.

That would have been a better message... and ending.

So much for ground breaking TV.

.

This Explains a Lot

2010-03-16T08:38:00.003-05:00

Elegy for a Kitten

2010-02-04T22:41:00.046-05:00

I was on my way to the store the other day when I saw the carcass of a dead cat frozen stiff by the side of the road. I immediately thought of my ex-wife. Then I started wondering how I made that connection. So I retraced my train of thought (which isn't easy): some of the tracks don't line up quite right, the transformer is a little quirky, one of the boxcars is missing a wheel and I haven't been able to find my engine in years.

Anyway... I was on my way to the store to see if I could find some left-over Valentine's candy. I figured the stores probably over-estimated how many men would try buying their way out of trouble with a cheap box of chocolate. I just hoped I could get there before all of the fat chicks cleaned it out.

In case you haven't figured it out - I have always been a hopeless romantic. So I have to admit that the irony of my divorce coming so close to Valentine's Day is not lost on me. But the divorce is FINAL and, as a result, I feel I have learned some valuable lessons:

One, is that if divorce wasn't so expensive and difficult, women probably wouldn't want one.
Two, is the reason divorce is so expensive is that it is worth it.
And three, is that divorce is probably the last time you can completely satisfy your wife.

It also let's you finally see your partner without those rose colored glasses.

petty
adjective
1 petty regulations: TRIVIAL, trifling, minor, small, unimportant, insignificant, inconsequential, inconsiderable, negligible, paltry, footling, pettifogging; informal piffling, piddling, fiddling. ANTONYMS important, serious.
2 a petty form of revenge:SMALL-MINDED, mean, ungenerous, shabby, spiteful. ANTONYMS magnanimous.

Since it took two years after the separation for her to agree to the details of the divorce, I'm thinking #2 is the one I'm looking for. Oddly enough, the process also smells like number two.

Divorce also makes you aware of how people change. I remember, when we were young, how she used to be my playful little Kitten . That was my pet name for her. Kitten. Years later, after the kids were grown and my health and earning capacities were failing me, she wasn't so much "playful" as she was "playing me". And I came to realize that the cat that the kitten became had the morals of an alley cat. Not long after that she turned feral.

In the end, now that she has her own place, she has at least one cat that I know of and is probably well on her way towards becoming a crazy cat lady.

Did I mention that I am allergic to cats? I could go on but I don't want to be accused of beating a dead pussy.

But all of this does help explain how, in the constant conversation between the voices in my head, one of them could say, "Speaking of a dead pussy... have I ever told you about my ex-wife?"

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Is it MyFace or SpaceBook?

2010-01-31T20:07:00.004-05:00

About a year ago, during an incoherent moment, I joined one of those social networking groups. I think it's name was MyFace or SpaceBook or SpaceFace or MyBook or something. Anyway, I signed up because several people were pestering the hell out of me to do so. They were all acting like this was the answer to all of our social problems. So I signed up and created a profile.

What I discovered was Nirvana for losers. Let me put it this way, I retired when I was 51. So, basically, I have the rest of my life to do nothing. If I took all of that free time, it would not be enough to answer all of my friend requests, heart requests, puppy requests, frog requests, answer "this question" requests, etc. And I don't even work the site.

I thought it might be a cool way to keep up with with my friends activities or parties or something useful. What I found was a lot of specious requests to waste my time.

specious
adjective
specious reasoning: misleading, deceptive, false, fallacious, unsound, spurious, casuistic, sophistic.

Apparently I have a "wall" where new communications are posted. This is as opposed to some other area where my "friends" can, for lack of a better word, blather. I get to hear about work schedules, dogs, kids, diets, girlfriends, boyfriends, job interviews, polls on anything and everything (nothing interesting), and very little of any interest to normal people.

So I stayed active for about 30 seconds and forgot about it. Time went by. The seasons changed. Brett Favre came out of retirement, a bunch of other stuff happened and Kurt Warner retired. So, now I'm noodling around on my computer and I find a link to F-Space or FaceTube and I think, "Oh yeah. I haven't been on there for a while." So I click on the link. My computer dutifully remembered the user name and password and I was in. I looked around for several seconds and re-realized, "Oh yeah, losers." and signed out. Total time: 18 seconds.

Since then I have been inundated with friend requests and messages on my "wall".

So I'm trying to figure out if this is some kind of computer robotic activity trying to stimulate a false sense of community by matching everyone in my address book with everyone on SpaceFace or MyTube or whatever - OR, if everyone I know has been signed on and waiting for the last 11 months until I logged in again to post their friend requests? I mean, I occasionally see some of these people and they seem normal enough. (But, then again, I'm judging them by my standards.)

I may never know.

Because (as I understand it) the first rule of TubeFace is you don't TALK about Tubeface.

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Ram-a-lamb-a-ding-dong

2009-10-09T21:41:00.008-05:00

Mary had a little lamb,
It's father was a sheep.
This was revenge on Farmer Tom,
Who preferred him to Bo Peep.

.......................................................................Anonymous

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Pocket Pool

2009-09-14T03:31:00.009-05:00

I was adjusting my balls the other day when I caught the eye of a very pretty young lady. When I saw she was heading my way, I figured she was looking for an explanation for my boorish behavior so, in the time it took her to cross the bar room and since I had to explain anyway, I figured I had a free one coming. So I reached into my pants and adjusted my balls again.

"Mmmm," she purred. "There must be something good in there."

"Well..." I extemporized, "I, uh, keep my Congressional Medal of Honor on a ribbon around my waist and occasionally the medal gets tangled up with my other junk."

"I see." she said, looking me straight in the eyes.. "I keep a pot of medal polish in a cave in my pants."

"Mmmm," I purred. "Maybe a little spit and elbow grease, too?"

"Mmmm," she replied in my ear.

When I opened my eyes, she and my wallet were gone.

Which got me to thinking about whose hands I'd rather have in my pockets...

SONNET #43, FROM THE POLISH

With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the height and narrowness and depth
My arm can reach, when feeling for the remote
Under the cushions and end tables of life.
I love thee to the length of my arm
During my quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right (or Left);
I love thee purely, as they turn from prying eyes.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old briefs, and with my childhood's hands.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my tight jeans---I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!---and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after dark.

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Open Containers

2009-09-01T06:11:00.016-05:00

I have always been a little squeamish around women during live childbirth and other open containers. That is why I'm a pretty good cook. I had to learn how to make spaghetti sauce from scratch... because I can't stand to look into an open jar of Prego.

A while back, while I was on the lecture circuit, I found myself sharing a taxi with a decidedly pregnant young woman.

I was sitting at a traffic light listening to the cabbie's music; it was either a cat being disemboweled in some cave in Afghanistan or someone who could not carry a tune on the bagpipes. From the turban on the driver, I'd say it was the former. Just when I had checked to see if my ears were bleeding for the third time, the back door opened and a pretty face said, "Do you mind?"

"It's not my music." I replied.

"No. I mean... do you mind if we share a cab?" The pretty, young woman asked.

"Oh." I sat a little straighter for some reason. "Please, be my guest."

She handed me a little suitcase, backed awkwardly into the seat, and it wasn't until she had turned her legs so that she was sitting forward that I realized she was very pregnant. I don't know why but I am always slightly embarrassed when encountering a pregnant woman. Maybe it's because she is a total stranger and I am suddenly forced to share very intimate details of her life. It is as if she were wearing a sign around her neck that declares "I AM SEXUALLY ACTIVE". I wonder if pregnant women feel that way around their parents?

The cabbie looked over his shoulder and the pre-natal nymph asked to go to the hospital. "And hurry!" she added.

"But I was going the other way." I protested.

"Not any more." said the cabbie with a lilting yet somehow ironic accent.

As I settled back, the strange suitcase on my lap, I closed my eyes and found myself wishing the smells of cooked camel, incense, and body odor would go away and just let me listen to the Suicidal Sitars or whatever they called themselves. It wasn't to be.

I suddenly found my right arm in a vice-like grip. "Hey!" I said ineffectually. I turned to my seat mate and saw that her face had gone white and that she was gripping my arm and, with her other hand, the door's armrest with equal fervor. Suddenly the armrest broke from the door. I looked fearfully at my helpless arm and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Could you ask him to change the channel?" she squeezed out between gasps of pain. As I leaned forward to say something to the cabbie she tightened her death grip on my arm and said, "I'm kidding, you idiot. In case you haven't noticed, I'm in labor."

Except for one final item, that was the last funny thing that happened in that car. All I remember is the woman wailing in pain, then moaning, then stiffening, then a lot of heavy breathing, then some name calling, then more wailing, then more heavy breathing... and sweating... and moaning... and... Say, isn't that how she got into this condition?

Anyway, there was a point during the birthing ceremony, of which I found myself high priest de facto, while she was laying flat on the seat, my back door was open (her panties were on the floor of the taxi) and I was leaning in between her opened legs, trying to get a better view, when a policeman walked up behind me and asked, "How far apart are they?"

"About 90 degrees," I said without pausing. "...this seat back won't let them go any wider."

.

The Comedy Nominator

2009-08-25T19:05:00.007-05:00

I saw today that Barack Obama renominated Ben Bernanke as Chairman of the Federal Reserve. This is the guy who, since he has been chairman, has overseen the worst economy since the Great Depression and the worst deficit since the necessary spending during World War II.

This nomination came from the same president who campaigned against deficit spending and has claimed that any new spending must be paid for with either budget savings or new taxes... and has recently promoted the idea that the only way to save our economy is to go several more trillion dollars in debt by socializing our health care system.

And today the White House Budget Office has projected a 9 trillion dollar deficit over the next ten years.

Good job, Mr. President.

Maybe you should nominate Dr. Jack Kevorkian as Surgeon General while you are at.

.

Bedtime for Bonzo

2009-08-24T06:18:00.014-05:00

Sleeping has always been a chore for me. It probably started while I was a traveling salesman for a large metropolitan ink company. I spent seventeen years of my life in four different motels a week. One of my quirks is that I don't sleep well in a strange bed.

Now, I know what you are thinking. Do they make the holes in Cheerios with a smaller version of the tool they use to make donut holes? And is there some kind of hardening process that turns the Cheerio holes into Grapenuts? Those are both interesting questions but, please, pay attention.

Occasionally, I'd be lucky enough to get the same motel two nights in a row. That was when I found out that I could usually get to sleep the second night. I guess I just had to get used to the hardness of the bed... the extra flat pillows (one was not enough but two were too thick)... the light seeping in from the curtains that never completely closed... the drip in the sink or the toilet that ran all night... that unrecognizable smell or, worse yet, that recognizable smell... the sounds in the halls... the sounds in the next room... then again twenty minutes later (really?)... The big diesel truck in the parking lot that somebody left running all night (like, who forgets something like that?)... the - well you get the idea.

But I would spend four nights a week in four different motels and by the time I got home to my own bed it was a strange bed, too, and it usually wasn't until Saturday that I would get a good night's sleep. When little kids don't get enough sleep they get cranky. When adults don't get enough sleep they get to do the chores that have been piling up all week while they were gone.

Then I developed insomnia.

I literally went several years only sleeping one hour a night. I tried everything. I went to bed earlier... I went to bed later... I cut out caffeine after 6 PM... I ate lighter... I ate heavier... I tried to read myself to sleep but I can't sleep with a light on and I can't read in the dark... I tried laying on my back... then my left side... then my right side... then my stomach... then my left side... then my right side... then my back... then I had to get back up to straighten the covers... I tried sleeping with and without covers... then just the sheet... then with and without pajamas... then I did the cover thing with and without pajamas... then without the pajamas, without the covers, with the drapes open...

And that's how I found out I can't sleep in jail cells either.

While I was in jail I met a guy named Dooley. He was a chronic masturbater. He was always being locked up for that. (Apparently that's another thing you can't do in a school zone) And it seems that the guys in the others cells, though initially amused, eventually complained because it was affecting their sleep, as well. So the jailer hooked the guy up with some manacles and chains, arranged to keep Dooley's hands away from his crotch. Now Dooley was determined and, in his sex starved brain, thought he could woo the chains into being just a little bit longer. He would whisper promises to them... he would flatter them... he would tell lies to them... he would accuse them of being longer for shorter guys.

He even named them. The one that clinked around a lot he names Margie. And the fat, black one was Jasmine. (I think they were two of his ex-wives).

I was only in the slammer for one night but I still Tweet with several of the dealers I met there. Nice guys. They tell me that one day Dooley stopped talking to the chains. Later, when he was allowed to take a shower he just rubbed it long enough to get it clean. After he was released he was never arrested for jerking off in public again. In fact, they told me that Dooley became a politician and is now only jerking other people off.

But I digress.

Recently, I decided to start sleeping on the passenger side of my bed. I have a pillow top mattress that cannot be flipped over and where I usually sleep has gone from a shallow groove to a dip to, now, I have trouble rolling out of it in the morning. I have to get up on my elbows to see what time it is in the middle of the night. So I decided to move to the high ground on the other side of the bed.

Do you have any idea how hard it is for a left handed, anal retentive, insomniac to learn to sleep on the wrong side of the bed? I have to remember to look the other way to see what time it is... I have to hold my pills in my right hand and drink from my left... if I get to sleep, I have to remember to, unconsciously, sprawl the other direction... My ceiling fan is not centered over my bed and now the air flow is all wrong... the light seeping in from the kitchen window is at the wrong angle and now all of the shadows really do look like people...

Sometimes I miss the sound of someone breathing gently next to me... a soft snore interrupted by a warm body turning slightly during peaceful sleep... and sometimes, every now and then, on a warm summer evening, I even miss the sounds of Dooley cranking one out.

Man, I wish I could sleep.

-----------------------------------------
The preceding story was based upon actual internet rumors. Only the chains have been named.
.

But... there must be some mistake!

2009-08-14T07:48:00.008-05:00

SCREEEEEEEECH!!!! That is the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. By the way, do they still have chalk boards? I can see how O.S.H.A. may have banned them; what with the dust and all. What would that be called: White Lung Disease?

But I digress.

One of the things that annoys me more than fingernails on a chalkboard or stream of consciousness digressions is stupidly written headlines. I know they try to convey as much information in as few words as possible, and that sometimes they try to be cutesy with the wording but, damn it, at least get the big idea right!

A current example came in today's batch of internet headlines:

Retail Sales are Down, But Inflation Expected to Remain Low

My problem with this particular headline is the "but". People don't normally raise prices on things they can't sell. The word "but" is supposed to be used to introduce a contrasting thought to the discussion. Such as "Her eyes were huge but her butt was bigger". But in today's example, low sales and low inflation are complimentary ideas. Such as "Her breasts were magnificent".

A lot of blog writers get almost all of their daily information from a quick scan of the headlines. If headline writers don't start using words correctly, what will happen to all of the pinheads who only read blogs for their info?

Before long people will begin believing all kinds of crazy things. Ideas like, that the better than 50% of the people opposed to Health Care Reform aren't representative of America. It might even force elected officials like Arlen Specter to actually look "representative" up in a dictionary. Maybe the headline writers will get a kick out of how the people who don't represent America used the poll booth to tell Specter and his colleagues that they weren't representing America.

It might read something like:

Government Take Over Defeated, But Democracy Wins

But I digress.

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Providentially Speaking

2009-06-26T10:15:00.004-05:00

Rhode Island is closer to changing the state's name over slavery. The country's smallest state has the longest official name: "State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations."

A push to drop "Providence Plantations" from that name advanced farther than ever on Thursday when House lawmakers voted 70-3 to let residents decide whether to shorten the state's name. It's an encouraging sign for those who believe the formal name conjures up images of slavery.

Opponents to the bill think the new name: "State of Rhode Island and..." would just be silly. One high ranking state official was quoted as saying, "Just removing "Providence Plantations" is not enough. Obviously we have more work to do."

.

Small Talk

2009-06-21T17:24:00.006-05:00

I was on the deck, outside the resort's dance hall, this weekend. A light drizzle was pattering off the leaves of some nearby trees but the breeze was still warm. Through the double doors into the club I could see several dozen couples swaying to Etta James' At Last.

Davey walked out, fishing a cigarette from his pocket. I flicked open my Zippo and lit it for him.

"Where's your girl?" I asked, looking past him at a tight little behind I hadn't noticed before.

"Oh... we, uh, broke up." He said quietly.

"Really? I thought she was a keeper."

"Well, we had a communication problem. I mean, I couldn't say anything without her misunderstanding me."

"Maybe you mumble." I suggested.

"I don't mumble." he said.

"What?"

"I said I don't... Ah, shut up Johnny."

"Jeeze," I replied. "Maybe that's why she left you."

"She didn't leave me, I left her!"

" 'Cause I heard you don't communicate so good. You know what I mean?"

Davey just stared at me for a couple of heartbeats. Then he continued his story. "A good example of her not understanding me was our last phone conversation."

Go ahead, I nodded telepathically.

"I swear, she was like Gracie Allen. We were going 'round and 'round about something when, finally, I'd had enough. So I said to her, 'Listen, we're breaking up.' She was quiet for a second or two and then she said real loud, 'Can you hear me NOW?' "

When we both stopped laughing, he flicked his butt over the rail and into a puddle. The song inside had changed and he said, "Later." and went in.

A moment after that, Frank walked out. Frank is a day trader and is always talking finances. "I think my ARM is getting ready to readjust." he said morosely.

"Have you tried using shorter strokes?" I asked.

.

Click to Enlarge

2009-06-11T07:15:00.012-05:00

The Interweb made me laugh this morning. I was having my morning cup of coffee, looking at my Daily 5 on Match.com. These are the sweet things that The Great and Powerful Oz (the man behind the curtain) chooses for me each night while I am sleeping.

Today's batch was entertaining.

First there was the lady with NO baggage at all. It seems that she was jilted by a fellow from Easton, PA, who is a former Marine, a control freak, and who takes his gifts back when he leaves. She claims she spent too much time on this jerk and was warning the other ladies that "he's out there." My guess is that, by now, about 25% of the women are breaking up with their former marine boyfriends, 17% are breaking up with their control freak boyfriends, 12% are hiding their gifts, and the rest are looking for this guy's profile, convinced that they can change him.

Next, it is very rare for my Daily 5 to not include some blind dates. These are women who have chosen not to post a picture. These women are problematic to me. Now, I would like to think that I am not so superficial that looks are everything. In fact, I even talked to one of the Blond Bombshells about this and she said she wasn't posting her pictures in order to weed out the shallow jerks. When I asked her how that was working out, she started to describe some of the losers who showed up: a) because they had not posted a picture either b) because if they had posted a picture they would have never gotten a date with my friend and c) because they made dates with girls without pictures figuring they couldn't get any of the girls who were "pretty enough" to post a picture. My friend now post pictures.

Another problem with the ladies who don't post pictures is their profiles. Every now and then, one of them will list "skinny dipping" as a turn on. This suits me fine because I live at a nudist resort. And, quite honestly, where I live tends to weed out a number of potential dates. So, running across a profile that calls skinny dipping a turn on usually catches my eye.

Unfortunately, a blind date at a nudist resort is like a thousand times worse than a blind date at the local diner. To get here my date has to pass through a security check point, then register at the office, where my name is announced over the loudspeaker to come to the office to meet my guest, and then I have to run the gauntlet of questions as I walk to the office. Not exactly a secret process. Then, if we don't hit it off, it's not a quick cup of coffee, a piece of pie and a "see you later." It is pretty much of a commitment and by that point she is "meeting my friends." Which I think is the modern equivalent of meeting the family back in the pre-war days.

So, I usually skip over the ones with no picture posted.

Today, I was given four choices in my Daily 5. I figure that either means that out of about 750,000,000 gazillion women, The Great and Powerful Oz could only find four to match my unique criteria or one of the four were, like, DOUBLE good.

I didn't have to look far to find the double good one... and she wasn't twins... although, how cool would that be? She did, however, look like she weighed about the same as two large twins... after a big meal... say if they ate another set of twins.

But the thing that cracked me up this morning was the little hyperlink under her photo that said: Click to Enlarge. My first thought was that I would need a bigger monitor. Then I wondered if it would be a satellite picture? Then I began wondering how many other people have already clicked on her and if that was her problem? Which all seems a little unfair.

It is unfair that the first girl had so much baggage and no destination.

It is unfair to the ex-marine with gifts to give.

It is unfair to the poor girls without photos who are going to miss out on all the men with discernment.

It is unfair to the poor girl who has Clicking Causes Enlargement Syndrome.

It is unfair to the poor guys who have to download Google Earth to view the Double Mint Twin.

And it is unfair to me. How can they only give me four choices for my Daily 5?

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The Death Car

2009-05-30T07:30:00.010-05:00

When I was about five or six years old, I saw something horrible. We lived in Rocky River, Ohio at the time. It was probably late in 1957. Back when kids walked everywhere.

My brother, Frankie, 5 years my senior, and I were walking across the bridge into Cleveland to go see the Saturday matinee at one of the old movie houses. If I am remembering my time frame correctly, my mother was probably pregnant with my sister, Susan, and my dad was working, making hand poured peanut brittle in a little candy shop in downtown Cleveland.

I have seen pictures of myself from that time and, I swear to God, I looked like Beaver Cleaver and Frankie looked like Wally. So, in my mind's eye, I sort of picture that day as Frankie walking slightly ahead of me, wanting to get to the movie and me lagging behind, goofing around. I was probably bouncing a ball or kicking a stone or something. Or walking in a lurching gait, one foot on the sidewalk the other in the gutter. Sort of bouncing with every other step. I can almost hear the Toy Parade playing in the background.

As we came around a slight curve on the bridge, we could tell there was something going on up ahead. At first, our view was blocked by several cars parked on our side of the road. As we got closer, there were several men and women standing around an old dark green coupe from the late forties, doing that kind of out loud whispering reserved for funeral homes or adult talk after the kids were in bed.

I heard words like, "all dead", "drunk", "blood everywhere", and "middle of the night". My brother and I were able to walk up to the car pretty much unnoticed. The first thing I remember was that the front wheel was up on the sidewalk, the white wall tire was flat. As we made our way around the front fender I could see splotches of blood(?) on the inside of the split windshield. The side windows were rolled down and I could see more blood on the cloth upholstery. There were several empty bottles on the seats.

But the thing I will never forget was the smell. I know that I have never smelled that exact combination of odors since then, but when I concentrate on it, I can recall them clearly. It was a mix of some kind of cheap but strong booze, blood, perfume and burnt rubber or hot engine or something. Every now and then, I will get a strong whiff of just one of those scents and it is enough to send me back to that morning.

The other thing was the unreasoning fear that I felt. I knew that something very wrong and bad had happened. And that maybe it would somehow follow me home. When I started to cry, Frankie took me by the hand and pulled me away from the smell and the whispering people.

I don't remember if we went on to see the movie that day or not. And I don't remember talking to my parents about what I had seen. Maybe my brother did. I never found out what happened in that car, either. Was it somehow a drunken party gone horribly wrong? Was it a mob hit? A jealous spouse? An accident? And where were the police? And the bodies? Did anyone survive? I never found out any of that stuff.

I was just a kid and nobody talked to kids back then. But what I saw on the bridge that day had an affect on my life. It introduced me to a part of life I had never known about. A place where even adults can get into trouble. Where fun can become dangerous. And a knowledge that, just outside my bedroom window, things were going on... in the dark.

It's funny not being able to forget something I knew so little about. All I ever really knew for sure was that something very wrong and bad had happened and, as I had feared, it had somehow followed me home.

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Stand Up - Sit Down!

2009-05-02T07:30:00.008-05:00

Every time I've tried to do stand up I have been told to sit down.

Maybe it's my timing. Maybe it's my delivery. Maybe it's my audience. Like, I remember telling my now ex-wife one time that "marriage is the only thing that you cannot idiot-proof. Somebody always underestimates the bigger idiot."

Then we got into this whole thing about how she has never underestimated me. Blah, blah, blah.

So, never wanting to win a good battle, I forged on. "You know, I like to eat an apple right after smoking a cigar. It tends to refresh my pallet. Which is probably why I also like to eat lobster right after sex." After a long slow beat she grudgingly said, "O.K., why?" "Well, I still have that fishy taste... but it's classier."

Having just re-read that last line, I'm pretty sure it's not my timing.

Later, after half an episode of Jeopardy, things calmed down a little and I asked her if she knew why they used to call the female sailors W.A.V.E.S. She was silent for a long time. Pretty much through the whole next commercial. Then, just when I thought she had forgotten my question, she said, "Why!" "I think it was because vaginal swabs was already taken."

That was pretty much it for that night. The next morning, as she was getting dressed for work. I was still in bed, lying on my side, making circles on the sheet with my finger. I looked up at her as she was pulling some sexy under-thing on, back lit by the morning sun streaming through the blinds. Innocently, I asked, "How do you tell if a woman over fifty is HOT?" "I dunno," she said distractedly. "How?" "She dresses in layers" I answered.

I honestly don't think it is my delivery, either.

That night, over dinner, she commented that I could be a "professional comic." "Really?" I asked hopefully. "Certainly. A genius makes the difficult look easy." I puffed out my chest preparing to say something witty when she continued. "But a professional... a professional makes the routine look difficult."

While I was brooding through Wheel of Fortune, I kept thinking of all the things I should have said. Finally I turned to her and blurted, "You know, all I've ever wanted to be was a regular guy. Ex-Lax is just a Band-Aid."

When she didn't bite on that one I kept the momentum going. "Speaking of professional... I don't know if you know it, but I considered a number of professions over the years. At one time I was convinced that I wanted to be a dentist. But then I realized I just couldn't bear to see that many women spit." She got it. I know she got it. But she never even looked up. So I went on, "Then I thought, maybe I'll be a gynecologist. But after a while, I figured that I'd just end up taking my work home with me."

All I could hear were the sound of crickets. And, I swear, a tumble weed rolled past my recliner. I couldn't understand it. It must be the audience.

Later that year, I got a hot tub for my wife. It was the best trade I ever made.

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The Opinion Zone

2009-05-01T06:27:00.013-05:00

Some super powers suck.

I know, I know. We don't really have super powers but some people act as if they do. And because they are so involved in their own irrational belief systems, they automatically assume that everyone around them should act and believe the same as they do. This is their Opinion Zone.

Think of it as Sue Storm's force field.

Let me give you a benign example. One of the Blond Bombshells has a smile to die for. And a dimple you could lose your heart in. So when she walks into a room it lights up. Everyone smiles. Everyone is affected by her positive personality. Once she became aware of the affect she had on other people - it became a super power. But that's cool. She only uses it for good.

Another example is a woman I used to know who couldn't seem to keep her clothes on. So, she would be in the middle of a party, or on the dance floor, or in the break room with a co-worker and before he could say, "Is that an all over tan?" she would be naked. Her particular zone of influence compelled other to dis-robe also. Somehow, she has managed to stay out of jail and keep her job so I figure she might have other super powers, as well.

Several of my friends are very "spiritual". This somehow elevates their religious opinions to a higher plane. What it also means is a lot of Christian-bible-and organized religion bashing and that since they find solace in any form of religious thought (other than Christian and bible related doctrine) they can freely believe in anything or nothing with equal facility. Basically, they do not want to believe in any religion that might keep them from doing what they want to do. They want to live guilt free and want no eternal consequences for their actions while cloaking themselves in "spiritual" respectability. Unfortunately, their super power does not let them even consider that there may be another opinion in the room.

I have another friend who has decided to fight for the gay agenda. So, every time any gay reference comes up that he may take the wrong way he says, "Hey! Careful there, I have gay friends!" Which is way sillier than "Hey! Careful there, I am gay!" because now we are supposed to vicariously accept someone else's zone of influence through this Bozo. What are we supposed to say? "Uh... sorry. We wouldn't want to offend anyone who's not in the room."

What about the vast majority of people who are not convinced of the efficacy of the gay lifestyle? Why does their opinion not count? Do they just not have super powers or are their super powers nullified by the decibels of the louder super power.

Is it O.K. to tell someone that their opinions are too loud?

In fact, when did we lose the right to have any opinion at all? It seems like the more some smaller groups lobby for their personal freedoms the more freedoms the majority has to give up. Including the freedoms of thought and expression.

There is a hate-crime bill currently before Congress that says certain speech is illegal if it makes another feel uncomfortable or threatened. Now, don't get me wrong, I am not in favor of threatening (much less harming) anyone. But the language of this legislation is so vague that it could allow a witch hunt for people with opposing views. Because the so-called crime would be highly subjective all someone would have to do is claim that they felt threatened and the law would be broken.

I do not believe this legislation will pass in it's current form. Or, if it does, it will not stand the test of the Supreme Court. But the very idea that they are trying to make this kind of thought control the law of the land should tell you how prevalent the Opinion Zone mentality is.

No opinion is valid but their own. No opinion should be heard except theirs. And if they can't shout us down, they will intimidate us with trumped up legislation. They are either very sure of themselves or very unsure.

Either way, we are surrounded by people who will brook no opinions other than their own on the claim of either being offended or of feeling threatened by something. Their amazing super power allows them to extend the zone of their opinions way beyond their own thoughts into the lives and actions of those around them and they are, apparently, impervious to others' ideas.

Which makes me just want to put my foot up their spandex clad asses.

Where is the Cone of Silence when we need it?

BTW, to all of my friends on both sides of all issues: If you only hear what YOU want to hear... it is not free speech.

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Danger Clowns

2009-04-04T09:01:00.012-05:00

They say that flattery is the most imitated form of sincerity. I'm not sure about that but I am pretty sure that sincerity does not imitate most flatterers. But I stray...

Today's lesson is about Rodeo Clowns.

I have been wondering, lately, what it would be like if other professions had clowns to distract danger from their workers. Like, if the guys who put out oil well fires had Derrick Clowns. I envision the Red Adair types struggling against the waves of tremendous heat, the hair on their arms and beards singed off, their faces sooty, their lungs gasping and gulping fruitlessly for fresh air. Suddenly there is a rumble from beneath their feet, everyone stops as they listen to the unseen forces building, the metal of the derrick squeals and groans and everyone knows that there is only one way for this thing to end.

BoBo the Derrick Clown does a somersault out of nowhere, pushing the fire fighters to the ground while diving effortlessly to the platform. He looks around for something he cannot find, turns to the horrified crowd, mimes an exaggerated shrug, hands wide apart, white gloved palms up and then suddenly does a back-flip, landing with his seat in the end of the oil pipe. There is a final rumble from underground and then... silence. After a brief pause, BoBo the Derrick Clown burps, expelling a lungful of grey smoke before doffing his hat to the onlookers.

Too much?

How about Time-share Sales Clowns? I picture a time-share salesman trying to figure out what tactic to use next. He has already lied to is clients about the free gift to get them there. I mean given a chance at a Hawaian vacation, a new sports car or an iPod Nano, why are they always surprised when they get the iPod? He has already compared the cost of owning a time-share to the cost of spending a week in Jamaica every year for the next 20 years. He has even broken it down to 38 cups of coffee a day over a 10 year period. But these people weren't budging. They were already into the third hour of their 45 minute presentation and the husband just kept shaking his head, demanding his free gift and was even beginning to use unflattering hand gestures when he thought the salesman was looking. There was only one way for this thing to end.

Suddenly, Timmy the Time-share Clown leaps from behind a desk, does a somersault and lands in the wife's lap. As he begins feeling her up with his big three fingered gloves he mimes an exaggerated kiss, smearing greasepaint and cheap burbon all over her shocked mouth. Just as his other three fingered glove is slipping beneath the hem of her skirt the husband bowls him over from the side and Timmy sprawls away, sliding on the tiled floor, striking his head against the fireplace. Timmy the Time-share Clown tries to get up, puts his hand to the top of his head and looks at the blood on his white glove. With incredibly sad eyes and an O-shaped mouth, Timmy falls backwards and is still.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" the wife shouts. Her hands covering her face and her ruined make-up.

The husband is standing still, a horrified expression marring his already dull features. "It was an accident." he mumbles.

The time-share salesman steps between them, a hand on each of their shoulders as he guides them to the next room. Then he shakes his head, whispering to them in a comforting voice, "Maybe there is some way we can keep this thing quiet. You know what I mean?"

As they leave the room, Timmy the Time-share Clown sits up, gives the closed door an exaggerated wink and makes a big O.K. sign with his blood soaked glove.

Too much?

Well, how about... Oh, I see we are out of time.

Tune in next time when we look at O-O the White House Clown.

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The Menstrualist

2009-03-05T07:41:00.010-05:00

menstrualist / men-stru-al-ist / noun / Someone who uses mental cruelty, hysteria and/or suggestion. A master manipulator of thoughts and behavior.

The Menstrualist tells the tale of Jane Patrick, who is employed as an independent detective working with the California Bureau of Investigation to solve crimes. She was making a living at the DMV and would assist the police on cases by running plate numbers -- only her life changed when she lost the two most important things in her life to a purse snatcher she was helping track. Her credit cards and her Midol. She uses her refined intimidation skills and her PMS rage to help them solve cases. She works with Senior Agent Teresa Lesbo, rookie cop Grace Van Pelt, and the girl at the drug store.

The series is produced by Lifetime Television.

NEXT EPISODE: Bloodshot - Jane goes undercover as a waitress in an all night diner, hot on the trail of a ring of lousy tippers. At first, she has them eating it up but will she go too far?... because, this time, it's personal!

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The Cosmic Joke

2009-01-14T14:34:00.006-05:00

Somebody is goofing on us. Mankind is the pinnacle of evolution (so far). We are the masters of our domain. Yet, we are the quintessential example of non-selective breeding in a world obsessed with selective breeding.

Why?

Because men can't keep it in their pants and women can't help themselves. (Pretty much the same excuse but, somehow, women get to take the moral high ground on this one.) And no matter how carefully we plan, how well we are taught (or coached), no matter how many bad examples life throws in our paths, we still make bad choices. We know better. We may not have started out knowing better but by now we pretty much know the score.

Which got me to thinking. Why aren't we, by now, living in a Utopian society where each of us has our ideal mate, our children are guaranteed to be brilliant and beautiful, where sex is mutual, compatible and plentiful and where jealousy is merely a concept?

It is because we are blessed (or cursed) with two traits that have no business being together. Cognitive Reasoning and a Sex Drive. Simply put, we are so damn sure we can get laid on our own terms that we are constantly being blindsided by what's available.

The animal world does not have this problem. The males will hump anything and, when the bitches are in heat, pretty much the whole neighborhood shows up. Not that we don't know people like this but, then again, we aren't all blessed with the same amount of cognitive reasoning, either. Hell, dogs don't even need other dogs. They will hump your leg or a teddy bear with equal abandon.

On the flip side, a lot of people can't wait for their cognitive reasoning to kick in so that was why nightclubs and alcohol were invented. Also, in another soon to be well know internet fact, batteries were invented by a woman. War was invented by men to make themselves look good look so that they could get as many women as possible with as little discussion as possible.

In short, our Sex Drive will always trump our Cognitive Reasoning. Which is why, even though we may be at the pinnacle of evolution, we are definitely the results of non-selective breeding.

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Unconditional

2008-12-28T20:01:00.006-05:00

When Elizabeth shot Edward, Henry died too. Neither man suffered. Edward's eyes widened in surprise when he saw her pull the revolver from her hand-stitched bag. When he realized her intent, he laughed at her. He was dead before he could insult her again.

Then she went to her knees and cradled his shattered head to her breast, his warm blood soaking the thin fabric of her silk blouse. She would probably have to burn it and her overcoat as well. She looked into Edward's empty eyes and wept for Henry.

Both men had loved Elizabeth in their own way. Henry was gentle. His strong arms would encircle her petite waist. She would rest her cheek against his shoulder and he would kiss the top of her head, smelling the lavender soap in her clean hair. She would wrap her arms around him and feel warm, her cheeks flushing, her heart beating faster. He would whisper her name into her auburn hair, feeling her tremble slightly.

Edward would beat her, tearing the bodice of her dress as she tumbled to the floor before he fell upon her and raped her.

But Elizabeth understood both men. She loved Henry, the man of science, the scholar. Dear, gentle Henry. They had met on a fall afternoon. She worked in the college library. He was a professor, newly transferred from Oxford. He had made an inquiry at her station and ended up taking her to dinner. Eventually she had quit her job and became his assistant, taking a room near his house and laboratories.

Ten months later she met Edward. He was exciting where Henry was unsure of himself. Edward took her to music halls and stage plays. Henry had her transcribe notes and measure compounds for his experiments. Edward dared to make love to her while Henry blushed when he accidentally brushed her bare wrist with his hand. At first, she loved both men.

Until Edward began taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. He no longer felt a need to woo her. To seek her favor. His only desire was to satisfy his ever growing lusts. He was always drunk. He insulted barkeeps and hansom drivers. And she submitted. Fearful of his beatings.

Henry asked her about her bruises and she lied to him, knowing he could not protect her from Edward, fearful of how he would react to her submission to the stronger man. She yearned for Henry to take her as Edward had so often done. She looked into his green eyes wanting to tell him. Afraid to reveal her shame. Then later that night, she would flinch from the intensity of Edward's brown eyes.

Her revulsion of Edward grew in proportion to her love for Henry until, one day, Henry declared his love for her, as well. Elizabeth could no longer keep her shame a secret. But she could not hurt Henry either. She would do whatever she needed to do to protect him, knowing his gentle spirit could not stand the truth.

In the end it broke her heart that the last eyes she had to look into belonged to Edward Hyde and that she would never again see the gentle, loving gaze of the kindest man she had ever known, Dr. Henry Jekyll

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The Thinker

2008-12-12T08:08:00.004-05:00

A lot of my friends have been asking me why I do not post more frequently. To tell you the truth - it is the research. Research takes a lot of time. Most of my ideas come from silly conversations with silly people. Finding these things is time consuming and often requires copious amounts of adult beverages.

Remembering them is a complete other matter.

I honestly cannot tell you how many times I've sat around with several people, on the next day, and all we could remember was laughing. Not one of us could remember what we were laughing at. But we all remembered saying how blogworthy it would be.

I have scratched my head raw trying to remember ideas from the previous night. I may as well have been scratching my ass.

Which got me to thinking. The problem may be more solvable if I broke it down.

First is the subject matter. Which I can't seem to remember. Nor can anyone else. So, like, that doesn't help.

Second is the people. Most of them, apparently, have faulty memories that do not improve with the introduction of alcohol. No help there. Some of them are pretty funny in their own right. But looks and taste in who they date isn't everything. Also, I can't let most of them know how funny they are. It is the same principle that says every experiment is contaminated by the observer (which is bad enough). But what if the experiment were self-aware? Although... there is little chance of that in this case.

Third is the location. Which usually comes down to my place or theirs.

And, lastly, is the alcohol itself. I have tried every combination I can think of. Clear drinks, amber drinks, mixed drinks, straight up, on the rocks, high test, wine coolers, lite beers, dark beers, redheads, blonds, brunettes, is she big, is she small, is she short, is she tall, is she any kind of dreamboat at all...

Wait a second! How did I drift into the theme song from Dobie Gillis?

Obviously, this problem is going to require more research with exhaustive overtime and late night sessions with several of my female interns. After which I should return refreshed and somewhat relaxed. Scratching my ass and wondering what the hell was so funny last night...

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Everything I know I learned from Richard Kimble

2008-12-01T21:12:00.009-05:00

The Fugitive was Dr. Richard Kimble, an innocent victim of blind justice, falsely convicted for the murder of his wife, reprieved by fate when a train wreck freed him en route to the death house; freed him to hide in lonely desperation, to change his identity, to toil at many jobs; freed him to search for a one-armed man he saw leave the scene of the crime; freed him to run before the relentless pursuit of the police lieutenant obsessed with his capture.

I first met Richard Kimble in 1964. I was twelve years old and he was working as a handyman for my father. My dad owned several apartment buildings. Kimble would cut the grass, empty the trash, unclog the drains. He used to deliver babies until his wife, Helen, was killed. Now he ran errands for my dad and kept his head down.

Later, after he had to leave, I found out who he was and what he was accused of. From what I knew of him at the time, I didn't believed it. My mother was horrified that we had had a killer in our midst. My father thought he was a hard worker and a pretty good guy. I just remembered his eyes. They were kind and sort of bewildered looking. When we would talk, he would never look at me for long before his eyes would flick sideways at a creaking floorboard or some sound in the street. Then he would give me that little twitch of a smile, as if apologizing for the interruption.

Eventually we heard that Kimble found Fred Johnson, the one armed man, and almost fried anyway when Gerard shot Johnson after he confessed to Kimble. Fortunately, a witness to Helen's murder, who was being blackmailed by Johnson, finally came forward when the one armed man was killed; ending Richard Kimble's long nightmare.

I'm not sure why all of this has had such an impact on my life. I wasn't that old at the time and I only knew Kimble for about six weeks. Maybe it was because I lived in a small town and any brush with fame (or infamy) was notable and long remembered. Maybe it was because of my age. Maybe it was Kimble, himself.

He had a gentle patience when other men would have raged at life's injustice. He was willing to work honestly when he was already on the wrong side of the law. He was willing to put his fate in the hands of strangers even though another stranger had ruined his life. He believed in people.

Along the way he made a lot of friends. People who were willing to protect him after knowing him only a short time. People who believed in his innocence. People who saw something in those haunted and hunted eyes. People like me.

He changed our lives by being who he was. An everyman. A guy who needed a break and still took the time to help others. He never let his ordeal change who or what he was and he never gave up.

By the time I heard he had died of a heart attack on February 13, 1980, I was twenty-eight years old. I was working hard at a job I enjoyed and looked people in the eye when I talked with them. Sometimes I would see Kimble, or at least someone like him, looking back.

I've heard about a lot of people over the years who claimed to have had a close encounter with Richard Kimble. A number of them have written books about their experiences - cashing in. Few of them describe the man I knew so I'm not too sure of their veracity. A smaller number of them got it right. Most of those people mention his eyes.

I had a small problem during those six weeks; a kid's problem, really. It doesn't even matter what it was. But Richard Kimble took the time to notice a kid with a problem and he gave me a hand. In the end, when Gerard was coming in the front door and we were at the back door he didn't even have to ask. Our eyes met briefly before his flicked sideways towards the back yard and the tree line. He looked back and gave me that twitchy, apologetic smile and was gone.

A moment later, Gerard came running down the hall shouting questions at me. My eyes flicked sideways to the basement stairs and I said I hadn't seen him. Gerard hesitated, glancing out the back door, then turned, flung open the basement door and shouted, "Kimble!"

I watched him ease down the first few steps, wasting time, and a slight, twitchy smile flashed quickly across my lips.

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Valkyrie

2008-11-26T16:46:00.009-05:00

"Wow..."

"What?"

"Tom Cruise has made a 'Hitler is Evil' movie..."

"Wow..."

"He gets it..."

"Wow..."

"Yeah... like, I dunno..."

"Wow..."

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The Mobius Trip (part 2)

2008-11-19T10:30:00.021-05:00

CONTINUED FROM The Mobius Trip (part 1)

...Just in front of the street signs was another signpost. Atop that post, adorned with Kiwanis and American Legion insignias, was a sign that read:

Welcome to Topton.

I felt a premonitory chill run through me and the Blond Bombshell found my hand in the dark and squeezed tightly...

I let the car drift forward a little, seeing if it knew where to go. After a moment I figured I should decide. Since this all started by not taking a left, I chose left. For good luck. As I drifted down Haas to the next intersection, the Blond Bombshell spotted some headlights about three blocks in the distance. "Look!" she shouted.

"What?"

"There's a car!" she pointed excitedly.

"Wow." I replied. "And there's a truck." I said pointing to a parked vehicle.

She wasn't amused. "I have to pee." she said flatly.

"Oh... well then... I don't think that car can help." I answered. "Let me try to find an all night gas station."

I turned right on a residential street. Few lights were on. I was going towards where I remembered the illumination was, from the trip in. Hopefully, the downtown area. Suddenly I heard a deep throated rumble behind me and was blinded by my rear view mirror. A huge engine revved menacingly, headlights turning the interior of the car white. Bleaching the color from everything.

"What the..." I began as I turned in the seat, my seat belt holding my left shoulder in place. As I turned back to fuss with that, the vehicle behind us roared again and shot around us in a squeal of tires and a cloud of blue smoke. All I saw was a squat, black, boxy sedan, flames spewing from the tail pipes as it accelerated towards downtown.

"Let's see where this street goes." I suggested making a sudden right.

"I don't have to pee any more." she informed me in a small voice.

Eventually I found my way back to the intersection of Centre and Haas. Uncharacteristically, I said, "I think we're lost. Let's just back track." and I headed out of town the way we had come in, the industrial plant now on my left.

After about two or three miles I said, "I think we turned left to get onto this road so we need to make a right up here, somewhere."

"Uh, huh." she replied, sulking. I began calculating how much more booze it would take to salvage this evening. It was 12:28 and the bars stopped serving at 1:00. We had to get un-lost. Fast.

I saw a road teeing off to the right and said, "I think this is it." Slowing down to make the turn, I cracked my window a little to get some night air and heard a powerful engine revving in the distance. I quickly pushed the button to close it again.

We continued on this road for several more miles when we spotted a smudge of light on the horizon, in the near distance. As we approached I commented, "Wow. All these towns look the same at night. That's just the way Topton looked coming into town."

When we got a little closer, the resemblance increased. Suddenly we were passing the industrial plant on our right and I let the car slow down and stop at the intersection of Centre Street and Haas. The railroad tracks were on our left.

"How the hell did you manage that?" she demanded.

"I dunno." I answered slowly, clearly and utterly dumbfounded. "I made one right turn. I was headed out of town, made one right turn and we are back here on the same road we left by. It just isn't possible."

"And yet, here we are!"

I looked at her, thinking how unfair all this was to me.

I looked to my left, up Haas, and saw a fiery glow crossing an intersection about four blocks away. "Let's go." I said, spinning the steering wheel to the left, making a U-turn onto the berm next to the railroad tracks. I headed back out of the town of Topton again.

This time I was determined to find out how the hell I got turned around. I didn't tell the Blond Bombshell what I was doing but I had to know how a single right hand turn brought me back onto the original road, heading the opposite direction. I mean, everybody knows that two wrongs don't make a right but three left do.

So I headed back past the industrial plant on my left and into the Topton countryside. A little over two miles out I spotted the right hand turn and began slowing down.

"What are you doing?" she asked from the dark.

"Uh... trying to get out of here?"

"This is the same road we turned on last time. You can't keep making the same mistake until you get the result you want. It will always be wrong."

"Actually my Uncle Ray married my Aunt Ruthie three times and they are quite happy now." I argued.

"Honestly, Johnny, let's just go straight."

"I'm sorry. I have to do this. If I can't figure out how one right hand turn takes me back to where I started it'll drive me nuts."

She sat in the dark, her porcelain features illuminated by the dash lights, her back against the passenger door. Her long blond hair glowing goldenly in the moonlight. After a moment she said, "Yeah, me too. Go for it." That is why I loved her so much.

So I turned right onto the side road and we both watched the countryside and the farm houses. We paid attention to the curves in the road. Eventually we saw some light on the horizon. I slowed the car a little and said, "Uh, oh."

About a mile later we passed the industrial plant on our right and coasted to a halt at the intersection of Centre and Haas. "No fucking way!" we both said simultaneously.

I opened my door and stepped out onto the pavement. There was a slight breeze blowing and I thought I smelled something like ozone in the air. Possibly a hint of sulfur. I looked back towards the industrial plant and wondered what they did in there. Possibly quantum physics? Maybe a quantum janitor had bumped into the holographic universe projector with his mop and we were stuck in a sliver of time? Maybe Rod Serling was having a wet dream? Who knew?

All I knew was it was time to leave. I saw a squat shape at the far end of Centre Street. Heard the throaty rumble of a modified engine and the burble of straight pipes. I pictured a boot clad foot pressing the accelerator as the beast roared to life. Headlights came on and blinded me despite the distance. Tires squealed and the lights shot towards me.

I jumped into the driver's seat and the Blond Bombshell shouted, "Go! Go! Go!"

I spun the wheel again, my own tires screeching as they found purchase and propelled the car in another U-turn. Spinning and fishtailing on and off of the berm next to the railroad tracks. We passed the industrial plant, now on our left, as we exited Topton for the last time. The lights behind us were still gaining rapidly.

As I shot away from town I looked in the rear view mirror and saw the fiery lights skid to a halt at the intersection of Centre and Haas. Just inside the WELCOME TO TOPTON sign. Then I rounded a curve and it was gone.

This time we did not make the right hand turn. We continued straight and eventually came to Route 222. We knew where we were from there. It was 12:57 and I had just about given up on keeping the Blond Bombshell's buzz going. Surprisingly, she put her head on my shoulder and her hand on my upper arm. "That was pretty cool back there." she whispered.

Cool, I thought.

Later, in the light of day, I tried to find Topton. I drove the roads, looked at maps and asked the locals about the town. No one has ever heard of it. But the thing I cannot shake is that black car, stuck in some crazy space/time continuum, roaring endlessly up and down the streets of a forever sleeping Topton. Searching for a way out.

I guess we got lucky that night. And then again later, too.

.

The Mobius Trip (part 1)

2008-11-19T08:23:00.019-05:00

I was out club hopping with one of the Blond Bombshells the other night when something weird happened. I don't mean weird as in having a Blond Bombshell to hang out with. I mean weird as in voice-over-after-the-scene weird.

We had spent part of the evening seeing Sara Ayers at The Pub on Main and then migrated to The Summit Bar@Grill to listen to EFB. Admittedly, there were a few drinks involved. But blaming what happened later on the drinks would be like blaming venereal disease on having sex. I mean, there's not always a one-to-one correlation. Is there?

Anyway, when we left The Summit we should have. Turned left that is. What we did was discuss it and, being with a date with whom I was willing to test both above theories, I took her advice and turned right. That was the last right thing I did.

Almost immediately she said, "I don't recognize this road."

Having never been on the road myself, but being a guy, I pretended to. "We're O.K." I said. "I think we passed that barn coming in." This is usually a safe gambit because all barns look alike and blonds aren't notorious for observing things outside their personal space.

"No we didn't," she replied. "that barn has an earthen ramp and the one we passed earlier tonight was wooden."

"I think you are mistaken." I muttered. "Our turn off is just ahead."

Another thing you need to know about guys is that we will defend to the point of absurdity a course of action, once we have committed to it. Even if it wasn't our idea in the first place and even if we didn't originally agree with it at the time. I think this is why they send men to war.

Women, on the other hand, are willing to look around an unfamiliar place, admit they are lost, talk to five perfect strangers, take their stupid advice, and come home with three pair of shoes. Then tell you about the quaint little village they found. Yeah, right.

So we continued forward in the dark, the lights from an occasional farm house our only markers in the night. "Johnny, I don't like this. I have no idea where we are." she said with a tremulous voice.

I glanced over to see if the booze was wearing off yet and decided I was still safe. "How lost can we be?" I tried to reassure her. "We are less than ten minutes from where we were and at least twenty minutes from Deliverance lost. Besides, that was in a whole 'nother state."

"What was?"

"Deliverance. Ned Beatty? Burt Reynolds? The banjos?" I silently shook my head in the dark and lamented the loss of women my age. I wondered where they all went? Were they hanging out with guys twenty years older than them? And how far could that go before all that was left was a bunch of little old ladies bitching about the men they had known?... Oh wait... Aunt Nellie. That's where she came from!

"Johnny?"

"Huh?" The car had drifted towards the berm. A piece of paper or an old shirt fluttered in the short distance then whipped past the passenger side window as we passed it. I involuntarily yanked the wheel to the left, over-corrected, felt the rear end begin to drift and downshifted, the tires grabbing at macadam and loose gravel, and finally lurched forward. Once the car straightened out I slowed down again, pretending I had meant to do that.

"Nice driving, Slick" she mumbled from the dark. "Do you know where we are yet?"

"Why get all hung up on details?" I asked.

Up ahead we could see the lights of a small town illuminating the horizon. I glanced at the clock on the dash and saw it was 12:17 in the morning. "Maybe there's a 7-Eleven or a Dunkin' Donuts open? We could ask for directions." By we I meant her. Everybody knows guys don't ask for directions. They give them. Then I began hoping there was a man working. Otherwise we would end up with three pair of shoes.

As we came into town we passed some kind of industrial plant on the right of the road before approaching an intersection parallel to some railroad tracks on our left. I peered ahead, trying to read the road signs in the car's headlights. "It looks like we are on Centre Street and the cross road is Haas."

"Good." she said. "Let's leave now."

"I'm trying to." I answered a little too sharply. Geeze, what a buzz kill.

Just in front of the street signs was another signpost. Atop that post, adorned with Kiwanis and American Legion insignias, was a sign that read:

Welcome to Topton.

I felt a premonitory chill run through me and the Blond Bombshell found my hand in the dark and squeezed tightly...

TO BE CONTINUED

.

The Broken Doll Gambit

2008-11-15T08:26:00.010-05:00

I was talking with a friend the other day and he thought there was a parallel between the way we treat our little children and the Catholic Church. The biggest one being, when children ask, "Why?" we say, "because I told you to."

My friend says that is just like when the priest says, "because The Pope says so." It's not really much of an answer.

Which is a pretty good observation but, also, why this stuff should only be done by professionals.

It did get me to thinking, however. What if we really did treat our little children the way Catholics are treated by their church? Like, when a child does something wrong, instead of punishing the child (or even better yet, teaching the child why the behavior is wrong), what if we set up a system where they can endlessly repeat the same mistakes with virtually no consequences?

You know, like Billy breaks Suzy's doll so he anonymously confides in a relative stranger who basically says, "You know what, Billy? Just say the alphabet four times, count to 20 three times, and don't worry about it."

How cool would that be?

Pretty soon, little Billy (and all of his friends) would be breaking things with impunity. They would probably branch into other areas of mis-behavior. They may even begin stealing dolls and holding them for ransom. Or forcing them to perform at tea parties. Or maybe hiring out targeted acts of doll destruction. You know, just to keep them in line.

My God, where would it end?

Fortunately, all of this is just humorous speculation and kidnapping, prostitution, and murder for hire cannot be excused by some anonymous stranger in a darkened booth with a wave of his hand and some nonsensical command to repeat a rote expression ten times.

I mean, c'mon! Where would that end?

.

Of Lobsters and Slaves

2008-11-08T08:09:00.008-05:00

It is a soon to be well known internet fact that, in the days of our forefathers, lobsters were considered to be one of the lowest forms of seafood. Not a delicacy by any stretch. Bottom feeders. Virtually garbage.

As such, lobster was routinely fed to the slaves of the period.

Which got me to thinking. Who figured it out first?

Did the poor, grizzled slaves with work calloused hands, and shoulders stooped from picking tobacco, shuffle home at the end of a long work day, their legs tired, their backs aching, into their unpainted shanties - to lobster dinners?

Did they suddenly straighten as they shrugged out of their soiled work clothes and slipped into dress slacks and velvet collared, silk smoking jackets? Was the dining table in the center of their one room shack covered with a white linen table cloth, the tapers lit and sitting snugly in their silver candelabras, lobsters steaming on the fire in the corner of the room, drawn butter bubbling in silver chaffing dishes? Did they wear lye scrubbed lobster bibs and complain that they only had one nut cracker and tiny fork with which to extricate the delicate sweet meat of the lobster's claws? Were the little ones already in bed having feasted upon their daily portions of shrimp and cocktail sauce?

We may never know but oral history would suggest that the irony was not lost upon the slaves, or at least their ancestors who got to retell this story with benefit of hindsight. As the story goes: One night after the crustaceans were sucked empty and the butter and lobster juice stained bibs were thrown carelessly on the table, Jasper sat with his feet upon a small hassock before the fire, lighting his cigar with a piece of kindling, talking between puffs, "Massa went a huntin' today... Uh, huh."

"Did he ketch anythin'?" his mate whispered, not wanting to wake the little ones.

"Yes'm. Him and that ol' dawg of his kotched them up two scrawny squirrels and a tired ol' groundhawg... Uh, huh."

"MMMM, mmmm!" the female replied, picking a stray piece of lobster meat from between her teeth, wiping her hands on her butter stained apron. "That do sounds like some mighty fine eatin'!"

"UH, huh."

.

Attack of the Brain Vampyre!

2008-11-03T16:00:00.008-05:00

Beware! Beware! All who pass beyond this point have been warned...

...What? You're still reading? This is my point, exactly! I have been noticing a correlation between my readers and vapid stares. Empty gazes. Silly grins. A certain diminution of IQ.

I write about Wife Whisperers and I attract more female attention. I jump out of an airplane and everybody wants to jump out of an airplane. I stop dating red heads and I'm inundated by blonds. Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate the attention, but I'm thinking something else is going on here.

Like the time I rushed to Victoria Secret's 50% Off Sale and they were still modeling the entire ensembles. I never know what people are thinking.

Take my friend Kenn for an example. When I first met him, his name was Ken. But after three years of reading my blog he can't even spell his own name correctly. What's with the extra n, buddy? Did you flunk Abbreviation Class in grade school? Were all of the cool nicknames taken? And he's just one example.

Apparently several of my blogs have been read during a study group exploring Spiritual Enlightenment. As Larry the Cable Guy says, "I don't care who you are - that's funny."

So it got me to thinking. How can these otherwise bright people find themselves going after the shiny lure? It's not the brilliant writing. Or the original ideas. I've actually looked up the word derivative in the dictionary and copied it into a blog, for God's sake!

Something else must be going on.

Maybe the neo-Gothic architecture of my blog's typeface was once used in a voodoo zombie sacrifice and the residual demonic aura is still working it's hoodoo? Maybe the steady drone of my uninspired wording is hypnotizing my readers into a passive state of non-productivity? Maybe the letter n is stuck on Kennnnn's keyboard.

We may never know.

But I can tell you three things. I'm not getting the benefit of the extra IQ points being left behind. The more points you lose here the more likely you are to return. And, but for a difference of 3 points, this would be Kenn's blog.

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The Bucket List

2008-10-27T21:10:00.014-05:00

The other night we were sitting at Rookies, one of our favorite sports bars, perusing the specials menu when The Blond Bombshell said, "Look, they have lobster!" A moment later she said, "Oh, never mind. They're whole lobsters. I don't want to be responsible for killing one."

"So, like, what?" I asked. "You only want to cripple one?"

I dunno, I thought it was funny.

Later, over a dinner of burgers and sweet potato fries she asked me how my bucket list was coming. I took a sip of Guinness and said that maybe I ought to add making a bucket list to my bucket list. Then I asked her why she thought I needed one.

"Well, I thought since you just went skydiving you'd be thinking of other things you would like to do..."

"What... before I die?"

"Uh... that is sort of the point of a bucket list, isn't it?"

"I guess." I replied. "It just seems... kind of morbid."

"It doesn't have to be. You could make it fun. You know, like an adventure."

"Fun huh? Well, I guess I could do that." I thought for a second and said, "How about I divorce my estranged wife of 36 years to see if her mother really is unavailable?"

"Very funny." She said. Her frown belied her words. "I had in mind something more like teaching yourself Greek."

"I did that 25 years ago."

"Oh."

"I could ask Ann to teach me how to scoff in German." I suggested.

"You could learn how to swing dance."

"Swing?" I said, my voice brightening. "Maybe I could try to figure out why 3-ways are O.K. for light bulbs but not for other stuff."

"Could you even try to be serious?" she asked, her hazel eyes flashing.

"Let me see..." I answered, seeming to look deep inside myself. "Nope. I don't think so."

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. "I didn't think so, either. You know there are a lot of things that could be fun to try, though."

I waggled my eyebrows and pretended to flick an imaginary cigar ash, saying in my best Groucho voice, "What did you have in mind, little girl?"

After a brief silence she said, "You could learn how to fly an airplane."

"I doubt it." I answered. "But I could petition Johnson & Johnson to bring out a more gender neutral version of Ben-Gay."

"You could learn how to play the guitar." she said, ignoring me.

"Or I could let them call me back for one more covert mission."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, brushing her long blond hair from her bare shoulders while nibbling delicately at her burger.

"Uh, never mind. I really shouldn't have said anything."

She stared at me for a moment and finally said, "I never know when to take you seriously."

"Exactly."

"What?"

"Never."

"Oh... " For a moment it was like she had lost her place. "Well, uh, how about going over a waterfall in a barrel?"

"What're you - crazy?" I asked as I daubed some chipotle sauce with a sweet potato fry. "If I wanted to do something dangerous I could just whistle Flight of the Bumble Bee in a crowded elevator."

"Or you could pick a foreign country that you've never been to." she ventured.

"O.K. Now what?" I asked innocently.

"What?"

"I've picked one. Brazil. Now what?"

"You can go to..."

"Careful." I said. "Your Irish is showing."

While she was thinking about that, I said, "You know, I could try to read an entire page, silently, without moving my lips."

"You've never been quiet for that long." she shot back.

"Touche." I replied. "Nicely played."

Finally, while she was dabbing her lips with a napkin, she asked me, "Isn't there something that you really, really want to do before you die?"

"Well... yeah, I guess." I said, staring at my empty plate. "I'd really, really like to find a cure for whatever it was that was killing me."

You know, I have never understood why people look at me that way.

.

Soon to be Famous...

2008-10-23T13:45:00.007-05:00

We would like to submit another in our series of Soon To Be Famous Quotes by our beloved founder, philosopher and occasional boy toy:

We are not all victims but are, each of us, the chief perpetrators of our own lives.

..............................................................................................................................John Bonus

Yes, we realize it is no "Carpe Diem" but he has been saying it a lot, lately, and we here at Escape Velocity's Corporate Headquarters are up for our annual review - so please read it again.

.

The Jump

2008-10-20T06:33:00.009-05:00

I kept getting mixed signals on the day I went skydiving.

They have a pretty cool web page with video of people skydiving, testimonials about how much fun it is and payment options, etc. My first indicator that this might not be safe was in the payment options. Listed among Cash, Visa, Mastercard, and American Express was the statement that they do not take personal checks on the day of the jump. Which makes sense. Mangled corpses are notorious deadbeats.

When we got there we had to sit through an instructional video. Now keep in mind, we were about to jump out of a perfectly good airplane and were a little nervous at the prospect. So we were literally hanging on every word of instruction. Sort of like our lives depended upon it. The instructional part of the video lasted about 45 seconds.

The other 23 minutes of it were legal disclaimers and a guide to filling out the paperwork. We had to agree not to sue anyone, ever, for any reason, ever, nor could our heirs (survivors), ever, even if they (the skydiving company) completely screwed up and packed an anvil instead of a parachute, ever, or if they ran out of gas, ever, or if the jump master forgot to hook onto you, or for anything else. Ever.

My sense was that they were more afraid of lawsuits than we were of jumping out of an airplane, at 10,000 feet, for the very first time.

Next, we were told that we would be getting a discount on the videography. It seems that their regular guy who jumps with us and wears the camera on his helmet to record our jump and rapid descent could not make it that day. He was in the hospital. Geeze! I hope he watched the video.

Now here is something that should have been in the video. Most of us were wearing jeans. Then we were put in a pair of zip up coveralls. Then we were strapped into a jump harness. Which, by my count (including my under shorts), is four layers of very tight material and straps surrounding, compressing and pinching my private parts. Only after we are all strapped and cinched tight does the jump master tell us that we should make sure that we are comfortable down there because when the 'chute opens we could get hurt. So there I am trying to rearrange my junk through all of the tight materials that have been strapped into place, while there are women standing around watching and snickering, and I'm trying to be cool about it.

Fortunately, I am very cool.

Eventually, I got into a very small airplane with the pilot, the jump master, and the guy who owns the skydiving business. He has made over 38,000 jumps and is in the Guinness Book of World Records for the most skydives. (I'll bet he arranges his junk before they cinch his straps.) And we were off.

About 4,000 feet into our ascent, the old guy opened the door and leaned out and was whipped away by the 120 mile an hour wind. It happened so fast it was like a special effect on Heroes. That was my reality check. Up until this point I had been remarkably calm. It hadn't really hit me what I was about to do. But suddenly, I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor of a flying canoe, three feet from the open door and the guy who opened the door was whipped away in the blink of an eye and I'm not strapped down or connected to ANYTHING. And the jump master yells over the noise, "So, what do you think?"

What do I think? WHAT DO I THINK? "Holy shit!" I yelled back. "Close the frickin' door!"

Eventually the pilot reached over and pulled the door down. The next thought I had was "that is going to be me in a couple of minutes" and I wondered how many people have thrown up at 120 miles an hour and what kind of mess that'll make.

Then I thought, "At least my junk is comfortable."

When the moment came the jump master told me to get on my knees and scoot around so that I was between the pilot seat and the door. All of this is in an unsteady, vibrating, rocking, flying Volkswagen. I have less than 2 inches leeway on either side, I'm swaying with the jarring movements, I am not strapped to anything and I am not wearing a parachute and the jump master cautions me not to touch the door. YOU THINK? I wasn't about to touch that door! I wouldn't touch that door if my... well, actually, it did.

Then he tells me to sit on my heels and lean back into him. And, finally, he hooks onto to me. Two at the shoulders and two at the hips. This the the first time since the old guy was whipped away that I think I actually breathed. When he reached over and around to re-tighten the cinches I did not care how tightly I was pressed into his junk. I thought if it's another place to hold on to I hope it's a big one!

This is when the pilot reached over and opened the door. It snapped up and my whole world became a 120 mile an hour wind storm. The jump master yelled into my ear, "Swing your knees out of the plane, look up and arch your back." I think the last part was so that he could rearrange his junk.

The next thing I know is that he leaned forward and we are in a rushing river of air. I can see the entire world laid out before me but the torrent of air is buffeting me so badly that I can hardly catch my breath. I am peripherally aware that he is strapped to my back. All my senses are alive. I am totally aware of everything around me. He yells in my ear to look up and to the left and give a thumbs up at the camera strapped to his wrist. A moment later he yells, "Your other left."

Hey, I had a lot going on! O.K.?

That was the longest and shortest 45 seconds of my life. And then the 'chute deployed. My shoulders were snapped back. I grabbed my shoulder harness, the wind virtually disappeared, and we were floating.

The next five minutes were magical. I got to see the world as few others do. I saw the mountains become nothing more than rolling disturbances in the landscape. I saw the highways as mere lines connecting areas of population. I saw the fall colors as an even brownish-orange and I actually saw the curvature of the Earth.

Eventually I was able to process familiar places and got my bearings above the familiar roads and malls and housing developments. We drifted lazily across the landscape, catching the thermals, steering in and out of the now gentle winds. It was cold that day but I really did not notice it until later. I was flying, man. Flying.

After a while I saw the airport, then the landing area, then the people, and we were down. A perfect landing exactly where the jump master had intended.

I had gotten to know a few of the other jumpers while we were all waiting earlier and as I walked over to the fence line where they were standing, a mile wide grin on my face, Tony asked if that was me he heard screaming like a little girl. Suddenly deadpan I replied, "No it was the jump master. When I pissed my pants it ran up his leg."

.

The Last Will

2008-10-16T06:57:00.007-05:00

Tomorrow I go skydiving.

I know. I know. You're thinking, "How can that guy get any frickin' cooler?" Either that or, "I get dibs on his liquor cabinet!"

Which probably isn't a bad idea. The dibs part I mean. Because, actually, I kind of pegged the Cool-O-Meter a while back.

So I got to thinking - Last Will and Testament.

I know you are supposed to be of sound mind to write one of these things but if a million monkeys on a million typewriters can, theoretically, eventually write Shakespeare, I figure one homo erectus on an Apple should be able to cobble something together good enough to satisfy the legal arm at Escape Velocity's Corporate Headquarters.

Speaking of lawyers. In the event of my death, I would like to leave all of my former wife's worldly possessions to my divorce lawyer.

In addition, I want to leave my collection of body oils and lubricants to the Baptist Church.

I would like to leave my collections of Playboy, Penthouse, and other erotic art to the Boy Scouts of America; and my partial sets of Melmac dishes to the Waldorf Astoria.

I hereby bequeath all of my winter outerwear to the American Association for Nude Recreation.

And I would like to leave my five-gallon jug of pennies and nickles to Bill Gates.

I would like someone to put the call-to-donate 800 number for The Seven Hundred Club on the National Do Not Call List.

I would like science to work on a better use for the passenger side of my bed.

I would like to donate one gallon of whole milk and one can of air freshener to each of my lactose intolerant friends.

I want to leave my collection of antique beer steins to the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous.

I would like to donate my brain to science and my fingers to simple math.

And on a personal note, I would like to thank all of my very dear friends for allowing me the pleasure of knowing them and to congratulate them on the privilege of knowing me.

Now get out of here. I have a plane to catch.

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The Death of the Petite Red Head

2008-10-09T06:39:00.008-05:00

I was standing behind the tiki bar when my friend Mike came up the side steps. "What's up, Big Mon?" he asked. He could see that I was upset.

"Oh, hell!" I responded as I slammed a bottle of something onto the bar, shot glasses bounced and a couple rolled to the edge where Mike's cop-reflexes caught them. "Woa! Woa! Take it easy!" He set the glasses upright and reached into the cooler for a cold beer. "Now," he continued. "What's the problem?"

"The Petite Red Head is dead." I stated flatly.

"Really?" he raised one eyebrow. "I thought she was fictional?"

"She mostly was."

"So how can she be dead?"

"Well, as you know, she was a composite character. A little feistiness from one girl, a little stubbornness from another, a little playfulness from another, and the intellect from my dream girl. The red hair was from several other girls I've known and the petite part just seemed to fit into the Johnny B character's arms."

"Yeah, I know that." Mike said. "But that doesn't explain how she can die."

I looked at the gloomy sky, thunderheads roiling in the distance. A slight breeze was picking up and I could smell the honey suckle at the far end of the tiki deck. I chose not to answer his question directly. "Remember when she first showed up in the Help Yourself blog? The one about the "A" and "B" type hosts and guests?"

"Sure."

"She was just a minor bit of window dressing. A bit player. A walk on part. But she just felt right, man. You know what I mean?"

"No, not really. But then, you are the writer." He answered truthfully.

"Then a little later, I had a mis-understanding with a girl I was dating and I brought the petite red head back in I Can Do That! to help me illustrate the humorous contrasts between how men and women think."

"Uh, huh."

"At this point, I was beginning to see the potential of a female character who was slightly smarter than the Johnny B character and I began using her sometimes as a straight man and sometimes to set him up as the fall guy of the piece. I did this in The Trouble with Hairy (Legs) and in Giving Good Foot. But she really came into her own in Breakin' ALL the Rules!. That's the one where she gets me for being so anal. Remember?"

"Yeah, I do." he smiled. "It was actually pretty funny."

"That's when I knew she had to die." I said.

"What!"

"That's when I knew she had to die."

"I didn't mean what did you say. Didn't you see the exclamation mark? I said 'what' in the sense of 'what the hell are you talking about!'." He explained.

"Oh." ...

... "So? Like, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Well... it's just that... well, she was stealing my thunder, man."

Suddenly Mike got very patient and began talking in slower, more measured tones. "Johnny, how can she steal your thunder? You are the one making it up."

"Hey, this stuff isn't easy. And it's even harder to explain. It's sort of like when you date a girl and after about a month or so you realize she has this whole other life going on outside of you. Like... who knew? You know what I mean?"

"Uhhh... No."

"Anyway, I figured if I let her have her way, she was about a couple of weeks away from having her own blog. Which could have been one way to get rid of her but, logistically, that would have been a nightmare."

"Uh, huh."

"So I decided to phase her out."

"How did you do that?" The skin around his eyes tightened and I could tell he was sorry he asked the question. So he took another sip of his beer.

"Well, that was when I wrote The Stripper and the Toilet Bowl. I was kinda hoping to divert the attention away from the petite red head." I explained. "That was also about the same time I quit dating red heads... I figured maybe I was channeling some of their crazy energy into the petite red head. It's a shame, too. There was this one chick..."

"Ummm, Johnny. Back to the story."

"Oh. Yeah." I said shaking the fog from my head. "Anyway, I still needed her. She was a good foil and my raison d'etre. So she popped up again in The Great Beard Rebellion."

"That's when I began playing around with different female characters. Trying to find one that resonated. I thought I hit pay dirt with the Frankie character in So This is Love, but it turned out that she was too flighty."

"But... never mind."

"This is when I started writing more introspective stuff and the true stories from my life. Things like The Polish Blog and The Gift. I even tried my hand at writing a country/western song. Remember Every Fool has a Heart?"

"Yep. And if I remember correctly, you haven't written about the petite red head since. But isn't that kind of what you wanted? Is the character irreplaceable?"

"No. Oh, Lord, no!" I said. "In fact I'm already working on a new one."

"What's her name?"

"I'm not sure she'll have one. But I'm thinking of calling her the Blond Bombshell. What do you think?"

"Sounds cool."

"I just need to keep this one on a short leash. It is, after all, my picture on the page."

"O.K." Mike said - then he paused before continuing. "So, if you killed the petite red head on purpose and you have a replacement in the wings to serve as your straight man and foil, etc., why are you so upset?"

"Well, I was thinking about throwing a party for the Petite Red Head, sort of like a wake, but I can't remember how to mix her favorite drink."

.

Alien Autopsy

2008-10-03T09:02:00.016-05:00

I was sitting in my outdoor office (on the bar stool behind the tiki bar), doodling on a yellow tablet. This is how I kick-start a lot of my ideas. I heard a knock on the inside of my sliding door into the living room and, as I looked up, it slid open and my buddy Al walked out onto the deck. His tousled hair and tight physique belied his sixty plus years.

"What're you working on?" he asked as he glanced at my note pad.

"Just an idea." I replied vaguely.

"Yeah," he said, "like Guy Stuff at the Mall was just a story about a sporting goods store."

"Well... it was!"

"O.K. So what's this one about?"

"Remember a while back I wrote a piece poking fun at the male/female thing called Are Women Aliens? I was kinda pokin' fun at that book Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus and came to the conclusion that Women are from Venus and that Men are from Earth. Remember?"

"Sure."

"O.K., so I got to thinking about why a lot of relationships end and being a man, and assuming women do things and make decisions for un-earthly reasons, I thought if I could dissect a past relationship... you know, like what makes a girl tick?, I could call it an Alien Autopsy."

"It's funny... but I don't know..." Al muttered. "You could be shooting yourself in the foot."

"C'mon, everyone knows I'm only kidding around! Besides, if we can't laugh at each other, who can we laugh at?"

"So, what're you thinking?"

"I dunno." I said looking down at my tablet. "It is a lot of contradictory behavior. Stuff like: 'If she's already been divorced five times, how can I be the problem?' Or: 'She drinks wine for three months and, just when I buy a case of the stuff, she switches to rum.' Or: 'She doesn't want to go to the night club any more but still wants to take dance lessons.' "

"What else have you got?" he asked.

"How about: 'She wouldn't tell me until 30 minutes before if she was coming on a date but she had to know two weeks early if I was going to one of her functions.' Or: 'She would blow off three dates in a row and when I would mention it she tells me she can't take the drama.' Or, listen to this one: 'She insists on a "monogamous" relationship but isn't ready for a "committed" one.' "

"Oh, and never, ever, ever use the word 'whatever' even though she wants you to accept what ever she throws at you."

"O.K." Al finally said. "I am beginning to get the alien part. And... I guess it's safe to say that you are dissecting it after it's dead... hence the autopsy."

"See? You are getting it. But you know," I replied, "the alien analogy doesn't end there. Asking someone what they are thinking during an intimate moment is a lot like vivisection. You know - dissecting something while it's still alive? Aliens are supposedly doing that when they abduct humans."

"You don't mean...?"

"Yes..." I answered. "I think I've been probed!"

.

The Wife Whisperer

2008-09-30T12:05:00.004-05:00

A wife whisperer is a friend of the family who adopts a sympathetic view of the motives, needs, and desires of women, based on natural attractions and modern female psychology. The term goes back to the mid twentieth century when a neighboring farmer, David Cathcart, made a name for himself in England by rehabilitating wives that had become vicious and intractable due to neglect, accidental trauma or just plain restlessness.

Cathcart kept his methods secret, but people who managed to observe him noticed that he would stand face to face with the troubled woman. They seemed to think that he must be saying something to her in a way she could understand and accept because the women were quickly gentled by his mysterious techniques. Sometimes he would practice his methods with the females in a prone position.

His techniques were passed over to Ignatz Yoder who learned them well and traveled widely in the Americas to help the most severely restless women. His fame spread, and more and more females sought his help. He wrote a book about his experiences and later cooperated with John Bonus.

Bonus, at first a very talented amateur, was protective of the tradition he had thus learned, and in early versions of his own book did not reveal how the most recalcitrant women were salvaged by the methods Cathcart originated. He did, however, always give Yoder full credit for his particular methods of gentling women. Finally he became convinced that it was better to reveal the secret method to the world than to risk its loss. That method is fairly faithfully represented in the novel and motion picture The Wife Whisperer.

Today, numerous "neighbors" and so-called "friends of the family" call themselves wife whisperers, often building on the work of David Cathcart, Ignatz Yoder, and John Bonus in the early 21st century. Although the work of these modern practitioners is often derivative and sometimes sloppy, the techniques are solid, and a reminder to all, of the subtle refinements that Bonus brought to the process.

His gentle humor, searching eyes and subtle hands have become the trade-mark of the modern wife whisperer. As has the much heard catch phrase, "What are you doing with my wife?"

The Storyteller

2008-09-22T22:05:00.009-05:00

The storyteller sat before his eternal audience, weaving his tapestry of words and ideas. He held forth in the courts of kings and whispered among prisoners of a genocidal maniac. His voice rose in the amphitheater as the salt air stirred the crimson and white and purple trimmed togas. He told tall tales and lies around a campfire amidst the aroma of burned coffee and beans.

His rumors kept hope alive when logic dictated sure death. He touched the souls of men hardened by toil and weakened by despair and fired the imaginations of newly forming minds. He broke the hearts of young lovers and restored faith in a tarnished God.

His stories made strong men seek refuge in the purity of a woman's heart and drove inexperienced women to betray the men they loved. He brought adventure to the home bound and domestic tranquility to the wanderer. He led nations to war and back again from the brink of destruction.

His purpose was obvious and an enigma.

His heart was open yet mysterious.

His methods varied.

At times his hatred would choke the flow of vitriol spewing from his twisted lips as he sprayed spittle on his fearful audience. Other times a single word from him would turn away a darkening crowd. He laughed and he cried as he told his tales of life.

And he made people think. And wonder at the magic and absurdity of a perfectly formed world in total disarray. He understood his oneness with all of creation and eventually he stood on a desolate planet in a distant future with no one to hear his tales. But this he told, too.

His audience varied yet was eternally the same. He spoke to all and he spoke to none. He spoke to himself.

He spoke because he had to - for he was the storyteller.

.

Lost & Found

2008-09-17T06:31:00.007-05:00

Another season has come and gone here at the resort. The chaise lounges and lawn chairs are being stacked and stored and the buildings are being winterized. The pool is closed and covered. The grounds keepers are preparing for harsher weather and the CLOSED FOR THE SEASON signs are in place. The first of the fall leaves are beginning to trickle from the pre-autumn sky, littering the roadways and paths with their colorful, earthy presence. The smells of the late season campfires are being replaced with evidence of indoor fireplaces; gray plumes of smoke drifting lazily across the morning landscape.

On my party deck, The Taki Tiki, things are still fairly normal. I won't start putting the outdoor furniture away for at least another month. My new fire pit is getting a work out and I keep the hot tub going all year long. And, although my last big party of the summer is history, I will still be having smaller gatherings of friends over until it gets too cold. Then we'll move the parties indoors.

All of this does not, however, prevent a certain kind of nostalgia from setting in for the recently departed season. This struck me as I was putting things away from last weekend's party. I have a spare bedroom that I use for storing party supplies, masquerade costumes, linen, beach towels, and anything else that does not conveniently go with the neat freak motif in the rest of my house. This is where I keep my Lost & Found.

As I was standing there, adding a pair of rhinestone studded sunglasses to the mix, I felt a weird sense of joy for the accumulated memories of the recent past as well as a sadness for its brevity. I handled a catalog for a winery in the Napa Valley, an oven mitt, a little red lace choker that some babe must be searching frantically for, a green table cloth, a Giants tee shirt and two more pairs of sun glasses. There is a set of keys that no one has claimed or asked for; a small leather bag, a bottle of tanning oil, and a little silver serving tray.

Over the course of the summer, various items came and went from my Lost & Found. And I usually had the same mixed reactions as I added or removed the items. It could easily be summed up in the phrase "good times". But when I tried to analyze the feelings, to compare what I was feeling with what I was holding, I came up empty.

This puzzled me for a while until I realized that I was feeling nostalgic about things I could not even remember. After all, if I knew whose sunglasses these were I would get them back to them. I have no memory of who was wearing the Giant's tee shirt or (God help me) the little red lace choker thingy. So I was basically getting emotional over a box of junk that other people aren't even missing themselves.

On the other hand, these memories are not missing because of an alcoholic black-out. They are missing because I was busy with my guests at another part of the party. While I was making Liki Tiki blender drinks at the Tiki Bar someone at the hot tub was putting her sun glasses down. While I was happily munching on a grilled burger, listening to the Not An Exit story for the first time, someone else was tucking their small leather bag behind a chair leg so it wouldn't get lost. And while these minor items were being carelessly cast about, my friends and I were having some of the best times of the summer.

So I guess its alright to feel nostalgic when I look into the Lost & Found box. But not so much for the baubles that were lost as for the treasures that were found.

.

Every Fool has a Heart

2008-09-11T07:07:00.008-05:00

I've been trying my hand as a lyricist again. I have written a number of songs over the years, for the amusement of myself and the amazement of others, with mixed results. I must admit, however, that I am fairly pleased with my most recent effort. It is a country/western style song. I have a basic melody in my head for it but if any of my readers would like to collaborate on the music, I would love to hear from you. The name of the song is:

Every Fool has a Heart (in the Night)

Every once in a while
When you answer a smile
And you end up with someone at night
You can feel her heart beating
At the casual meeting
And somehow you’ll know that it’s right

You can spend the night dancing
Seducing, romancing
And feel that your day was all right
Yet she’s gone the next morning
Without any warning
Every fool has a heart in the night

CHORUS:
Every fool has a heart in the night
Even though you were feeling all right
She’ll be gone the next morning
Without any warning
Every fool has a heart in the night

You can tease her and please her
And never release her
And end up with someone tonight
You can feel her heart racing
And mem’ries erasing
And somehow you’ll know that it’s right

When she is dancing along
To that special love song
You can feel that your day was just right
But she’s leaving by daybreak
And making your heart break
Every fool has a heart in the night

CHORUS:
Every fool has a heart in the night
Even though you were feeling all right
She’ll be gone the next morning
Without any warning
Every fool has a heart in the night

Every once in a while
When you make a girl smile
And ask her to stay through the night
She’ll spend the night dancing
Seducing, romancing
And somehow she’ll know that it’s right

You can feel you’re heart breaking
Through giving and taking
Yet feel that your day was all right
The mem’ries are burning
And your heart’s still yearning
Yet somehow you got through the night

CHORUS:
Every fool has a heart in the night
Even though you were feeling all right
Every fool has a heart
Though it’s breaking apart
Every fool has a heart in the night

.

Thank you... Thank you very much!

.

NOT AN EXIT

2008-09-09T08:08:00.013-05:00

A friend of mine was telling me about an incident where she works. It seems that there was a new employee who needed to get to his vehicle in the company parking lot. He had two choices. He could either walk down the labyrinth of corridors that he had used to get to his current location in the building (which was a break room) or go out the door ten feet away from him that led directly into the parking lot.

As he approached the door he was stopped by one of the office managers. "You can't go out that door."

He turned, his hand already on the push bar. "Why not?"

"It's a rule. Employees must use the front exit only."

"I just need to get something out of my car. It is twenty feet on the other side of this door."

"I'm sorry," the manager replied. "That is not an exit."

"But it says EXIT in lighted letters above the door." The new guy was starting to get a little heated. "See?" He pointed to the white box with illuminated red letters which clearly read EXIT.

"I'm sorry." The manager repeated. "You need to use the front door."

The new guy stood there for a few seconds, looking at the manager, weighing his options. Finally he put his weight against the push bar, swung the door open and said he would be right back.

When he returned ninety seconds later from his car the door was closed and set so that it could only be opened from the inside. No one was in the break room. It took him eight minutes to get back to the break room to retrieve some papers he'd left on a table. He was already late for his next meeting. As he grabbed his stuff he noticed a hand written note taped onto the inside of the door about sixteen inches below the illuminated EXIT sign. The note read: NOT AN EXIT.

Later that day, the manager returned to the break room. In addition to his hand written NOT AN EXIT sign was a sign on the refrigerator that read: NOT A REFRIGERATOR. The table sported a sign reading: NOT A TABLE. Each chair had a sign declaring: NOT A CHAIR. In fact everything in the room had signs. The walls, the ceiling, the drawers in the sink cabinet, the sink, the plasticware next to the coffee pot. The coffee pot. Everything. Inside the refrigerator were yellow sticky notes announcing that this bag was NOT BILL'S LUNCH or that that container was NOT ANN'S YOGURT. The light bulb inside the 'frig had a note.

The manager's original note had a NOT NOT AN EXIT NOTE note.

All of the notes were in different hand writing.

While the dumbfounded manager was standing there, other employees began drifting in. Acting as if everything were normal. Ignoring him. When he got back to his office it had received the same treatment. His office door, the rug, his desk, scissors, his suit jacket, his desk chair.

He angrily removed all of the little signs and threw them into his waste basket that was clearly marked NOT A WASTE BASKET. He left early that day and drove home with a sign taped to the car trunk announcing to the world that what he was driving was: NOT A CAR. Finally he got home where everything was normal. He explained to his wife that he was home early because he was just a little tired.

As he was pouring a beer and raiding the 'frig his wife asked him "Why is there a note on your back that says: NOT A MANAGER ?"

My friend tells me that there has never been a problem using the exit in the break room since that day and that the new employee decided not to take the job after all.

.

Picture of Love

2008-09-02T07:22:00.006-05:00

You are standing by the sea
In the picture in my mind.
You are smiling at me sweetly
With a love still undefined.

The sun was shining brightly
Upon the flowers laced with gold.
And I touch the picture gently
Of the girl I used to hold.

I hear you laughing softly
As you often used to do.
I imagine you are thinking
Of the days of me and you.

But time has come between us
As I recall our loving home.
Through the image in a picture
That I cherish all alone.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John Bonus
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The Anniversary Clock

2008-08-27T07:55:00.009-05:00

I have people ask me all of the time, "Is that a real Anniversary Clock?"

I usually tell them, "No, it's imaginary."

At this point in the conversation, I actually had one girl go over and try to touch it. But then again, that's kinda why I like having her around.

Getting back to the clock. I guess it's real. It is made by Elgin. It is under a glass dome. It has the four-ball pendulum that rotates back and forth in a flat arc. It chimes every hour and I bought it for one of those big deal anniversaries. (You know, like twenty years or twenty-five years. One of the anniversaries that everyone fusses over ((except the kids)) and you are supposed to think you accomplished something other than stacking time.)

Anyway, my Anniversary Clock has a weird quirk. It chimes ten minutes before the hour. I have tried everything I know to make it chime on the hour. I have stopped it dead for ten minutes - then restarted it. It still chimed at ten till. I loosened and moved the hands to no avail. I had it in storage for six months one time and when I set it back up it chimed at ten till the hour.

I can, however, move the hands to be ten minutes fast and it will chime on the hour, but then the clock is wrong.

All of this is not unlike the broken marriage that the clock represents. I was better at keeping time and she was better at making time. No that's not it. How about: While I was counting the seconds - she was running a little fast? No that's not it. I guess the best way to say it is just that we had bad timing.

But from a distance it was all golden and shiny under the crystal globe that kept outsiders from seeing that the gilt trim was painted plastic and that the simulated movement was more the result of batteries than the finely balanced cogs of a lovingly crafted timepiece.

We have another anniversary coming up. But this year the marriage as well as the clock are on a shelf next to some dusty tomes about imaginary things that happened a long time ago and no one really cared about at the time. Part of the clock is still keeping perfect time. Part of it is still running a little fast. And I guess it still looks good from a distance.

In the mean time, my early chiming clock is a good ice breaker. Especially when they hear the early peals of the distant chimes and I can say, "Relax Baby, we have plenty of time."

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The Gift

2008-08-14T19:42:00.014-05:00

When I was growing up I received a gift from my mother's father. His name was Merle Huselton.

My father worked a heavy construction job during those years but it was seasonal work. In the winter time we would live on welfare checks and eat government food. I remember going to the local firehall and carrying home tins of cheese and canned meat and bags of potatoes. As a child I never thought this was unusual. I thought this was the way everyone lived.

I did not know that we were poor.

Having said that, I thought my grandfather was poor.

He lived in a single room above a local bar. It was a bleak room. I remember going to visit him by myself one day. There was a door next to the entry for the bar. My father sent me up to room 11 while he went through the other door. I could hear the sound of the jukebox and someone laughing as the bar door opened and closed.

Just inside my door was a steep flight of stairs. The walls were painted green at one time but were now a smudged dirty brown. The stairs creaked under the weight of my tiny feet. I could smell beer and fried onions... and something else, I guess. Not healthy. I could feel the vibrations from the jukebox through the rough plaster wall as I slowly climbed the stairs.

At the top was a long hallway. There were battered wooden doors down both walls. These walls were painted a slightly newer version of the stairway green. My grandfather's door was about halfway down on the right. Number 11. The floor was worn and sticky in spots. Empty beer bottles littered the hall. I could hear voices arguing behind a door on my left. Further down the hall I could hear someone playing a scratchy Hank Williams record. For some reason I tried to be very quiet.

When I got to number 11 I tapped on the door with my small knuckles. I waited quietly. Then I knocked again. I was about to leave when I heard him clear his throat and spit into something. I waited a little longer and knocked again. This time I heard a chair scrape on the floor and his heavy footsteps approach the door.

As the door opened I saw that he looked very tired. He was about six-four and weighed around a hundred and fifty-five pounds. He had a full shock of gray hair and about three days of white stubble on his sunken cheeks. His eyes were watery and bloodshot. I recognized the red flannel shirt he was wearing as one my mother had given him for Christmas. It was tucked into a baggy pair of corduroy pants. His work shoes were untied.

He squinted down at me and gave me a quick smile. "Johnny!" he cried. "Git in here, you little shit!" He was happy.

"Hi Gran'pap." I said. "Daddy's down at the bar." I pointed down the hallway.

His work calloused hand guided me by my shoulder into the room. He pushed some magazines off of a wooden kitchen chair and told me to sit down. He sat opposite me at the little table. His chair was made of chrome tubing and torn vinyl. There was also a sway back bed and a night stand in the small room. Inside an opened closet door I could see a battered chest of drawers and a few shirts and pants on metal hangers. The tattered curtains were gray and dusty looking. He had a great view of the alley behind the bar.

After we made some small talk he offered me a warm bottle of orange pop. (We called it pop back then. I had never even heard of soda. I guess it was a western Pennsylvania thing.) He opened the bottle of pop with a tool on his key chain. I took a big swallow and he said, "Did you finish it?"

I looked at him with my big hazel eyes and nodded gravely.

"Well?"

"It... was... sooooo neat!" I said. "It was the best one yet!"

We were talking about a paperback western called Buffalo Wagons. It was written about five years earlier by Elmer Kelton.

This was our thing.

My grandfather was an old coal miner from the hills of Pennsylvania. He had raised his family in a series of wooden shacks and lived from pay to pay off of the company store. It was a rough life and I guess he never really got ahead. He was a hard worker and a hard drinker. By the time I got to know him he was a burned out old man, down on his luck, with failing health. I don't think he was much older than I am, right now.

But he loved to read. He always had a box of paperback westerns in the corner of his closet. The covers were creased, the bindings broken, the pages dog-eared from reading and re-reading. I guess it was his escape.

He would get his check at the beginning of each month. He would pay his rent, give my mother some money to hold for him, go to the drug store to get a couple of dime novels and then get rip roarin' drunk. Several days later, most of his money would be gone. My mother would dole out what he needed for necessities and feed him several times a week. And he would sit in his room and ride the range with Zane Gray and Louis L'Amour and Elmer Kelton.

I honestly don't know which part made him happier. But I do know he loved to share his books with me. We would sit for hours and discuss the gunfighters, and the settlers living in the mountains of the old west. We'd talk about the Indians and wagon trains and skinning buffalo. And for just a little while we were there, too. Riding the trails, sleeping on the ground, eating beans and boiling coffee.

And I know it is because of him that I have a love of reading. He taught me how to think critically and how to look into the story, beyond the written words. He taught me that imagination and adventure are often the same thing. That your circumstances should not narrow your world. That history is not a bunch of dry facts and boring details but is the living, breathing essence of who we all are.

And he taught me that even poor people can be rich.

Thanks Gran'pap!
.

The yes-no Response

2008-08-05T11:56:00.008-05:00

I walked into the room fearful of the interview. I had just finished my basic training at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. I was to have a meeting with Captain Goodman and my Drill Instructor. Both men were gods. Not because I worshiped them but because I feared them

What you have to understand is that basic training is designed to break you down to simple yes-no responses. However, most of the answers the military were looking for from you were of the yes type. We were just a bunch of kids from many backgrounds from across the country. We needed discipline, commonality of purpose, and a knee jerk follow-the-orders response. In combat it could save our lives and the lives of our fellow soldiers.

After eight weeks of yelling (them) and cringing (us), it had mostly taken. We marched and ran, did calisthenics, made bunks, cleaned toilets, pulled k.p., studied, took tests, and shook with fear. Our DI's name was Sgt. Dooley, a giant of a black man in starched and creased fatigues, who never smiled nor, apparently, sweated. His deep voice and rapid fire commands and questions kept us constantly off guard. If I had not been so deeply involved in the process, I'm sure I would have found some humor in it.

I was in the Captain's office because of the testing.

I have always tested well. In my pre-enlistment aptitude test, apparently, I did quite well. I enlisted in the Air Force because I had pulled a low number in the draft and because of George C. Scott's portrayal of Patton. I chose the Air Force because the infantry did not sound very appealing. I'm sort of a neat freak and did not think I would be permitted to reorganize my backpack during a fire fight.

During basic training we underwent some more testing. Again, I did well.

Which brings us to the terrified Airman, too afraid to make eye contact, being led by the most fearsome human being he had ever met, into the lair of a man who could make Sgt. Dooley snap to attention. Nothing good could come of this. I was certain.

We stepped into the office and Captain Goodman glanced up and bade us to come forward. Sgt. Dooley stepped smartly up to the olive drab desk, saluted crisply and stated, "Master Sergeant Dooley reporting as ordered, sir."

I was half a step out of pace with the sergeant and a hair behind on the salute. I held the salute tremulously for what seemed an eternity and was, in reality, slightly under two seconds.

"At ease." Goodman commanded as he returned the salute.

I had practiced the at-ease move tens of thousands of times but I could not perform it without looking down to make sure my feet were where I hoped they were. "Oh God, what am I doing here?" I thought.

After several more moments of silence the Captain addressed me. "You may be seated."

I looked at Captain Goodman, glanced over at Sgt. Dooley, and almost did one of those point-at myself "do you mean me?" moves. Finally I sat in a chair facing the desk, trying my best to be seated and at attention at the same time. Then I realized I had last been at ease and tried to formally relax without slumping in the chair or crossing my legs. I only squirmed slightly.

"Airman Bonus, you are here today to discuss your placement options for technical training."

"Yes, sir." I said a little too loudly.

He looked at an opened file folder on his desk then back at me. "You tested very well in a number of areas."

"Yes, sir." I said again.

He gave me a look that said, "Knock it off."

"In fact, we feel that you would be wasted in most of our training schools. You have excellent abstract reasoning, excellent verbal skills, outstanding associative skills and you did very well in several other categories, as well."

I remained passive. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He stared at me for a moment or two. Trying, I suppose, to reconcile the apparent imbecile sitting before him with the person represented by the data on his desk. He cleared his throat. "I would like to recommend that you take your training as a Radio Communications Specialist Analyst. It would require a Top Secret Crypto security clearance."

I continued to sit still. Finally I realized it was my turn to speak. "Ah..., sir! Thank you, sir. But... I... don't really know anything about radios..., sir."

I saw him glance at Dooley, then back down at the papers. "This isn't about radios. This is about code breaking. You would have to go to school to learn Russian and how to be a code breaker. It would mean a lengthy technical training at great expense to the Air Force. We have to make sure you want to do this."

I still wasn't completely sure what this was. As I sat there, trying to process what I had just heard, I felt a heavy hand descend upon my shoulder muscle. Sgt. Dooley's thumb and index finger probed the muscle. Squeezing. Finding a tangle of nerves. Hurting.

I sensed him leaning down, his mouth next to my ear. His voice was fatherly and menacing at the same time. "You don't need to understand it right now. What you need to do in sign the damn papers and quit wasting the Captain's time."

I was still facing forward. Looking at the Captain. I glanced sideways at Sgt. Dooley. For the first time in eight weeks I saw warmth in his eyes. "We're trying to save your life." he explained.

So I signed the papers and I spent the rest of my enlisted time in San Angelo, Texas learning Russian and code breaking and on a little military base along the coastline of Turkey breaking codes. I never went to Viet Nam and so I never really needed my basic training instilled discipline to save my life.

Except for that one time.

.

The Polish Blog

2008-07-31T07:20:00.005-05:00

I used to be Polish. I grew up Polish. I was 42 years old before I found out that I wasn't Polish. Today, the politically correct term would be Polish/American and would garner some sort of minority affirmative action benefits. But, as it turned out, I would have had to have eventually given back my government pierogi stamps and 'fessed up.

As I was growing up, Polish was the language adults spoke when they didn't want the kids to understand. It was also my grandfather's native tongue and, as an old man, all he wanted to speak. I attended St. Stanislaus, a Polish speaking Catholic Church. All of my neighbors were first or second generation immigrants from Poland. Most of my uncles acted Polish.

My earliest food memories include pierogi, halupki (golumpki), potato pancakes, kotlet shabowy, goulash, barsczc, poppyseed rolls, kieffles, Vodka and beer. And fat aunts carrying trays of food to the tables. To this day, I do not know where all of the food came from - or went.

When I got a little older I was able to sit in my grandfather's (Tata's) living room and mostly understand the adult conversations. It turns out that they were talking about boring adult stuff. Or maybe they knew I was in the room and waited until I left to start talking about the neighbor's wife.

My name is John. My father's name was Frank. My family nick-name while I was growing up was Junco (Young-co) and my father's was Fennie. Our Polish given names would have been Jan (Yawn) and Frannek.

It was not until sixteen years after my father's death that I knew the truth.

My younger brother Edward's first wife's name was Elaine. She decided to do a family tree and celebrate our Polish heritage. It turns out that as an entire extended family of four sons, two daughters and countless grand-children, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews, nobody was smart enough to figure out the family mystery. Or even know there was one.

My grandfather was Russian. As a child his parents moved to Poland. During the First World War my grandfather, Ignatz Bonyich, was a foot soldier in the Russian Cavalry. After the war he emigrated from Poland to America and entered Ellis Island as Ignatz Bonos. But he had grown up speaking Polish and gravitated to a Polish speaking neighborhood when he got here.

Later, in the early 60's, my father, Frank, and his brothers, Eugene, John and Edward, all further Americanized our family name to Bonus. They had two sisters, Nellie and Caroline, who were both married with children by then and the name change was moot for them. I believe the change from Bonos to Bonus was to either stay one step ahead of bill collectors, the law or jealous husbands. It seems more romantic that way.

So, there you have it. I tell people I used to be Polish. And now I am Russian. Does that make me Polussian (pollution)? Or polUSsiAn?

Whatever. All I know is that I was 42 years old before I found out that I wasn't Polish. Which kind of sounds like a Pollock joke in itself. Doesn't it?

The preceding blog was 100% true.

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So This is Love

2008-07-28T06:44:00.011-05:00

"So... I think I'm in love."

"That's nice," I replied.

"No, really!" my friend Frankie insisted.

"What's this make? Three times this month?" I asked?

"Well, we are at the end of the month!" she said. "So I am doing pretty good!"

"I'm happy for you." I dead-panned. Frankie has been in love fifteen times this summer. And I don't mean infatuated, or love-struck, or really digs a guy. She has been flat out in love fifteen times since Opening Day here at the resort.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm happy for the girl. And she seems to bounce back pretty fast when things don't go right. But it is difficult to work up any genuine excitement for a routine event that is over before it really gets started.

I should also explain that we aren't talking about spring flings, or summer romances, or fall fu...

(Sorry, I couldn't think of a clean one.)

But you get the idea. She believes she has fallen in love each and every time. Heart and soul.

And the funny thing is, is that I believed her - each and every time. This time, however, I thought I'd dig a little deeper.

"Why do you think you love this particular guy?" I asked.

"Because I think about him all of the time!"

"So far, he sounds like that Dr. Pepper jingle that I couldn't shake in the 70's." I offered. "What else have you got?"

"When he walks into a crowded room it's like he's the only one I see."

"What is he? Six-five? Two-fifty?"

"I get this empty, queasy feeling inside when he isn't around." she tried again.

"You've been on a diet since I've known you!"

"How about people say we look like a great couple?"

"So did Bonnie and Clyde."

"And look how much they loved each other!" Frankie persisted.

"Well, they were kinda dysfunctional, and we don't know if they would have lasted... what with dying in a hail of lead and all." I countered.

"But we have this chemistry."

"So does my hot tub."

"Well, we have so much in common!" she tried again.

"Besides the resort, the dances and the parties - name two."

"Uh... we... uh... we both like pizza! And we... uh... both like motorcycles!" she said proudly.

"Really? Out of all the people in the whole wide world and you two managed to find each other? That's amazing!"

"Shut up, Johnny."

"OK. But I'm not seeing a whole lot here yet."

"How about we don't have any of those awkward silences?"

"Are you saying you never shut up or that he doesn't mind if you do?" I wondered. "OK, let's try a couple of fast ones." I suggested. "What's his favorite color?"

"Blue!" she said quickly. Then her freckled nose screwed up in concentration. "Or maybe it's red."

"Where did he grow up?"

"Somewhere around here... or Pittsburgh. Maybe it was North Carolina... I don't know."

"What's his favorite food?"

"Pizza."

"Oh, yeah... uh... what kind of movies does he like?"

"So far, he like all of the same movies I do."

"Whatta guy!" I commented.

"I only have a couple more," I said because I could see she was getting impatient with me. I was supposed to be excited for her. She brushed the stray strawberry blond hairs from her face and pouted a little.

"I really do love him you know." she insisted again.

"What were the names of your last two boyfriends?" I asked innocently.

"One was... uh... Mark and the other was Jerry."

"Which was which?"

"Mark was... Mark... was... taller!"

"And what's this guy's name?" I figured she wouldn't remember.

"Well, that's what I've been trying to tell you but you've been asking all of these silly questions... It's you!"

Suddenly she seemed like she was the only girl in the room and I felt queasy inside. And as crazy as it sounded - we did make a great looking couple. OK, so maybe I didn't know everything about her (like her last name and stuff) but she does make me smile when she's around. So this is what love feels like...

As I looked up I saw Frankie skipping away, tossing her hair to one side with a quick move of her head and glancing over her shoulder. Laughing. I jumped up and yelled, "Damn it, Frankie. Quit messin' with me!"

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The Great Beard Rebellion

2008-07-15T08:40:00.012-05:00

I grew my first beard out of rebellion. I was told by an authority figure that I could not have a beard. So I grew one.

Actually, one of the few genuine talents that I possess is the ability to grow hair. Recently, the amount of facial hair I've had has been directly proportional to the amount of gray I've had. So I went from a full beard in 1993 to a goatee. In 2oo7 I began wearing a droopy sided mustache. They used to be called Fu Manchu's. (Back when people watched black and white movies or actually read books.)

I discovered very early in life that I had this talent for growing facial hair. I wasn't one of those kids that shaved in the 5th grade, or anything. Although, because the school system did not practice social promotion in the early 60's, I was technically old enough to. But I do remember, in high school, having to shave before school every day and again that evening if I had a date.

I never grew a beard or mustache in senior high because our school system still had dress codes and grooming codes when I graduated in 1970. I did, however, have sideburns to the bottom of my earlobes. The longest the code would allow.

When I joined the Air Force after high school, I ended up stationed on a multi service base along the coastline of Turkey. This meant that I worked along side of Army guys, and Marines, and Navy guys. The Navy guys were allowed to have beards. Which I thought was really cool. Unfortunately, the Air Force rules prohibited beards and severely limited the size and shape of any mustaches.

So, the authority figure that was telling me that I could not grow a beard when all the rest of my friends had one, was the United States of America. More specifically, the U.S. Air Force.

When I realized that I would never be permitted to grow a beard I decided to go along with the program and I began shaving five times a day. After about three days of this I had the worst razor rash in the eastern hemisphere. When I went to the base doctor for some cream or ointment, I explained that it was a chronic condition. I left the doctor's office with a tube of ointment and a medical excuse - giving me permission to grow a beard.

I had that beard until I left the military. I shaved it off then mainly because nobody was telling me what to do about it anymore, so the need no longer existed.

I've kind of been like that my whole life.

I would always have just as much facial hair as my employers would tolerate. Don't get me wrong, I was always well groomed. But I did enjoy pushing the envelope.

At one point I had the same beard for decades. One day I decided to shave it off and my kids did not even recognize me. My younger son actually cried. He was 23 at the time.

I can say, however, that the theme of facial hair and rebellion have gone hand in hand throughout my life. I feel like I have established my authority over my own face and I have been kind of enjoying the clean-shaven look recently. I had actually forgotten that I had a cleft in my chin.

Last week, much to the surprise of many people, I began growing a full beard again. When asked about it, I've been giving a variety of reasons. I've said that I am preparing for a covert CIA mission where I have to replace a bearded foreign agent who was captured several weeks ago. I've told people that I had realized how much I looked like my photos in the Post Office and figured it was time to change my appearance again. (I call this one the Richard Kimble gambit.) And I've been reminiscing about my Air Force rebellion days, as well.

So why am I growing a beard? As it turns out, the petite red head thinks that beards are sexy... and who am I to argue with logic like that?

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Perception vs. Reality

2008-07-08T12:29:00.009-05:00

When I was in sales, one of the first things I learned is that if a customer perceived they had a problem - I had a problem. It did not matter if my product was the cause of their problem, I needed to help them fix it.

Perception vs. reality is also a recurring theme in a lot of sci-fi and horror fiction. The Nightmare on Elm Street movies and Stephen King and Clive Barker novels are just a few examples. This idea lends itself well because, in this genre, it is easier to take a basic human condition and explore the extreme consequences of it.

An extreme psychological case of perception vs. reality would be found in a paranoid schizophrenic. They have a reality based upon things that are happening purely in their own minds. It is very real to them and every one else's normal actions and reactions are thusly misinterpreted.

A mild case of this condition would be jealousy. Or perhaps a transference of past experiences to present situations. This is always unfair to the recipient of this behavior and usually wrecks havoc with the relationship.

I have been thinking about all of this because I was listening to a newer version of an old song the other day and suddenly the very familiar lyrics smacked me upside the head. Suddenly I began to recognize this pattern of behavior in myself and in dear friends around me. When you finally get it, it tends to make you more considerate of others and less quick to over-react to things yourself.

The song is Norah Jones' version of Hank William's Cold, Cold Heart.

I've tried so hard, my dear, to show that you're my every dream
Yet you're afraid each thing I do is just some evil scheme
A memory from your lonesome past keeps us so far apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart?

Another love before my time made your heart sad and blue
And so my heart is payin' for things I didn't do
In anger, unkind words I say that make the teardrops start
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart?

Another love before my time made your heart sad and blue
And now I know your heart is shackled to a memory
The more I learn to care for you, the more we drift apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart?

I would just like to add that we should all view the past as the past and that reality does taste a lot sweeter than perception. And that once you get it, you really, really do get it.

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The Stripper and the Toilet Bowl

2008-07-07T10:56:00.011-05:00

Even though The Resort provides most of my basic needs, I do occasionally go off campus. This is the story of one of the silliest reasons to leave a nudist resort.

It was a rainy afternoon, late in May. The temperature was in the upper fifties. Few, if any, people were naked. Note: I did not say nude. If you are outdoors in any temperature under 60 degrees, you are no longer nude. You are naked. That is why most strip clubs advertise LIVE/NUDE/DANCERS. Most of the clubs are air conditioned to around 70 degrees. (Although a lot of those chicks look naked.)

So, my friend Bill and I were sitting on his deck, under the roll down awning, huddled around a couple of warm beers, when he gets the bright idea to go to a local strip club.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You want to leave a nudist resort where we can see naked people for free and go to a club where we have to pay a cover charge to watch some girls slowly take their clothes off, down to a G-string?"

"Yeah," he replied. "and they have 25 cent wings."

The ride over in the car was uneventful.

When we got there the parking lot was 3/4 empty. There was a light drizzle and the temperature had fallen a couple of more degrees. Even cold beer and hot wings could not convince most of the local men to come out to support the LIVE/NUDE/DANCERS. My guess is that, on a day like this, most of the wives knew where their husbands were.

Looking at the sign out front reminded me of the signs outside of a lot of country stores: LIVE BAIT. I always thought it would be funny to add NUDE to the sign so that it would read LIVE/NUDE/BAIT. I mean, it would be technically accurate, might bring in a few looky-loo's, and a lot of fishing is done over 60 degrees.

It was dark inside the club and we had to wait for our eyes to adjust to the gloom. While this process occurred the door-man/bouncer took one of my ten's for a five dollar cover charge. Once I was able to see again, the money was in his pocket and I wasn't sure what had just happened.

There was a long horseshoe bar taking up most of the main room with a raised stage behind the bar. On the far, fourth wall was a mirror and several dancing poles. A Gloria Gaynor song was on the sound system and a long-haired brunette, with snow white skin, a gold G-string and matching f**k-me shoes was just finishing up the set. While I was wondering what they clean that pole with, Bill was looking for the wings.

We sat at a little round table, got a couple of cold ones, a basket of hot wings, a pile of napkins and paid our three drink minimum. It was quiet-ish in the club. Bill and I were part of about ten patrons. The bouncer, the topless bartender, the pale girl in the f**k-me shoes and two other dancers rounded out the group. Eventually the pale girl wandered over to our table.

Most of the girls that work in these places have several jobs. Besides dancing, they would hustle drinks, and look for daddys for their infant to ten year old children. So they would spend most of their non-dancing time stroking male ego's and whatever else they could get away with.

Being a people watcher, I am always amused at the process. At first, she checked us out from a distance. Trying to establish our creepiness factor. When she could not spot our chainsaws or duct-tape she strolled over on her 8 inch spiked heels.

I love high heel shoes on women. They tighten the calf muscle, firm up the ass, show off the toes, give a girl some sexy attitude when she walks and, basically, tells her man that she is trying. (Unlike a lot of the flip-flop queens I know.) But there is, like anything else, a point where you can go too far. A point where balance and moving forward in a straight line may be mutually exclusive ideas. This girl looked like she was dumber than her shoes.

It turns out that she was.

It really is a male ego booster to be eating wings, sipping cold beer, and have a beautiful, nearly naked woman chatting him up. And I'm sure it was hot for her, as well. Two scruffy guys, in jeans, tee shirts and sneakers, our chins and mustaches speckled with bar-b-que sauce, tiny pieces of chicken stuck between our teeth while we leered at her weak attempt at conversation.

"Where are you boys from?" she asked.

"We've escaped from a local nudist resort." I quipped. Trying to make it sound like a joke.

Her face clouded over and her eyes went a little more blank for a few seconds before she decided it was time to laugh. She laughed like a donkey caught in quicksand. It was real attractive. So far were were impressing the hell out of each other.

Bill complimented her on her dancing and asked if he could tuck some money in her G-string. "As long as it ain't change." she replied. I've never known if she was kidding or not. But I figured it was my turn to laugh. When the hilarity of that moment finally died down we all decided to share one of those awkward silences. That gave me time to eat another wing - and do my taxes.

Eventually I tried a different tack. "What's your name, pretty lady?" I asked her.

Suddenly her face lit up and she started talking real fast. "That is so amazing that you would ask that!" she gushed. "I just picked my new name this week! I've only been doin' this job for about six months and I figured I needed a stage name. Kind of a nom-de-plumb. You know?"

"I think I do." I replied truthfully.

"So anyway," she went on, "I wanted to pick something real classy... but pretty, too. I thought of Savannah, and Rochelle, and Sin-amine. But the girls here already had those names. You know?"

"I think I do." I answered again.

Then she just stood there lost in thought. You could see her eyes moving as she was remembering the process she must have followed to arrive at her new name. At one point she smiled. Finally she said, "And that's pretty much how I came up with it."

"With what?" Bill asked.

Her lower lip turned into a pout and her face clouded over again. "Well, my name, silly!"

You didn't tell us what it is, yet." Bill ventured.

"Oh. Well, like I was just sayin', I wanted something real classy, real sexy, and a different name than the other girls here. I just hope if I work somewhere else someone won't have it there. But it'll be mine first, seein's as how I picked it out here and all before I ever even met them. So they can just change their name. You know?"

"From what?" Bill tried again.

She gave him another really annoyed look and turned to see what I thought of her new name. "Say it one more time." I said. "I love the way your lips move when you say it." It was like pushing a chain, I thought.

I could see her rolling the name around in her mouth, pre-thinking how her lips would move when she said it. Finally, she threw her shoulders back, thrusting her perky nipples into our personal space and said with deep pride, "Porcelain!"

I gave Bill a look that said I would take this one.

"That's a coincidence!" I enthused. "My name is John!"

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Coincidence?...

2008-06-28T07:18:00.010-05:00

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!

2008-06-24T11:13:00.009-05:00

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

2008-06-22T08:56:00.012-05:00

"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

2008-06-18T16:39:00.010-05:00

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?

2008-06-18T07:11:00.010-05:00

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)

2008-06-16T10:56:00.010-05:00

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

2008-06-14T15:47:00.007-05:00

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!

2008-06-12T09:00:00.007-05:00

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

2008-06-10T10:11:00.011-05:00

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

2008-06-06T06:38:00.009-05:00

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

2008-06-05T14:43:00.005-05:00

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.

Of Lawn Mowers and Women

2007-04-18T11:25:00.000-05:00

I decided to replace my lawnmower this week. The old one had worn out and was wheezing more and more. It was taking me longer to coax it into doing what I needed than it sometimes took to do the actual job.

And then it hit me. Lawn mowers are not unlike women:

Some of them you walk behind and some of them are built for riding.

Some of them are wonders of form-over-function and some of them aren't so great to look at but still know how to please a man.

The older they get, the more attention they require but when they are new, you can't keep your hands off of them.

When they are new, their bags are firm and tend to stand up on their own. As they age, use tends to soften them and gravity makes them sag.

Most of them are eventually high maintenance.

As a general rule, the more expensive ones will give you greater initial satisfaction but are fully capable of doing the neighbors, also. The cheaper models, though less attractive, aren't as likely to be borrowed as often.

And, eventually, there comes a time when you just have to dump them.

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. . . and thanks for all the fish!

2007-03-25T07:39:00.000-05:00

When I was a child, I remember my grandfather telling me, "Johnny, go on and get out of here, now!" He always smelled like old cigarettes and cheap whiskey. And he read paperback westerns.

When I was a little older, I had a crush on my fourth grade teacher. I used to hang out near her on the playground and stay after school to help tidy up the classroom. One day, she looked at me and said (and I'll never forget this), "You know, I could squash you like a bug."

As a result, I learned early and frequently not to over-stay my welcome. But the timing is crucial. You have to get people familiar enough with your antics to be mildly amused, or perhaps entertained, without rousing that "Oh, it's you again" look. I seldom get it right.

Today is the one year anniversary of Escape Velocity. When I started blogging a year ago, I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with it. I did have a couple of goals for myself, though. I wanted to develop the discipline of writing every day. Between this blog and other projects I have written well over 600 pages this past year. I also wanted to try a few different writing styles and techniques which I have accomplished with varying degrees of success.

However, I didn't realize at the time how much of myself I would put into the project. Both in personal discipline and my own inner psyche. I have never been to therapy, having slipped through the official crack of "offender" status, but I now see the benefit of "spilling your guts." It is cathartic.

And I never missed a day. There were times that I would look back and wonder at how I had found enough to write about for four months straight and how could I possibly find enough to say for another eight months? But, for 365 days, every single day, no matter what was going on in my life, hung over or clear headed, fit or hurting, I wrote.

I wrote about things that amused me and things that annoyed me. I told stories of the old west and the far flung reaches of space. I exercised and exorcised demons. I tried my hand at drama, poetry, whimsy, humor and outright lunacy. I adopted various voices and personae. And, through it all, I had fun.

I hope you did, as well.

What is the future for Escape Velocity? I honestly cannot say. I do know I won't be posting every day. I have been putting my novel off for too long already and I need the daily discipline I have developed here to see it through. Unfortunately, I don't have time for both.

But I am not leaving. I will still be an occasional visitor to these pages (like many of you). And I will have things to say. I have a feeling I'll be leaving for a long time.

So, before you can say, "Johnny, go on and get out of here," I will probably be back. But not for long because you "could squash me like a bug" after all.

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This is not the end. This is not even the beginning of the end. It is, instead, the end of the beginning

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(Losing) Your Mind in Detroit Rock City

2007-03-24T07:45:00.000-05:00

There were two interesting stories about Detroit, Michigan this week. The first one was affordable housing.

Houses Cheaper than Cars in Detroit -- DETROIT (Reuters) - With bidding stalled on some of the least desirable residences in Detroit's collapsing housing market, even the fast-talking auctioneer was feeling the stress.

"Folks, the ground underneath the house goes with it. You do know that, right?" he offered.

After selling house after house in the Motor City for less than the $29,000 it costs to buy the average new car, the auctioneer tried a new line: "The lumber in the house is worth more than that!"

The second story was:

Michigan Congressman says Parts of Iraq are As Safe as Detroit -- DETROIT -- A Republican congressman who said parts of Iraq are no more dangerous than Detroit is drawing criticism from the mayor's office and the Michigan Democratic party.

During an interview Monday with WILS-AM in Lansing, Rep. Tim Walberg, R-Tipton, said the returning troops he has talked with "indicate to me that 80 to 85 percent, in a conservative fashion, of (Iraq) is reasonably under control, at least as well as Detroit or Chicago or any of our other big cities. That's an encouraging sign."

I guess the moral of the story is: Cars are still too expensive in Detroit.

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Headline Roundup

2007-03-23T07:45:00.000-05:00

These are the headlines for Friday, March 23, 2007:

Cops Say: Dad, Son Took Turns Molesting Boy
Woman Impaled in Face with Pipe Survives
College Students Face Rising Costs for Contraceptives
Houdini May Have Been Murdered
Texas Women Lied about Kidnapping Because They Broke Curfew
Illegal Immigrants Must be Arrested Six Times Before Prosecution
Off-duty Chicago Cop Beats Up Female Bartender
American Idol Fan on Hunger Strike Until Sanjaya Gets the Ax
PA Man Convicted of 971 Sex Crimes for Abusing Girl for a Decade
White Couple has Black Child, Sues Fertility Clinic
Teacher Accused of Affair with Student Who was Shot to Death Attempts Suicide

And I used to think I had problems.

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Pet Killer Shocks America!

2007-03-22T07:27:00.000-05:00

Pet Food Manufacturer Can't Explain Deaths -- WASHINGTON — The pet food linked to the deaths of 16 animals has shown no signs of contamination, the manufacturer says, and the company cannot explain why the cats and dogs developed acute kidney failure and died.

In an interview with The Associated Press, Paul Henderson, the chief executive of Menu Foods, said Wednesday the company was looking at a single ingredient. He wouldn't identify it, but the Food and Drug Administration has said the investigation was focusing on wheat gluten.

Our hypothesis is that it is that ingredient that in fact represents the highest probability as to the cause," Henderson said. "But we have been unable to prove that through scientific information."

"However, based upon Al Gore's book The Inconvenient Politician: 'The most illogical, inconvenient and expensive solution will often garner the most attention.' I'm not sure how that applies to this situation but it does sound kind of thoughty, doesn't it?"

"Anyway, back to this pet food situation: We're not sure what the problem is. Take this warehouse, for instance. We ship to both of our businesses from this location. These boxes marked Wheat Gluten 76767 (a pet food supplement) are shipped to our pet food factory at 27 Bear Road, Smallville, Illinois. These other boxes marked Wheat Gluten 67676 (a pesticide) are shipped to our farm supply factory at 27 Boar Road, Smallville, Illinois. There's no way they could get mixed up."

"But, sir . . ."

"Nope, No way. We'll just have to keep on looking. It's too bad, though, that wheat gluten idea was pretty good."

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The Second Time Around

2007-03-21T06:52:00.000-05:00

A couple of years ago my wife and I renewed our wedding vows. It was a lovely ceremony on a Jamaican beach. I still have sand in my favorite pair of wingtips.

I have always wondered about the practice of "renewing" your vows. Do they get that "not so fresh" feeling of Maxi-pad fame? Is there some kind of expiration date that men are unaware of? If there is, I understand why women would want to keep that a secret from us. Maybe it's like a statute of limitations. You know, like when the penalty for a stupid youthful indiscretion runs out?

Regardless, we fixed a problem that I never knew existed.

I remember wondering, at the time, if the wedding industry isn't getting enough money from the "first timers." Then I got to wondering if maybe this "renewing your vows thing" had more to do with a female imperative to be the sole focus of every one else's attention every so often and less to do with testing my commitment.

It also occurred to me that we were in an unusual demographic; married for thirty years to the same people. I wondered if the females of committed couples find themselves jealous of their slutty friends who get remarried every few years? That would explain why they would draw attention to a decades-old legal contract that, at times, both parties have wondered "how the hell did this happen?'

Later, when we had gotten back from our Jamaican vacation/matrimonial re-boot, we were making home-made batter waffles one morning, and I began reminiscing about the waffle maker that my Aunt Margie had given us so long ago on our first wedding day.

"What ever happened to that old waffle maker?" I asked.

"It wore out." was her simple reply.

My gaze wandered to the kitchen counter. "That a new toaster?" I mused.

"Uh-huh." she answered.

I looked around a little more. "New coffee maker . . . new toaster oven . . . new dish towels . . ."

And then it hit me. "SON OF A BITCH!" I exclaimed.

"What?" she asked.

"We renewed our vows because our appliances wore out!"

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The Graying of America

2007-03-20T07:28:00.000-05:00

Report: Over 5M Living with Alzheimer's -- WASHINGTON - More than 5 million Americans are living with Alzheimer's disease, a 10 percent increase since the last Alzheimer's Association estimate five years ago — and a count that supports the long-forecast dementia epidemic as the population grays.

After issuing their report, the Alzheimer's Association disbanded, citing poor attendance and "nobody was paying their dues." When the bus for the home finally left, several more attendees wandered in from somewhere wondering where the Dewey for President rally was meeting

Report: Over 5M Living with Alzheimer's -- WASHINGTON - More than 5 million Americans are living with Alzheimer's disease, a 10 percent increase since the last Alzheimer's Association estimate five years ago — and a count that supports the long-forecast dementia epidemic as the population grays.

After issuing their report, the Alzheimer's Association disbanded, citing poor attendance and "nobody was paying their dues." When the bus for the home finally left, several more attendees wandered in from somewhere wondering where the Dewey for President rally was meeting

Report: Over 5M Living with Alzheimer's -- WASHINGTON - More than 5 million Americans are living with Alzheimer's disease, a 10 percent increase since the last Alzheimer's Association estimate five years ago — and a count that supports the long-forecast dementia epidemic as the population grays.

After issuing their report, the Alzheimer's Association disbanded, citing poor attendance and "nobody was paying their dues." When the bus for the home finally left, several more attendees wandered in from somewhere wondering where the Dewey for President rally was meeting

Report: Over 5M Living with Alzheimer's -- WASHINGTON - More than 5 million Americans are living with Alzheimer's disease, a 10 percent increase since the last Alzheimer's Association estimate five years ago — and a count that supports the long-forecast dementia epidemic as the population grays.

After issuing their report, the Alzheimer's Association disbanded, citing poor attendance and "nobody was paying their dues." When the bus for the home finally left, several more attendees wandered in from somewhere wondering where the Dewey for President rally was meeting

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Is it MICROsoft or microSOFT?

2007-03-19T07:53:00.000-05:00

I found this satirical Microsoft vs. Apple piece on a site called NewsBiscuit.com.

Paperclip from Word Quits Microsoft for Apple

The I.T. world was plunged into controversy last night after it emerged that the animated paperclip from Microsoft Word has been headhunted by Apple and has now ‘jumped ship’ to work for the company. Rivalry between the two corporations has increased of late with Apple launching a range of adverts lambasting PCs for being geeky and dull while Microsoft have attempted to win customers back with their new Vista operating system. This high profile betrayal by one of Microsoft’s most trusted lieutenants is seen as a major embarrassment for the company.

The controversy arose when the paperclip – known as ‘Clippy’ – was spotted in the Apple store in Seattle discussing the new MacBook Pro laptops with a store assistant and eventually purchasing one, together with a 4GB iPod Nano. He is then shown stroking the smooth metallic casing of the Powerbook on his way out of the store. When this footage was made public, Clippy announced that he was quitting his $19 million contract with Microsoft and would henceforth be Apple’s new mascot.

‘It’s a logical move for us to make’ stated Steve Jobs, Apple’s CEO. Clippy is a professional, and his knowledge of laying out letters and punctuation tips is second to none. You may think he’s just an annoying bit of office stationary, but don’t be fooled – this is one high-powered individual with a remarkable vision for business’

Clippy’s former colleagues, Rocky the dog, the bouncing red dot, and the small scientist character refused to comment on allegations that Clippy left after persistent workplace bullying. But Steve Ballmer, CEO for Microsoft, declared himself to be ‘shocked and saddened’ by the news. ‘Clippy’s move is a blow, but his standing with Microsoft was at a low point. He kept turning up to work late, he was often drunk, and he would slump in his chair during board meetings and make lewd comments to the receptionist. Plus he would set the alarm off every time he came through the metal detectors in the lobby. He was an irritating little bastard, to be honest.’

Posted: 19 March 2007 by teambiscuit (photo by red)