You Are Here

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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The Opinion Zone

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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The Mobius Trip (part 2)

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.

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The Mobius Trip (part 1)

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


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Attack of the Brain Vampyre!

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

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.

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