Writing Off The Wall

Coffee and Badgers

2010-03-22T18:13:00.000-07:00

Coffee and Badgers

I was sitting on a stool at the counter, coffee smoke, mixed with cinnomon and hazelnut, drifting to my nose, when the bell rang on the door and Perdue Raft and his wife Gia walked in the coffee shop. Approaching the front counter, Perdue glanced to his left and spied me. I offered a lazy smile and a nod. A smile and a nod would not due for the large, outgoing Serb; he moved toward me and grasped me in a bear hug,

“It’s good to see you my friend,” he bellowed. “I heard you were in the hospital.”

“I was,” I said.

“Well you look good. Was it your heart? Cancer? Prostate problem?”

I laughed. No Perdue, my inner lunatic escaped again and rather than drive down the freeway on a tractor in the nude, I thought I ought to go in for an oil change and a lube.”

Perdue roared. “You are a funny guy,” he said in a heavy Slavic accent. Come on man, you can tell me. You had some kind of operation, right? I had my spleen rebuilt two years ago after I fought a badger.”

“Sorry Perdue, no operation. I was in a mental facility, a nut farm, a bat-shit weasel ranch.”

'But I know you my friend, and you are not crazy. You are shit bulling me.”

“Nope,” I said. “Crazy covers a lot of ground Perdue.”

The aroma of my coffee was calling me back to my solitude and morning newspaper, but Perdue didn’t want to let me go.

“Why haven’t you told me you are crazy before now. You are my friend, and I find out just now. This is not a thing I should just find out.” His voice was becoming a little too accusatory.

“Perdue,” called Gia, “leave Mike alone, he just wants to drink his coffee.”

“But Gia, this man is crazy and he did not tell me. Is this something a friend would do? I think not.”

I was tired and becoming irritated. “Look Perdue, I’m going to drink my coffee now, and maybe we’ll talk about this later.”

“But I want to talk about it now,” he insisted.

To my left, resting against the counter, was an item I purchased earlier that morning. An Indian spear I found at a garage sale. I pIcked it up, walked to the back of the shop, turn and chucked it at Perdue. It penetrated his throat, and he fell heavily on one of the tables.

“That’s for the badger Perdue. Now, shut the fuck up.

The Christmas Letter

2009-12-02T17:08:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone, and Merry Christmas.

Well, just to bring you up to date on the family and friends, the past year had its ups and downs. 2009 started off pretty good, Franklin won $10,000 in the scratch-off lottery game. Unfortunately, his damned fool cousin Tiny talked him into investing all of it into a carbonated perfume scheme, and the money was soon gone. You live and learn, I guess.

Kevin finally graduated from high school, just two days short of his 31^st birthday. I’m really proud of that boy, he decided to go into medicine is currently a test subject in seven different clinical trials.

Veronica Jean is still working over at the smelt factory; my how she loves those fish. Her and Spike are still living in sin together, but I guess that’s kinda the way it is these days with kids. Spike told me he’s getting her a burro for Christmas. She’ll be so pleased; she’s wanted a burro ever since she was four years old. By the way, Spike’s mother, Francis, got paroled in August. She’s living in Watsonville with a clergyman named Ralph. I sure hope she stays off the crack this time.

I don’t know if yall remember the twins—Andrew and not-Andrew—who lived next door to cousin Leonard, but just last month, Jennifer Lopez’s bodyguard beat the hell out of both of them. I heard she was filming a movie over by Canker City, when those boys dressed up like lemurs and tried to steal her underwear. Guess what? She doesn’t wear underwear. Can you imagine? Anyway Andrew was hospitalized with a broken anus, and not-Andrew had multiple lacerations on his thorax.

Grandma Purdy turned 89 in September, and she’s as spry as an 89-year-old leper can be. We went up to the colony and took her some rum cake, the kind she likes. Franklin kept rushing me to leave cause he just can’t stand old leper flatulence. It don’t really bother me, I mean Franklin ain’t no rose to live with.

I got my hip replaced back in March, and so far I’m doing ok. We’re still real upset at our insurance company because they wouldn’t pay for a real human hip, so I had a llama hip put in. I have a little hitch in my walk, but Franklin thinks it’s kinda sexy.

A bit of sad news to report, my sister Buttergirl is dead. She was run over by a tractor at Ted Fleem’s soybean farm. It is still a big mystery as to why she was at Ted’s farm and how she come to be in front of a tractor. I guess God just wanted it that way.

Well, that’s is for now. I hope all of you have a great Christmas and New Year.

Love,

PeanutButterGirl

Pathetic Bob's Easter Story

2009-04-10T08:41:00.001-07:00

It was a balmy Saturday evening in April, and I was at the computer in my office overlooking the pool. I wasn’t actually looking at the screen, only using it as camouflage as I peered over the top observing Milo and Randy, the gay squirrels that rent the large oak tree in the backyard. They seemed to be in deep conversation with Pathetic Bob. I noticed Bob shake his head sideways several times while the squirrels bobbed their heads up and down.

Finally, Bob turned and walked away. He trotted around to pool to the French doors leading to my office. They were open so he came in and parked himself next to my chair. “Hey Bob,” I said. “I noticed you and Randy and Milo seemed to be having a discussion. What’s up?”

Bob swung his head back and forth again and laughed. “Those squirrels are—if you’ll pardon the pun—nuts. They were trying to get me to believe a story about a zombie rabbit. I mean Jeez Em, I’ve seen dead rabbits before, in fact, I’ve even eaten a few, but I have never seen a demised rabbit get up and hop away. Possums have fooled, but rabbits aren’t that clever. And get this Em, they say tomorrow, people are going to worship this dead rabbit and eat chicken eggs. Can you believe it? I know humans have strayed pretty far from reality, but come on, no one is this weird.”

“Crap,” I thought, “I really don’t want to get into this.”

“What to you think Em? Do people really believe in bunny zombies and magical eggs?”

Of course, I could have said, “No, the squirrels were screwing with you,” and left it at that. However, Bob is a pain in the ass, and I knew he would keep bugging me about the story. The next day was Easter, and I was sure he would hear something on TV, then he’d be ticked off I was less than forthcoming. I cursed myself and dove in.

“Well Bob, some people might believe in zombie rabbits and magical eggs, Heck, some people even believe in Rush Limbaugh, so anything is possible. My guess, though, is Milo and Randy got Christian story of the death and resurrection of Jesus mixed up with the Secular worship of money.”

“So what’s the real story?” (CONTINUED BELOW)

“Hell if I know,” I admitted. “It’s a story, stories change with time.”

“You do this every time I ask you a question with philosophical overtones. You weasel on me. You equivocate. Man up dude, give me the straight dope.”

“Like I said, I don’t know. But, what most Christians believe is that this man named Jesus was, in reality, three men in one. He was Jesus the regular guy, He was the all-knowing God, and he was sort of a nebulous figure called the Holy Ghost.”

“Cool,” said Bob. “A ghost story.”

I just looked at him. “May I continue?”

He nodded his head.

“So three-person Jesus walked around a small area in the Middle East preaching peace, love, understanding, and fish, gathering guys into his club along the way. The guys were called The Apostles.”

“Did they have tattoos?

“What?”

“Tattoos, did Jesus’ gang have them.”

“I don’t know, maybe. Anyway, as Jesus was wandering, he did some cool magic tricks and a lot of people he was the savior of the Jewish people because of his magic. Unfortunately for Jesus, a lot of other people thought he was a crackpot. Many of the people who thought that belonged to the religious hierarchy of the day and others were in government positions. When you have powerful religious nut and government officials pissed at you, your days are numbered. To make a long story short, Jesus was a marked man, and soon found himself on trial.”

“What did they bust him for?”

“I don’t know, failure to yield I think. Anyway, Jesus goes on trial, and he’s found guilty. Punishment in those days was pretty severe, and they gave Jesus the death sentence. But guess what?”

“What?”

“Jesus didn’t care. He knew all along he was going to get railroaded and killed. In fact, he was happy about it. So, they nailed Jesus to a cross, and when he didn’t die right away, they stuck him with a spear. After he died, his friends buried him in a cave. According to the story, after three day lying dead in a cave, Jesus comes back to life, roles away the stone blocking the cave entrance, and walks out.”

“Did he look like a zombie?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Anyway, Jesus hangs around for a few days, and then he flies up into the sky. End of story.”

“Well, what about the rabbits?”

“They were fruitful and multiplied.”

Bob thought for a while and finally said, “Hmmm…I’m hungry. You want some eggs?”

Pathetic Bobonomics

2008-12-05T16:06:00.000-08:00

Pathetic Bob came into my office a little while ago and with great sarcasm said, "Oh, excuse me, I see you're on the computer again. You must need another used door or some glass tiles, and you're scouring Craig's List to see if some poor wretch has fallen on hard times and is selling off his stuff so you can profit from his misery."

That hurt, mainly because I have been scouring Craig's List for cheap stuff to help reduce the cost of all the remodeling Mrs. Em has me doing. However, this time, I was actually writing. "Actually, Bob, I'm writing," I said with a defensive tone in my voice. "In fact, I'm writing a story about you."

"Hah," he scoffed, "You haven't written anything in more than a month. Your creativity is directed towards latex paint, mosaic tile, grout and power tools, and I know you can't multitask. You're either on Craig's List, Amazon, or watching porn."

"I am writing," I whined. "And, I don't watch porn on the Internet. Why did you come in here? Just to screw with me?

"Well, that would be way too easy. I came in to ask you about the bail out."

"What bail out?"

"You know, the big bail out the government is doing. Before Bush leaves office, he's bailing out all the white-collar criminals so they don't have to stay in jail before their trial. It's like when you bailed me out of jail in Laredo when me and the other dogs and Randy and Milo and their friends the flying squirrels tried to cross into Mexico illegally to distribute presents to Mexican dogs last Christmas. What I want to know is when do the trials start?"

I shook my head and sighed. "First of all Bob, I did not bail you out of the Laredo jail; they made you leave because you were such a pain in the ass. I was the one who was almost thrown in jail, because you blamed the whole fiasco on me. Secondly, President Bush is not bailing criminals out of jail; he's giving them money so they can stay in business."

It was Bob's turn to shake his head and sigh. "Let me see if I have this right, the government is giving money to all the businesses that are losing money?"

"No Bob, it's only giving money to really big businesses that make a lot of money but still aren't making enough."

"Why aren't they making enough money?"

"Well, they wanted to make a lot more money, so they took risks with the money they had--much of which was the taxpayers' money--and they blew it. They made mistakes, big mistakes. Now, the guys who run those companies don't want to have to pay for their mistakes, and the government says, `Sure, fine, here's the key to the vault.'"

"What about the smart companies that didn't make mistakes?"

"They, my dear dog, are screwed. Hey, Bob, where are you going?"

"I'm going to write a charter for my new business."

"And that is...?"

"I thing the First National Bank of Bob has a nice ring to it."

Ed's Duck

2008-09-08T12:52:00.001-07:00

There is a saying, “no good deed goes unpunished,” and I’m beginning to believe it might be true.

Last week, I was in a Walgreen’s drug store having some prescriptions filled. As I waited for my drug dealer to count out pills and put them in plastic containers, I walked around the store just to pass the time. Occasionally, Walgreen’s—whose motto is “Buy one for the price of two”—will have some merchandise marked down to prices that would actually be considered sale prices in the real world, and I found some of that merchandise in the pet section. There was a whole bin full of stuffed toys—the kind my dogs like to eviscerate—marked down to one or two dollars. The dogs that live with me have a toy box overstuffed with plush and rubber toys, but I recently noticed many of them had been gutted and only the hides remained, so I decided to refill their coffer.

I plucked out about 20 dollars worth of stuffed cats, footballs, squirrels, several rubber chickens, and one duck. Most of the toys had that little plastic squeaky thing buried inside them that is supposed to delight dogs when they chomp on the midsection, however, the duck had an electronic quack track. If the duck is bitten just right, it will quack for about 15 seconds. The tinny, electrified quack, quack, quack amused me, and I felt it would amuse the dogs.

I picked up my drugs, paid my supplier, and carried the drugs and toys out in a large sack. When I walked into the house, it was canine Christmas; Em Claus began dispensing toys amongst the pack, and great frivolity ensued. Although there was a bit of squabbling—Pathetic Bob ripped the green frog out of Zipper’s mouth, and Paco whined until Sophie gave him the yellow and blue snake—everything soon settled down. Everyone had a present with plenty more left over. The duck lay in the corner by the couch unnoticed, until Lily pounced on it. The force of her body landing on the duck’s midsection triggered a burst of quacking that took the dogs by surprise. They all froze. Then, all of them except Ed the basset hound ran away.

Of all the dogs that live here, Ed is undoubtedly the most goofy, fun-loving member of the pack, and when he heard the quacking, he went over to check out the duck…and fell in love. He bit it, it quacked at him, and he laughed. He did his basset dance, picked up the duck and discovered with just the right amount of pressure from his jaws, he could make the duck talk to him. He was in Ed nirvana. I was highly amused.

It is now a week later, and I am not amused anymore. Ed’s duck is driving me insane. He must have it at night when he sleeps with us on the bed; quack, quack, quack at two in the morning kills brain cells. I tried hiding it, but his whining was worse than the quacking. When I’m in my office trying to write, Ed and his duck are in there with me. Quacking does not inspire literary greatness. I took the battery out of Ed’s duck and rendered it mute, but Ed fell into a deep depression, and I simply could not bear to see him so sad.

Ed’s duck has new batteries installed in it, and whenever I try to sleep or write, I pour hot wax in my ear.

Pathetic Bob's Olympic Review

2008-08-13T16:31:00.000-07:00

Pathetic Bob slept in late this morning. When he finally came into the breakfast room, I said, “Morning Bob. You were sure burning daylight. Did you stay up and watch more of the Olympics last night?”

Before answering, he walked over and lapped up some water from his bowl and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Refreshed, he turned to me and said, “Yeah, I watched the women’s gymnastics, and I gotta say Em, it’s the stupidest sport this side of synchronized swimming and ice skating.”

“That’s pretty harsh Bob. I mean those women are well-trained athletes; what’s so stupid about the showcasing their skills?”

“Well first of all jock-strap breath, it’s supposed to be ‘women’s gymnastics,” but most of the competitors were nine-year-old girls in training bras. There seems to be some kind of unwritten law that if you have boobs you can’t compete. That’s why the United States lost.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m talking about; the U.S. was doing ok until the only ‘woman’ on the team tried to jump up on a wooden beam. She had big boobs Em; they unbalanced her, and she crashed. Then, a few minutes later, she was lost her balance again when she was somersaulting on the floor. The team should have gone with that seven-year-old kid from Cleveland. I heard the Chinese steal babies from their mother’s wombs and begin training them when they’re a week old. They put them in the Olympics by the time they’re six.”

“I have to admit Bob, the Chinese girls did look a little young, but you can’t say that women’s gymnastics is stupid because of boob size.”

“I think I just did. Here’s two other stupid things: sparkly make-up and glittery costumes.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Any sport where competitors where sparkly make-up or a costume that has sequins or glitter on it is not a sport. It is theater, or a circus performance, not a sport. And, unless you are a horse, no prancing in sports. Look at the difference between men and women’s gymnastics. Men don’t wear sparkly make-up or prance and wave their arms around like the girls do. They don’t even have music. If music is involved, it’s not sports; it’s performance art.”

“Ok Bob, whatever. So, what’s your viewing schedule today?”

“The chainsaw fighting finals are at noon—Canadia is heavily favored. At 2:00 I’m going to watch women’s bear wrestling. Now there’s a sport.”

Pathetic Bob's English Lessons

2008-07-15T14:01:00.001-07:00

Pathetic Bob wandered into my office this morning, flopped down on the tile floor, and said, “You know Mike, I’ve been bitching about the economy lately, but I’ve been doing some research, and I put things in a little perspective.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and just what did you perspect?”

“Well,” he began in a somber tone, “although things are getting pretty tough here, I don’t think it will ever get as bad as in Eeng Land.”

“Really? I like England, and I thought they were doing okay over there.”

“There you go thinking again, and you though wrong. Did you know the average person has to pay about $17 million to buy a house?”

“Wow,” I exclaimed, “that’s about 32 million pounds.”

“Yeah,” said Bob, “those houses weigh a lot over there. Also, did you know their mathematics is based on the Dewey decimal system? I mean it’s no wonder their economy is screwed up; who ever heard of doing math with by a library coding system? And another thing, Eeng-Land’s money is based on sterling silver. You can actually buy goods and services with knives, forks, and spoons.”

I honestly don’t know where he comes up with this stuff. I shook my head in bewilderment and asked, “Bob, where do you come up with this stuff?”

“Internet blogs,” he answered. “You can find out anything on blogs.”

“What else did you find out about England?”

“They have too many people named Oliver, Nigel, and Ian. They have urchins in the cities, not just the sea. They have class, both upper and lower. When they go to the theater, they shake spears at actors. They have a King whose name is Big Ben. They still watch Telly even though he died shortly after Kojak was canceled. There was a beetle infestation in the ‘60s that caused young women to wear very short skirts. I have to tell you Mike, that country has some really weird history”

I shook my head again in amazement. “Bob, I don’t think you’ve really been focusing on what you’ve been reading. You’ve just spouted a bunch of half-truths and distortions about a great country. I’ve been to England, and I loved it; I think you’d love it to if you went.”

“Well, why don’t you take me?”

“I can’t afford it right now. The exchange rate is terrible. The American economy is much worse than the British economy.”

Bob thought for a moment. “What if I change my name to Oliver; can we get a discount?”

Rain Dogs

2008-07-08T16:36:00.000-07:00

The sky over San Antonio is as gray as Gizmo’s muzzle today, and it is dumping its excess moisture on thirsty lawns. I’ve been at the computer most of the day, when I haven’t been mopping up dog urine. Most members of my pack dislike peeing in the rain. In fact, most of them believe water—unless it is in a bowl—is something to be avoided at all costs.

As the rain picked up velocity and the thunder ricocheted off the roof tops, I noticed Sophie, Gizmo, Zipper, Judy and Beyonce (the Yorkie that is staying with us for the week) laying on my office floor with their heads stuck out the sliding-glass door. It appeared they were in deep contemplation. Pathetic Bob, Lily, and Paco were not so sanguine about the weather; they huddled close together underneath my desk making out their last wills and testaments.

“Why don’t you guys go out and play in the rain?” I asked. Silence was the answer I received.

I then decided to try an experiment. I got up and went to the kitchen, followed by eight canines that truly believe every time I go into the kitchen, food magically falls out of my pants. However, I didn’t stop in the kitchen; I passed through it to the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. After pushing the button on the garage-door opener, the large, metal door began to roll up, revealing a semi-river flowing down the street in front of my house. The downpour was ferocious.

Opening the door connecting the laundry room to the garage wider, I said, “Do you guys want to go outside?”

This time, a stampede of fur and tails flew by me towards the freedom of the neighborhood. The sprint for the outside lasted only a second as the dogs slammed on the brakes just as they passed the edge of the eave on the roof. Their course was reversed, and dashed back to dry ground. “Hey, it’s raining out there,” said Bob.

“Duh,” said I.

I sat on the stoop in the garage for a while as the dogs wandered around smelling my tools and peeing on five-gallon buckets of paint. Then, I noticed Sophie tentatively step out of the garage and on to the lawn. Immediately she was soaked, but the lure of my neighbors’ yards proved to enticing for her to worry about her sogginess and she bolted. Lily followed suit, then Pathetic Bob, and finally Judy trotted out in the rain. Zipper, Gizmo, Paco and the Yorkie watched the others go and shook their heads. They remained within the comfort of the garage.

A few minutes later, Lily returned, followed by Sophie and Judy. Pathetic Bob was nowhere in sight. I got a towel to dry off the three dogs, sure that Bob would return shortly. He didn’t. I called his name several times, but he chose to ignore me. I sure wasn’t going to chase him down in the rain. I let the other dogs back in the house, but I remained in the garage to wait out Bob’s return. A few minutes later, an intense boom of thunder crashed overhead. I looked down the street and spotted a miniature Greyhound hauling ass up the road at hyper-speed. As he skidded to a stop inside the garage, Bob’s eyes were wide and he was quivering like a piano wire. “Holy crap, what was that”” he asked.

“That, Bob, was the result of you leaving the yard. I installed a device in your collar that will raise the ire of Thor, the god of thunder, every time you go more than a hundred feet away from the house.”

I closed the garage door, and as we went back into the house, Bob said, “Take that damn thing out of my collar.”

“No,” I said.

“Well, take my collar off then.”

“I’m going to do that right now; you need a bath.”

“Uh-uh. No way. You know I hate water.

The Declaration of Pathetic Bob

2008-07-04T14:47:00.000-07:00

This morning, after vacuuming and mopping in preparation for the horde known as “My Wife's Family” descending upon our house and swimming pool, my wife said I could take a break, so I came into my office to make my daily rounds on the Internet. My executive dog, Pathetic Bob, followed me.

“Hey Mike,” he said once the door was closed, “What’s with all this July 4th hoopla? Why do Americans get so worked up and eat hot dogs and hamburgers and blow stuff up on this day?”

“It’s Independence Day Bob,” I answered. “It’s the day we celebrate our independence.”

“Independence from what?

“Independence from the yoke of tyranny that was placed upon us by King George of England. Way back in 1776, Americans got tired of being yoked so Thomas Jefferson wrote a document called the Declaration of Independence, and the American politicians signed it. Basically it said, ‘We’re mad as hell, and we’re not gonna take it anymore.’”

“So, that’s where Paddy Chayefsky got that line,” mused Bob “Is that when Americans started drinking coffee?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” said Bob, “I heard people were upset because the English were making the Americans buy English tea and they were putting a very hefty tax on it. With tea around $5 a spoonful and lemons $12 each, didn’t all the Americans—well, except the real Americans, you know, the Native Americans—go to Boston and dump on the tea?”

“No Bob, I think you’re a little mixed up. I’m not sure what tea cost back then, but it was more than the people wanted to pay, so some people in Boston threw all the tea from English merchant ships into Boston harbor. They dumped in the ocean, they didn’t dump on the tea.”

“Oh, I see. Ok, when did we develop our dependence on coffee, and did we write a document about it?”

“Bob, I think you’re getting a little off track.”

“What about oil,” Bob went on. “How come we don’t celebrate our dependence on oil? And entertainment, what about that?” And, don’t forget fast-food restaurants and computers and toaster ovens and tanning salons and those pills that make men get an erection? It seems to me Mike, you are much more dependent on all kinds of crap now than people were in 1776. And Jesus Mike, what about taxes? If the people were upset about paying taxes a couple hundred years ago, just think how angry they’d be today.”

“Well, you do have a point Bob,” I agreed. “But back then, the people didn’t have hot dogs and hamburgers and really cool fireworks.”

“Hey, now you’re talking. Let’s go eat.”

Broken Fish

2008-06-27T11:39:00.000-07:00

Dr. Hazel Capon was deeply concerned. The funding for project “Broken Fish” was running out, and without significant results in the next four months, it was unlikely the Flugler Foundation would continue its support of her work.

Dr. Capon was the only ichthyo-orthopod in the country specializing in rib injuries of salt-water fish. Her previous work with crustacean amputees led to the development of “Capon’s Leg,” a salt-powered prosthesis that allowed amputee crabs to sidle normally, had vaulted her to fame in the marine biology surgical world and opened the funding wallets for new research. The people at Flugler poured millions into the Broken Fish project, hoping to be associated with new, cutting-edge surgical techniques for repairing shattered fish bones. But now, two years later, the foundation trustees were rethinking their position; without the slightest hint of a breakthrough from Capon’s work, it was considering moving its funds to a group that was doing groundbreaking work on alleviating pre-menstrual stress in bison. If that happen, Hazel’s once-proud standing in the fish field would suffer considerably.

Dr. Hazel Capon faced a dilemma, a moral dilemma. She knew exactly what the problem was that was hindering her research, she knew it two months after project Broken Fish began, and she knew how to solve it. By solving it, however, she would have to cross a line she wasn’t sure she could cross.

The problem, Hazel learned early on, was that fish seldom received rib injuries. Occasionally, a high-powered speedboat piloted by a drunken fat guy from Minnesota would slam into a carp and snap a rib, but usually resulted in the quick demise of the fish. Other than that, fish just didn’t seem to break ribs…unless…unless you punched them. That was Hazel’s problem; should she start beating up fish and get more money, or admit she screwed up and slink off to obscurity? To make matters worse, Dr. Hazel Capon was born under the sign of Pisces.

Unwilling to become an ichthyo-terrorist, Dr. Capon told the Flugler Foundation her research was proving to be “going nowhere” and closed down the Broken Fish project. She has since changed her specialty to gastropod psychiatry.

Harley Chalmers Interviews a Birdhouse

2008-06-10T14:07:00.000-07:00

A friend of a friend’s son is attending Our Lady of the Tortilla University where he is majoring in “Communications.” His name is Harley Chalmers, and he wants to be a “television news personality.” “Communications” is the post-sanity major that has replaced “journalism” at most colleges and universities in this country, and it is a prerequisite for anyone desiring to break into the news…uh…infotainment business.
Since I worked the dark side of the news business for eight years as a television “news” producer, my friend’s friend asked my friend to ask me if I would critique Harley’s audition. Being the wonderful human mammal that I am, I agreed.

I slipped the tape into my VCR—it came with my CD player—and when the picture burst on the TV screen, Harley was seated in an Adirondack deck chair next to a dilapidated, hanging, two-story, wooden birdhouse. He was decked out in a white shirt, blue blazer, red tie, and grey pants. His light-brown hair was neatly coiffed into a hair helmet, and he had a big smile that revealed a mouthful of fluorescent teeth. He began.

“I’m here today in Sylvia Potchanu’s backyard to talk to this birdhouse,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the sorry looking structure. “Birdhouses are very common in North America, but ones made of wood are becoming a rare sight because of the popularity of less expensive, plastic models. This one has been in Sylvia’s yard for years, and I bet it has some stories to tell.” Pointing a fuzzy-covered microphone towards the birdhouse, Harley turned his head and asked. “So, you are a birdhouse, right?”

The birdhouse looked at Harley like the wanna-be TV personality was a moron (which, by the way, is a particularly favorable quality for TV personalities).

Harley didn’t let the birdhouse’s silence deter him, and he forged ahead. “I was wondering, before you took up birdhousing, what kind of work were you in?”

The little house gave an inaudible sigh and answered, “I was part of a tree.”

“That’s awesome,” beamed Harley, “Why did you decide to leave the tree and become a shelter for birds?”

“I didn’t ‘decide’ to become a birdhouse. The tree was murdered by a chainsaw-wielding psycho and butchered into boards to make birdhouses. It’s rather ironic because as a tree, we sheltered more birds than all the birdhouses built from us?”

“I’m sorry,” Harley chided, “we’re not allowed to use words like ‘ironic’ on television.” The budding TV reporter moved on. “So tell me, what do you think of the new, plastic birdhouses?”

“I think it is better than making them out of trees.”

“Ok. Uh…a final question. If you could have any other job, what would it be?”
The birdhouse quickly snapped, “I’d be a tree.”

The interview over, Harley did his on-camera summation, “Well there you have it folks, a wooden birdhouse in the age of plastics, totally cool or what? Now, back to Glen in the studio.”

I sent the tape back to my friend with this note attached: “Tell your friend that Harley is going to be a star.”

Ed Toad Watches Death at Work

2008-05-27T17:13:00.000-07:00

Ed Toad witnessed the assassination. The moist heat of the day was relentless, and Ed sought relief in the cool tropical garden, camouflaged by lush elephant ears and giant ferns. He was dozing beneath the green glow of the plant canopy when a housefly landed on his forehead. It was a small irritant but enough to cause him to lift his drowsy eyelids and brush the pest away.

As Ed watched the fly retreat, his peripheral vision picked up movement over by the pool. A turn of his head and a series of blinks drove the drowsiness from his eyes, and he spotted the victim-to-be. The victim seemed edgy; he would walk a few paces and then stop, turning his head back and forth, as though he was checking to see if he was being followed. Ed brushed a palm frond to the side and scanned the area. He could see no one else but the victim in the vicinity. His gaze returned to the doomed soul.

Ed thought about making a noise, just to let the victim know he was there, however he decided it might prove to startling so he remained silent. As Ed watched the starts and stops of the victim, he speculated on the reason for the obvious nervousness. Perhaps the victim is a spy, thought Ed, and he’s here to meet his contact. He also considered there may be a romantic tryst about to take place, and the victim was anxious about a jealous husband. All sorts of scenarios played out in Ed’s head.

As Ed constructed possible scenarios, the assassin waited, frozen in position and cocked with a hair trigger. Patience, speed, and mercilessness were his strengths, and he used them often. If you were to ask him he would say he didn’t particularly like killing, but he might add he didn’t particularly not like it either. It was his nature, and he didn’t question it.

The assassin watched the victim’s cautious movements, planning the timing of his strike. It’s a dangerous world, thought the assassin, but no matter how cautious you are if I want you dead, you will soon be cold meat.

A sweet, soft wind rolled through the garden. The victim paused, sniffing the damp air. Ed Toad watched and conjured up another possible story to account for the victim’s being there in the first place. As the wind rustled the vegetation, the assassin struck with speed and savagery. Death was almost instantaneous. The assassin carried the body away, perhaps as proof of the deed or to hide the evidence.

Ed looked on, neither surprised nor frightened; he had seen it before. As calm and quiet returned to the garden, Ed emerged from his cover and walked over to the scene of the crime. A damp red spot littered with small, green bits and pink viscera were all that remained. Ed shook his head. “Someone really ought to stop that cat before he kills all the lizards in the garden,” he said to himself, and then hopped back into the plants.

(c) 2008

Ronny Vladso Learns the World Sucks for Leopards

2008-05-20T17:43:00.000-07:00

After months of badgering, Leona Vladso finally gave in to her six-year-old son’s demands. “Fine Ronny, I’ll tell you about your father, but I warn you, it’s not a pretty story.”

Ronny Vladso knew his father was dead, however, he did not know the details of his death or his life. Every time he asked about his old man, he mother would only say, “He’s entertaining God.”

As Ronny sat in a rigid, hardwood, kitchen chair, Leona paced in front of him. “I only knew your dad a short while before he died,” Leona began. “I met Bosco—that was your father's name, Bosco Peppitone—at the corner of Desmond Avenue and 126th Street. I had just finished my laundry and was carrying it back to my apartment. As I neared the corner, I heard this clicking noise…click, click, click. It was semi-rhythmic, and I could tell the sound was a product of wood being struck. Turning the corner on to Desmond, I collided with Bosco. My laundry and your father took a tumble on the sidewalk.”

Ronny’s eyes were wide as he listened to his mother’s account. “What happened then?”

“I asked him if he was hurt, and he said ‘no,’ and then helped me gather my clothes. As I watched him picking up my panties, I noticed for the first time how handsome he was, just like you. I also noticed he was wearing a plaid mini-skirt, high-top sneakers, and a t-shirt from a ZZ Top concert. I gotta tell you Ronny, that was weird, but the really weird thing was the hair on his legs. It was about three inches long. Below his skirt, he looked like a mountain gorilla.”

Ronny’s mouth fell open. “Was he a monster?”

“No honey, in fact he was quite sweet. You might think that someone with gorilla legs would be scary, but I thought his hairy legs were beautiful. He spent a lot of time grooming his legs. He used expensive shampoos and conditioners, and he brushed them every evening.”

“Why was he dressed so silly?” asked Ronny.

“That’s what I wanted to know. I mean he looked like a waiter at a gay biker restaurant.”

“What’s a gay biker?

“Never mind. Anyway, I asked him about his attire, and he told me he was a busker. I had no idea what a busker was, and then he showed me his clanking sticks, began banging them together and starting doing a slow soft shoe. He told me a busker was a professional street performer; a person who plays music or performs some kind of act for tips.”

“Dad was in show business?” asked Ronny.

“Sort of,” said Leona. “So, Bosco asked me out for coffee, and we really hit it off. Next thing I know, Bosco and me had moved in together, and I was pregnant with you.”

“Did you let the hair grow out on your legs?”

“What?”

“Now that you and Bosco…I mean dad…were married, did you grow gorilla legs too?”

“Uh…no honey, I didn’t.” Leona didn’t want to tell the boy she and Bosco never married.

“Ok. So mom, how did Bosco die?”

Leona really didn’t want to get into Bosco’s death, but she knew she would have to deal with it eventually, why not now? “Honey, your daddy was a good man, but he wasn’t a great busker. Between his busking and my job at Penguin-on-a-Stick, we could barely keep food on the table. Bosco was determined to make it as a busker, and he was also determined to provide a good life for us, so he decided to relocate his busking from the corner of Desmond and 125th to Wall Street, just south of the stock exchange. He felt those mega-rich stock traders would surely be a higher-paying audience for his talent.”

Ronny got a quizzical look on his face. “What’s a stock trader?”

Leona’s face grew somber. “It’s just another word for ‘asshole.’ Now listen up, I’m only gonna talk about this once, so pay attention. With the bills piling up at home, Bosco was feeling pressure to increase his business so he started to incorporate new bits into his act. Banging sticks together and doing a soft shoe just wasn’t enough for the jaded stockbrokers. Your daddy learned to yodel and juggle cats. He slid garden snakes up his nose and out his mouth. But what really did Bosco in was his decision to become a stick-banging mime.”

The boy appeared confused. “What’s wrong with being a mime?”

Leona sighed. “You are too young to understand Ronny, but people hate mimes, and stockbrokers hate mimes worse than they hate poor people. After the close of trading on a Wednesday, a month after Bosco’s relocation, he painted his face white and started pretending he was banging sticks together. A large group of stockbrokers came by on their way to their favorite bar, and Bosco jumped in front of them and really started working is stick-banging pantomime. At first, the brokers tried to ignore him, but your dad was relentless. Finally, one of the men had enough and told Bosco to get out of the way. Your dad was a stubborn man, and he was determined to mime his ass off. That was unfortunate. According to witnesses, briefcases began flying and wing-tip shoes lashed out at Bosco. When the group of irate stockbrokers fled, Bosco lay dying on the sidewalk. Before an ambulance could arrive, a woman in a faux leopard-skin coat came by. She picked up Bosco’s real sticks and crushed his skull with them. I’m sorry you had to hear about this Ronny, but you wanted to know. The world can be a cruel place.”

The boy hung his head…thinking. Leona hoped the story hadn’t traumatized her son. Finally, Ronny looked at his mom. “You know mom, the world really is fucked up. Why would someone kill a faux leopard just to make a coat?

Shamed By My Eating Utensils

2008-05-09T15:59:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago, I sat down at the dining room table to a meal consisting of corn on the cob, small red potatoes, and a nicely marbled rib-eye steak. After slathering I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter on the corn, I picked up my fork in my left hand and my serrated steak knife in my right. I plunged the tines of the fork into the steak, and as I was about to draw the knife across the end of the meat, a flash of light from the overhead fixture glinted off the knife and blinded me momentarily. In that brief moment of blindness, I heard, “Are you sure you want to do this?” The voice was clear, acute, and clearly male.

I rubbed my eyes and looked around the room. There was no one else present but me. “Hello,” I said. “Anyone here?”

“Yeah, I’m down here,” the voice answered. It came from the table.

I looked down and thought for a second that the meat was talking to me. I poked it with my fork; it was definitely dead. “Over here,” the sharp voice called from my right. I slowly moved my eyes to the right and noticed the knife in my hand was quivering. The knife spoke. “Yeah, it’s me, your knife. I’m sorry to interrupt your supper, but I think you might want to reconsider eating this meat.”

“Yeah, me too,” chimed in my fork. Its voice was unmistakably feminine.

“Did I take my medication this morning,” I wondered aloud. I then remembered downing them with my morning coffee. I decided it would probably be fine to join this discussion so I asked, “Why shouldn’t I eat this steak? It’s dead, it’s cooked, and I really love the taste of a good steak.”

“Well for starters,” lectured my knife, “your cholesterol is a little high. Red meat—actually any kind of meat—can raise your bad cholesterol. You seem to have forgotten your doctor said she was going to put you on some meds if you didn’t lower your cholesterol. Yet, here you are, about to stuff your face with dead cow. You're pathetic.”

“No I’m not; my dog is path….”

“Give it a rest,” cried my fork. “Speaking of dogs, would you eat one of your dogs or cats? Would you blow a hole in their head with a compressed air gun and make spaghetti and Italian greyhound meatballs?”

“That’s sick.”

“Would you eat a cat burger?”

“Alright, you can stop it right now.”

“The point is,” said my knife, “you wouldn’t eat those animals because you know them and know they are self aware, possess some intelligence, and they’re cute. Lambs are cute, cows are cute, yet you eat them.”

“Yeah, but….”

“Butt head.”

“So, are you telling me I should become a vegetarian?”

“Duh. Look, maintaining a vegetarian lifestyle is better for your health. You won’t be contributing to the needless slaughter of millions of your fellow creatures. There are lots of other reasons, including economic ones, environmental ones and others, but we’ll go into those later. Right now, put me down, walk away, and go eat some tofu.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” I whined. “Listen, I’ll give your argument consideration, but I’ve already got this fine piece of meat in front of me, and I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

“If you try to cut into that steak, I’m going to stab you,” my knife warned. By this time, my dogs had wandered in. Suddenly, my knife began rapidly cutting bits of steak while my fork tossed them to the dogs. In no time, my meal had disappeared.

Since that day, I’ve been working my way into a vegetarian diet. I do cheat. When I feed the dogs, I steal a spoonful of Natural Balance canned food for myself. It tastes like chicken.

© 2008

A Theory From My Button

2008-05-06T06:03:00.000-07:00

Today, I dressed in cargo shorts, flip-flop sandals, and a pullover, short-sleeved, white shirt with a collar. The shirt did not have a designer emblem on its front or back; I generally hate giving large companies advertising space for free. There were three buttons on the shirt, all of them near the neck. I never wear shirts that have been buttoned all the way up; it is much too restrictive for me. Neither do I wear shirts unbuttoned below the second button; that seems to be a sign of a man who is trying to hard. The two-out-of-three button arrangement is the style I prefer on sports shirts.

Shortly after I finished buttoning the two lower buttons, the middle one spoke to me. “What’s up with all these twigs and leaves on the floor,” it asked.

“The Cheegle brings them in,” I answered.

“You know,” my button went on, “I don’t get out of the closet that often, but it seems to me that little dog is acting like a bird that is gathering material for a nest.”

I was a little surprised my button knew about bird nesting; it had never mentioned the subject before. “I think you’re right,” I said, “and I think that is very perceptive of you.”

“I have a theory,” said the button.

“Yeah, what’s your theory?”

“Well,” said the button with great authority, “by observing all the dogs that live with you, I think a case can be made that dogs evolved from dinosaurs. All I have is empirical evidence, but it seems to me to be a plausible theory.”

“To be honest,” I told the button, “I believe your theory is rather daft. I think the prevailing scientific belief is that dogs evolved from wolves.”

“That’s true,” my button said, “as far as it goes. But, you need to go back further than wolves. Where did wolves come from?”

“Wolverines?”

“Very funny. Wolves came from dinosaurs who came from birds, ergo, your dogs are birds.”

“Get out of here. The six dogs that live at this house came from a shelter.”

“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

“Not very. No offense, but you are only a button after all.”

“I understand. Uh, you might want to take a look at the dog bed in the corner. I think the Cheegle laid an egg.”

The Story Bridge

2008-04-05T16:52:00.000-07:00

(In this 2,700-word story, I've tried to offer an updated take on the "magic shop" type of story.)

After typing “creative writing groups” in the Google search box, Susan Plume sat back in her leather office chair and awaited as the magical algorithms cast their cyber nets, hauled the bounty to her iMac, and displayed them on the 20-inch monitor. Susan blinked, and within the nanosecond her eyes were closed, more than 5 million possible answers to her search queued in the search engine.

Susan Plume had stories to tell. At 35, and after working seven years as a stockbroker, she was starting to feel her true calling was slipping past her. She believed she was destined to write, to be an author, a storyteller. In college, Susan had done well in her creative writing courses, but business was her major, and after graduation, the lure of big money over road her creative dreams. But dreams have a way of resurfacing as years pass, and like a biological clock; Susan’s need to create life out of words had resurfaced like a long-dormant seed. Now, she felt she needed support, encouragement, and nurturing to coax out and polish her tales. She could have enrolled in a writing class at the local college, but preferred to seek help online, anonymously, with veterans and tyros alike.

At first, five million possibilities seemed daunting to Susan. How could she possibly choose a group that was right for her? With so many sites available, some were undoubtedly scams, set up to bleed dreams dry. Susan had done well in her business, making herself and her clients rich. Selling and trading stocks, bonds, and commodities required good research, but the crux of the business was intuition, you put your money down and let the wheel spin. Susan allowed her intuition take over, and on the fifth page of the Google search, an entry titled “The Story Bridge” jumped out at her and wrapped its arms around her head. “We help make your stories come to life,” promised the short description following the title. Susan clicked on the link and was taken to a web page featuring a dark blue background, a graphic keyboard, and an invitation to fill out a form to be considered for membership. The form was simple, aside from basic information such as name, e-mail address, and experience, it asked for a sample story and an answer to the question, “Why do you want to be a writer?”

Susan decided to go ahead with the process. She filled in the basic information, and then pasted in a short story she had written in college about a swimming pool; it was titled “The Swimming Pool.” Before she answered the “why do you want to be a writer,” question, Susan thought for few minutes then wrote, “So I can create new worlds.”

After clicking on the “send” button, a new screen appeared which bore the message: “Thank you for submitting your application to The Story Bridge. Please give us a few days to process your request for membership.”

During the course of the next few days, Susan Plume checked her e-mail more frequently than normal, hoping to hear something from the writing website. In high school and college and in her career, Susan had been popular, athletic, and self-confident, but since sending off her application, she had more empathy for those kids in school who were the last few hoping to be chosen when sides were picked for games and sports. Finally, on Thursday at 3:17 p.m., Susan’s computer notified her she had received a message from The Story Bridge. She clicked on the e-mail and read:

Dear Susan,
Your application has been accepted. Welcome to The Story Bridge. Although your story, “The Swimming Pool,” contained a number of punctuation errors, we thought it was interesting and compelling. We feel you could also use some work on your descriptive language.
The next step in the process for full membership is for you to submit an original story--no more than 5,000 words--to us by Monday afternoon. This will give you four days to write your story. Once your story is posted, our members will review and critique it within two days. Good luck in creating your “new world.”

Sincerely,
H.P.

Susan did not expect a second audition and felt a bit of ire rising within her. It did not last long. She decided this development was a good thing; after all if the group was this picky about its membership, it was probably a place where she would learn to hone her chops. Before she left her office for the day, Susan told her boss she was taking Friday and Monday off.

New worlds moved through Susan’s head the rest of the afternoon, making it hard for her to concentrate on her work. Her mind was searching for stories, not stock deals. That evening, in her apartment, she sketched out plots and scenarios and characters, discarding some, retaining others until she felt she had aligned the right sequence of literary DNA that would help her create a formidable tale by which her critics would judge her. After a glass of Pinot Grigio, Susan fell asleep and let the chemistry of creation bubble away in her mind.

Friday morning, fortified with yogurt, toast, and strong Columbian coffee, Susan Plume pulled words out of her head and deposited them on the keyboard of her iMac. With a clear picture of the finished product in her head and the tools of a writer’s trade on her desk, Susan spent the next two days crafting her story. The magic of writing engulfed her. The art of giving an idea life took hold, and she pursued it doggedly.

By late Sunday afternoon, Susan Plume had given birth to a 4,700-word story. It has all its limbs and fingers and toes, and it seemed healthy. It would, however, need to be cleaned. Susan spent Sunday night and Monday morning scrubbing her story, washing away unnecessary bits and pieces and dressing it in the right punctuation.

At 12:27 p.m. on Monday, Susan typed “The Crash” at the top of the first page of her story, and then sent it off to The Story Bridge. Immediately after she hit the “send” key, she felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment and confidence. Susan ordered in Chinese food to celebrate, but by the time it arrived, her confidence level had dropped dramatically. It irritated her that she wanted to please a group of people she didn’t know; they could be a group of high-school students after all, or, the group might not be a group at all, just some weirdo with the initials H.P. But the fact remained, she did want to be accepted into the group; she wanted to be—even at a distance—among people who bled words.

Susan puttered about her apartment the rest of the afternoon tidying up and doing laundry, anything to keep her from thinking about the story and whether it would be accepted. A little past 7:00 that evening, after a light meal and a long bath, Susan decided to catch up on some correspondence and returned to her computer. Upon opening her mailbox, she began scanning her inbox. The third entry, just below an offer of penis enlargement and above a notice that she had won the Swedish lottery, she saw the words, “The Story Bridge.” This was highly unexpected; the last e-mail from H.G. stated it would take two days for the group to read and critique her story. She was sure this was not a good sign. Click.

Dear Susan,
Thank you for submitting your story, “The Crash.” Although we normally take a few days to assess submissions for full membership, we found your story to be exceptional and would be honored to have you as a member.
In less than 5,000 words, you’ve managed to create a compelling magical-realism thriller, complete with finely drawn characters. Using a timely subject such as stock market manipulation to explore the depths of evil even the most altruistic of us can descend was brilliant.
Congratulations for a job well done. We are going to publish “The Crash” tomorrow. Welcome to the writer’s world.

Best of luck,
H.G.

Susan Plume was stunned. She was going to be published. She was a real author. Of course, she thought, there was no mention of pay, but that doesn’t matter for now. What mattered to her was people who knew good writing had accepted her, and now she was considered by them to be a peer. “Brilliant” was the word H.G. had used to describe her story. It was then that Susan knew in her heart it would not be long before she would make the transition from stockbroker to fulltime author.

Buoyed by her success, Susan spent the remainder of the evening e-mailing friends and family about the news of story being published. She attached a copy of “The Crash” to every e-mail she sent. By the time midnight rolled around, Susan had written and sent 47 e-mails and drank a bottle of Yellowtail merlot. She undressed and floated beneath the sheets on her bed, soon drifting off to dream of book tours.

At 10:02 Tuesday morning, Susan Plume opened her left eye and swiveled it towards the nightstand next to her bed. She blinked. She blinked again. A third blink wiped away enough overnight eye slime for her to see the digital readout on the nightstand clock. “Damn,” she yelled, “I’m late for work.”

Speed dressing and rapid makeup application were not Susan’s strong points, but after a quick shower, she completed both tasks as rapidly as possible. Grabbing her briefcase, she left her 12th floor apartment, waited briefly for the elevator to arrive, and made it out of the building and into a taxi. By the time she reached the offices of Bricklin & Sutton, the brokerage for which she worked, it was a few minutes shy of 11:00. As Susan rushed past the reception area of the firm, Tina, the receptionist, called out, “Anna, there are two policemen waiting in your office. They’ve been there for a while.”

“Anna? Who is Anna?” thought Susan as she stopped by the coffee machine long enough to fill a Styrofoam cup with late-morning java dregs. When she opened her office door, Susan stopped short. There were two men sitting inside. One of them, a slender, redhead with hollow cheeks and a cheap suit was sitting at her desk scrolling through her computer files. The other man, dark, bulky and seemingly asleep was in one of the chairs in front of her desk. At the sound of her entrance, the redhead looked up.

“What, what the hell is going on here?” demanded Susan. “There are confidential files on that computer. Who are you people?”

The redhead looked at her for a moment. “I’m Agent Bellflower, and that’s my partner, Agent Cano. We’re from the Treasury Department. Have a seat next to my partner Miss Caffington. We need to ask you a few questions.”

Puzzlement flooded Susan’s face. “Please, Anna,” said Bellflower, “this is quite serious. Have a seat.”

“I think you have the wrong person,” Susan tried to explain. “I’m not Anna Caffington. I’m Susan Plume. This is my office. I don’t know any Anna Caffington.” As Susan spoke those words, something at the back of her mind began to itch. “It’s the wine,” she thought, remembering last night’s celebratory bottle of merlot. God, I must have the worst hangover imaginable; I’m hearing things.”

“Save the B.S. Anna,” said Agent Cano, who still appeared to be sleeping. “We know who you are. Now sit down.”

“You guys have made a hell of a mistake, or someone has put you up to this, but I am not this Anna person. Now this is my office, and I’ve got work to do, so please leave.”

“What does it say on your office door, Anna?”

The door was still open, and Susan turned her head to look. About five feet from the floor, in the middle of the door, was a brass plate that read, “Anna Caffington, Stockbroker.” Susan’s mouth dropped open, and the itching got worse.

Confused, Susan closed the door and sat next to Agent Cano. It was Agent Bellflower who delivered the next bit of news. “We know who you are Anna. In fact, we know all about you. For instance, we know you’ve been having an affair with your boss, Jeremy Steiner.”

Susan started to tell them her boss’s name was Roger Twain, not Jeremy Steiner, and Roger was gay. However, the name Jeremy Steiner sounded familiar, so she waited to hear what was coming next.

Agent Bellflower casually leaned back in Susan’s leather chair. “We also know Steiner conspired with three sub-prime lenders, an administration official, and two of the most powerful banks in the country to manipulate the stock market and cause financial devastation for millions of people. We know for a fact that Steiner illegally profited to the tune of 4 billion dollars.”

All this information was coming too fast. In her hung over condition and with no morning coffee, Susan was having difficulty processing all of it. What was worse, some of it rang true.

“One other thing we know is Jeremy Steiner is dead. He was shot through his right eye with a small caliber weapon in his bedroom, sometime late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Interestingly enough, his wife was out of town and has a solid alibi. Luckily for us, Mr. Steiner’s eyes were open when he was shot. Although the right eye was decimated, the boys from the Federal Department of Memories were able to scan the left eye and should be able to tell us in a day or two who was in the bedroom with him.”

Susan shook her head. “You are absolutely crazy. Department of memories? There’s no such thing. As for the rest of your story….” Susan halted in mid sentence.

“Tell us Anna, where were you Saturday night?”

Susan’s mind felt like it had rubbed up against poison ivy. “I, uh, uh, I was at my apartment writing. I was writing a short story about…. Oh my God!”

“Can anyone verify you were there? Did you have anyone over; did you go out to eat or to the grocer’s?”

Susan was afraid to breathe, afraid to make the slightest movement. Finally, closed her eyes and asked, “Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” replied Agent Cano.

“If I’m not under arrest, I want to go home and call a lawyer.”

The two agents exchanged glances. “Ok, Anna, you can go for now,” said the redhead. “Agent Cano will drive you.” He produced a folder. “This is a federal warrant. It gives me the right to go through all your computer records and anything else I find in your office. We have also applied for a search warrant for your apartment, so well be visiting you at home soon. And Anna, please don’t get any ideas about leaving the city. That would end badly for you.”

On the way back to her apartment, Agent Cano tried to ask more questions, but Susan refused to answer, keeping her eyes shut, and chanting the mantra, “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

As Susan was exiting the federal agent’s car, he leaned over and said, “You know Anna, I don’t really care that this guy Steiner is dead. His greed will probably cause a stock market crash that will shake the financial foundation of this country. What I don’t like is murderers, especially those who murder for money.” As Susan started to turn, Agent Cano winked at her and added, “You have any offshore bank accounts Anna?”

Inside her apartment, Susan threw her briefcase on the sofa, ran into her home office, and powered up the iMac. While waiting for the machine to come alive, she said over and over, “I just wanted to create stories, not a life.”

When the iMac was operational, she typed www.thestorybridge into the address box. Within seconds she was taken to a plain, white page on which the following words were displayed, “Error 404. This page does not exist.”

The Test

2008-03-18T18:13:00.001-07:00

Last night, as I lay in bed surrounded by six softly snoring dogs, I decided I was going to take a test. Unlike the tests I’ve seen posted on various Internet blogs, the test I was going to take would be able to tell me far more than what percentage hermorphaditic, gypsy arborist I was. It would go far beyond telling me if I was a cartoon character, a liberal spelunker, or a well-regulated sexual gymnast. This would be a test that would absolutely define me in all aspects.

The test promised to inform me of things known and unknown to me. The test would tell me about my character, my health, my prejudices, my desires, my fears, and my altruism. I would find out if any of my actions have led to the death of another person or enriched someone’s life. It would examine the good in me…and the evil. It would evaluate my perceptions, it would test my loyalty, and it would see how well I dealt with joy and tragedy and stress and pain and pleasure.

The test would be long, but there would be a time limit. Many of the questions would be repeated over and over. I could go back and make some corrections, but I still had to beat the clock. There are a lot of study guides available for the test, but many of them are contradictory so, at best, they are unreliable. You are not allowed to speak with anyone who has taken the test, and from what I understand, it probably wouldn’t do you any good if you could. There is really no way you can cheat on the test. You can lie, but that’s part of the test. No, this test is a solo effort.

I couldn’t sleep last night; I kept thinking about this test I was going to take. I got out of bed at 3:00 a.m. and went into my office to prepare for the test. The dogs followed me. When I sat down in front of my desk with a hot cup of coffee, I glanced over at Roxie, my canine friend that is dying. She was doing well this morning, and as I looked at her she walked over and put her head in my lap, hoping for a morning head rub. As I looked at her, something began to dawn on me: I was already taking the test.

The test, of course, is Life. I couldn’t tell you how well I’m doing; I have no idea who is scoring it. I just hope I don’t run out of number-two pencils for a while.

Soldier on the Rim

2008-02-21T15:09:00.000-08:00

Read on, and it will quickly become evident that I am not a poet. However, I was challenged to write on from a list of words (in bold).

Identity revoked
He walked an unknown horizon

Consumed with rage at a land he loved
exempt from freedom

Provide and they will consume
and the years will run out.

Helen's Robe

2008-02-13T14:27:00.001-08:00

Helen's silk robe felt cool in his hands as he lifted it from the hook on the back of her closet door. He turned toward their bed and brushed the soft, copper-colored materiel against his right cheek; memories bloomed, emotions stirred.
The bedroom was a minimalist work of art, decorated by Helen. Earth-colored pastels and low-key lighting bathed the room, and a hint of Gia Flora perfume lingered in the air. It was their modern castle keep, a place where the world was held at bay and life began.
He undressed and, with some difficulty, he gently slipped into Helen's robe. She was petite; he was not. He walked to the bed and sat on the left edge, resting his hands on his knees, trying not to think. He closed his eyes and listened to the low murmur of the air conditioner; "womb noises," he thought. A body ripple ran through him.
He lay back on the bed and gathered the hem of the flowing robe in his hand, swiftly bringing it to his face, and covering his head. Helen's fragrance danced through his nostrils and into his brain, igniting pain and pleasure in his being. He cried dry tears as Helen's robe held him.
Hours passed, a night of sleepless hours. When the morning broke, he returned to Helen's closet and disrobed. "One day at a time," they told him, "You just keep on one day at a time."
He put on Helen's little black dress and went grocery shopping.

Pathetic Bob's Holiday Fiasco (Part One)

2008-01-03T10:53:00.000-08:00

Pathetic Bob’s Holiday Fiasco

It was four days before Christmas when the call came at two in the morning. “Hey Em, it’s me, Pathetic Bob,” said the voice on the other end of he line.
I sat up, cleared my head and said, “Bob, this isn’t funny. Did you steal my cell phone again?”
“No, no, it’s not that. Listen Em, you’ve got to drive down to Laredo and bail us out of the Animal Control facility. They are holding us here for the Homeland Security people.”
“What!” I yelled. “Who’s ‘us,’ and how did you get to Laredo?”
“It’s a long story Em, just get down here as fast as you can. I’ve got Sophie, Judy, Zipper, Lily, and the two cats with me. Oh, bring the station wagon, we’ve got 22 squirrels with us.” The phone went dead.
I was fairly sure Bob was screwing with my head again, but upon searching the house, none of the animals could be found, so I called the pound in Laredo. I quickly obtained the number from information and soon found myself on the line with an Officer Garcia. “Excuse me officer,” I began, “but I just got a phone call from one of the dogs that live with me saying he had been arrested and detained in your facility. I know it’s probably a hoax, but I thought I’d better check.”
“Well,” Garcia laughed, “we got a lot of dogs here, but not many who speak English. What does your dog look like?” I could hear laughter in the background.
“He’s, uh, skinny, brown, has a pointed nose, and he’s a real smartass. He goes by the name of Bob.”
“Yeah, I think we got your dog. He came in an hour or so ago with four other dogs and a bunch of squirrels, and he hasn’t shut up since. He keeps demanding a lawyer and is threatening to ‘sue our asses.’ The Homeland Security boys brought the whole crew in on charges of smuggling, violating air space, counterfeit visas, and several other charges. They impounded their vehicle and cargo, too.”
“What vehicle and cargo? Bob doesn’t even drive. What the hell is going on down there?”
Officer Garcia got all official-like and said, “Listen Mister…uh….
“Em,” I told him.
“Yeah, right. Listen Mr. Em, I think you better get down here fast. This whole gang is in a world of trouble, and the feds are going to want to question you, too.”
“Me?” I stammered, “I didn’t do anything. Why do they want to question me?”
“Just get down here, OK, we’ll see if we can get this thing sorted out.”
I didn’t want to wake Mrs. Em, so I wrote her a note and told her what was happening, and then started out on the long drive to Laredo. Along the way, I played out several scenarios in my head, all of them ending with my unfortunate incarceration in a federal prison. Damn that Bob, if he didn’t get jail time, I was going to whack him.
Two and a half hours after I began the trip, I pulled into the parking lot of the Laredo City Animal Shelter. I got out of the station wagon, stretched my legs, and then knocked on the metal door. A slender man of medium build opened the door and asked what I wanted. After I explained who I was and why I was there, the man smiled and said, “I’m Officer Garcia; I’ve been expecting you.”
Garcia had a pleasant smile for such a stern-faced man. I had a vague notion I’d seen him before. “Do I know you?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “All us Mexican-Americans look alike to you gringos.”
“Great,” I thought, “I just got in the door, and I’m being accused of being a racist. This does not bode well for gaining my animals release.”
Then it hit me. With his pencil-thin mustache and soul patch, Garcia was the spitting image of Edward James Olmos’ character in Blade Runner. I explained why he seemed familiar, and he said, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
I steered the conversation in another direction. “Anyway, what the hell is going on with the dogs and cats and squirrels? Bob wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, and you weren’t much help, either.”
“Just calm down Mr., uh, I forgot your name.”
“Call me Em.”
“M?”
“No, Em.”
“Em…hmmm…that sounds like some kind of code name. If I were you, I’d make up another name when you talk to the feds.”
“The feds are here?”
“Yeah, they’re in my office interrogating your dog, Bob, and he keeps demanding a lawyer and roast beef. The other dogs, the cats, and the squirrels are on the cell block screaming ‘Attica, Attica.’”
“What are they being charged with?”
“Well, see, as far as I know, they haven’t been officially charged with anything…yet. The immigration guys are saying they may have entered the country illegally, but some Mexican officials have called to complain the animals entered Mexico illegally. That’s all up in the air right now. Homeland Security seems to be suspicious they may be part of some kind of weird terrorist plot. The geniuses from the DEA think Pathetic Bob could be a narco kingpin who was smuggling drugs into Mexico hidden in an assortment of nutshells. Now, I’m not as brilliant as these federal drug cops, but I’ve never heard of anyone smuggling drugs into Mexico. If you ask me, I think your dog is a pain in the ass, but I don’t really see him as some kind of master criminal. I think you’d better get in there and try to talk some sense into him.”
I gave a sad smile to Officer Garcia, who I was beginning to like more and more. “First of all, he’s not really my dog; he just lives with me, and I finance his lifestyle. And, although Bob is an educated dog and speaks several languages, all of his sense lies in his nose, eyes, and ears. His brain seems to function in some weird dimension.”
“I can believe that,” said Garcia, “but if you want to save him and the other animals, you’d better think of something fast. Come on, I’ll take you to see him and the federal agents.”
As we headed to Garcia’s office, my nervousness increased, and I could taste fear on the back of my tongue, brought on by my natural instinct of not trusting governments or government agents.
Officer Garcia knocked on the office door then ushered me into his small, dark office, which was crowded with men and women in suits and uniforms. Pathetic Bob sat on a gray, metal desk in the center of the room; a bare light bulb hung from the ceiling directly over Bob’s head. As I entered the room, Bob turned to me an cried, “Em, help me. These ignorant bastards are going to waterboard me and send me to Guantanamo prison. I haven’t done anything wrong, but these idiots think I’m working for Osama Bin Laden or the Mendoza drug cartel. That moron over there,” he growled, pointing at a rotund, bald man in a La Migra uniform, “is accusing me of being an illegal alien. They won’t tell me what they’ve done with the other dogs and the two cats. They’ve even illegally detained Randy and Milo and their friends. This is a city pound, not a place for squirrels.”
“He’s right,” offered Officer Garcia, “we’re not supposed to put squirrels in the kennels.”
At that moment, all the government androids began talking at once, causing a din of babble.
“Hold on!” I yelled. “I can’t understand a damn thing with all of you talking at once.”
The noised died, and I continued. “Look, before I talk to any of you people, I want to talk to my client…uh…I mean the dog. For now, I’m representing him, so I’d like you to leave while I confer with him.”
Although there was a chorus of objections, it was finally agreed I could have 15 minutes alone with Bob. I watched the feds file out of the room, and then I turned to Bob.
“Em,” he said excitedly, “you’re not going to believe what happened.”
I stared hard into the dog’s eyes. “You are absolutely right, Bob, I’m not going to believe what you tell me happened. In fact, I know you are going to embellish the hell out of the truth. But, before you begin your pathetic explanation, I want you to know I’m pissed. I’m really pissed. It’s not just that you made me haul my ass out of a warm bed at two in the morning and drive a hundred and fifty miles; living with you has taught me to expect things like that. I’m not even that upset that you’ve managed to involve the other dogs in whatever weird adventure you’ve undertaken, although leading a puppy astray is a new low for you. I’m surprised Milo and Randy are part of this, and I can’t imagine what you did to induce them to participate. As for the 20 other squirrels, hell, that’s really got me stumped, but I can live with it.”
Pathetic Bob’s tail was like a windshield wiper on high as I was talking. As I took a breath, he tried to jump in. “But Em, I….”
“Quiet,” I demanded, “I’m not finished. You’ll get your turn when I’m finished. You see Bob, I can handle all the stuff I just mentioned, but this time, you’ve gotten my involved with government agents. Government agents Bob! We could all end up doing hard time in six-by-eight cells with roommates with names like “Torpedo” or “El Diablo.” This is serious stuff. We could be held without charges for years; they could screw with your dog license or take away my library card. That’s why I’m pissed Bob, really, really pissed.”
Bob blinked his doe eyes and said, “Yeah, whatever. Can I talk now?”
I sighed, pulled up a green, metal chair, and sat with my head in my hands. “Ok, go ahead, let’s hear it.”

Pathetic Bob's Christmas Story

2007-12-09T18:54:00.000-08:00

I’ve been trying to get festive. According to the song it’s supposed to be “The most wonderful time of the year,” so Pathetic Bob and I decided to go out in the real world today and see what was so damn wonderful. I put Bob’s guide-dog outfit on him and grabbed my white cane and dark glasses and we hopped in the car to began our Christmas cruise.
Our first stop was North Star Mall, the largest mall in town. As we were doing the blind-man-and-dog stroll (an unfortunate ruse we must perpetrate or else Bob would not be allowed inside), we came across a gaggle of little children standing in line to have their pictures taken with Santa and tell him all the useless crap they want for Christmas.
“Hey Em,” said Bob excitedly, “Who are those little people?”
“They’re kids, Bob.”
“Very funny mistletoe breath, I know they are kids. Who are those other little people?”
“Well Bob, they are dwarves, also known as little people. They are dressed up to look like elves, mythical little toymakers who serve their bearded master.”
“Can we go meet one? Can we? Can we?” Bob whined.
“I don’t think so Bob. They’re busy working. Maybe after Christmas, when they’ve been laid off.”
“You mean once Christmas is over, all the dwarves will be unemployed?”
“No, I was just kidding,” I said
“”Well,” shot back Bob, “you shouldn’t kid about stuff like that.” He circled the Santa exhibit, and then came back and sat next to me on one of the benches. “You know Em, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I think you could be right. It seems the only time you see dwarves is at Christmas time and in fantasy movies. It just doesn’t seem right. I mean they are just short people right?”
“That’s true Bob.”
“Well, Tom Cruise is short, and he’s a flaming nut case, too, but he’s in movies year round. I’m getting a little pissed Em. I don’t like dwarves being exploited this way. I gotta do something.”
“But Bo….” Before I could finish my sentence, Bob ran off and darted through the mass of children and jumped and Santa Claus’ lap. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but suddenly Bob yanked the fat guy’s beard off and began growling at him real loud. Next thing I knew a posse of mall security droids swarmed the Santa exhibit. I dashed over and busted through the wall of mall caps to defend Bob. I picked him up and made a beeline for the exit; we almost made it. Unfortunately, I tripped over a very old woman in a wheelchair, and the security guys grabbed us.

Pathetic Bob and I were taken deep into the bowels of the mall and held for questioning in brightly lit, small room that had a one-way mirror. “Dammit Bob, look what you’ve done. Now we’ll probably end up in jail and the pound.”
“Just calm down Em,” Bob said. “Invoke your right to silence. I’ll do the talking.”
Just then, the door slammed open, and in walked a uniformed mall Nazi with wire-rimmed glasses and a gut bigger than Santa’s. “Well, well, well,” he said sarcastically, “so you like to impersonate a blind person and have your dog attack people. Well mister, that don’t fly around here.”
“But officer,” I began, and never finished because Bob butted in.
“Hush Em. Look Barney Fife, we know our rights. We want a lawyer.” Bob just loves cop shows.
The security guy stopped in his tracks, shaken. He looked at me and said, “That dog can talk.”
“Of course I can talk scrotum gut, now let me talk to your boss,” demanded Bob.
The guard retreated from the room, and a few minutes later the door opened, and in walked…a dwarf. He was dressed in an Armani suit and carried a two-way radio. Pathetic Bob turned to me and grinned from ear to ear.
Bob explained to the dwarf, who happened to be the security chief, the whole incident was a misunderstanding and he was just trying to stand up for human dignity. Mr. Belamario, the chief, just nodded, looking at me from time to time. When Bob finished his oration, he wasn’t sure the chief was buying what he had to say so he turned and pointed at me and said, “It’s all his fault.”
Luckily, Mr. Balermario had a sense of humor, and he let Bob and me off. Before he had us escorted from the mall (with instructions we were never to return), he pulled Bob aside and had a few words with him.
Once we were safely back in the car, I asked Bob what Mr. B had said.
“He told me that if I ever got tired of living with you, he and his wife would gladly take me in.” He then added, “It is a wonderful time of the year, isn’t it Em?”

Zipped Up

2007-11-09T09:18:00.000-08:00

“We’re not getting another dog,” said my wife when I asked her to accompany me to the Hilltop Nursing Home for my monthly pet-therapy visit. “We already have four, and that’s enough.”

“I didn’t say anything about getting another dog; I just asked if you’d like to go with me today. Since I’ve been spending a lot of time volunteering at the shelter, you’ve mentioned you might like to do some volunteering also, and I thought today would be as good a day as any to see if you will like it. We’re just going to take a dog to see some senior citizens. Come on, you might have fun.”

“Well, Ok, I’ll go with you, but no new dogs.”

“Sure,” I agreed, “we’ll just do the therapy thing and then help out at the shelter a bit, and come home.”

When we got to the ADL—the largest no-kill shelter in the southwest—LaTrenda, the volunteer coordinator had Zipper ready to go. The previous day, I had taken Zipper to an elementary school to give several presentations about dog care, and I had arranged for him to go with me today.

I introduced Zipper to my wife Linda, and we took him to the car, where he hopped in the back on command. My wife was impressed. I told her what I knew about Zipper’s past: he is a two-year-old, mix-breed stray, that a policeman brought to the shelter after he saved him from an attack by two mastiffs. Zipper was cut and bruised and had his eye torn a bit. In addition, Zipper was positive for heartworms and was undergoing treatments. He had been at the shelter since September 1.

During the ride to the nursing home, Linda kept turning around and stroking his head and speaking much sweeter words to him than she ever does to me. At the nursing home, I let her take him around for the old folks to pet, and she remarked frequently about how gentle he was. One old lady, deep into senility, was especially fond of Zipper, and he seemed to draw her out of her inner world. As we were getting ready to leave, the old woman began to cry. I gently held her in my arms, and sensing he was needed, Zipper came over and laid his head on her lap. I think it was then my wife fell in love with him.

When we returned to the ADL, Zipper went back into his kennel, and Linda walked around visiting other dogs while I went to the office to do some paper work. When I finished, I came and found Linda standing in front of Zipper’s kennel. “Did you notice,” she said, “that he never barks?”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that before. He’s really a great dog. He’s very curious, and he’s a four-eyed dog.” (Four-eyed dogs have darker markings above the eyes that look like eyebrows. The Native Americans of the Southwest believe four-eyed dogs are special and have great insight.)

“I wonder how long he will have to be treated for heartworms?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s go ask Heike, the shelter manager.”
Heike is a tall, blond walking encyclopedia of dog knowledge and an extremely dedicated champion of animals. She filled us in on the details of Zipper’s treatment, and then said, “Why don’t you take him home for the weekend and foster him and see how he gets along with your other dogs.” I didn’t tell her I was not allowed to get another dog.

Linda looked at me, and I could tell there was some kind of struggle going on in her lovely head. Finally she said, “Yeah, sure, why don’t we do that.”

Two hours after we returned home with Zipper, he had made four new dog friends and met a cat who seems to like him. Two hours and one minute after we returned home, Linda had me take her to the pet store to purchase Zipper a bed, a collar, a leash, a dog bowl, and some toys. Zipper is here to stay.

A short while ago, my wife said, “I just realized, you knew we were going to get that dog when you asked me to go with you this morning.”

In my defense, I told her, “Well, that’s not exactly true. Yesterday, Zipper told me he was going to get us.”

Bonding with Bunny

2007-10-26T15:32:00.000-07:00

The sky was sweating profusely as they pulled in to a small parking area next to an emerald English field. A few campers had arrived ahead of them, and their outdoor abodes dotted the soaked landscape.
“Come on sweetie, help me get the tent out of the boot, and we have it set up in a jiff,” said Jo.
“Mum,” cried her daughter Bunny, “it’s bloody pouring out there. This is not exactly the kind of outdoor experience I was hoping for.”
“Don’t be silly dear, it’s just a spot of rain. It will blow over soon.”
“But Mum, it’s been raining for 32 days; I think it’s going to blow London away before it
‘blows over.’”
“Oh posh, come on now, we need to make camp before all the good spots are taken,” said Jo as she opened the car door.
Bunny sighed and reluctantly followed her mother around to the back of the car, leaning into almost gale-force winds trying to stay on her feet.
“Just smell that fresh country air,” said Jo as she opened the boot and started hauling out the recently purchased camping gear.
“I can’t smell a thing,” complained Bunny, “my nostrils are full of water. This is not a good idea, mum. We could drown or catch a cold or become all wrinkly.”
“Nonsense. We are modern British women, and we don’t let a little inclement weather dampen our spirits. It will be fun.”
Bunny looked at her mum who seemed oblivious to hurricane in which they were in the middle. “But mum, I am not a British woman; I am a British girl who hopes to one day be a British woman. But, my chances of achieving that goal are diminishing every minute we are out here in this tempest. Jesus mum, look there’s a waterlogged cow being blown across the field; we could be killed by projectile livestock. This is daft.”
“But Bun, I spent a fortune on all this equipment; we have to get our money’s worth out of it.”
“Well then let’s take it home and set up camp in the parlor.”
Jo looked defeated. It was hard to tell if she was crying. “But I so wanted this to be a mother-daughter bonding experience.”
“It is mum. I’m bonded; I’m in bondage. Now please untie me and let’s go home before this turns into a mother-daughter-cow-flood experience. We can even bond some more on the drive home.”
“Very well,” agreed a somewhat reluctant Jo, “but as soon as England dries out, it’s off to the wilderness again.”
“Fine, mum. But next time you have to bring along your meds.”

Sunday Evening Deconstructed

2007-10-22T11:05:00.000-07:00

All was well until around 4:00 p.m; that's when my head tripped over a teardrop. The sudden collision woke the regulators, who sounded a rotospoke alarm, and a well-armed unit of shit-storm troopers outflanked my luminous gyroscope and fired a warning volley. I ducked for cover like a side-door lover, but there was no cover, and I was left standing in the rain with a diplomatic banjo. A chemical rain, and sparks flew. Where was Bela Fleck when I needed him. I called out to animals that had never existed, "Write me a story." They sent emotions instead, at least I think it was them. I ran wild in the margins, sitting all the while. Pot shots were taken; I ducked and waddled.

The familiar unfamiliar led me, pulled me, covering too much time and not enough territory. Thunder cracked, rain fell, animals cried. The panoramic view behind my eyes burned the time and distance with its dark gray brilliance. I saw all but remembered nothing. Time shuddered. The otter nestling in my left arm drew her whiskers across my neck, and goose flesh exploded. We remained at the far end of the line, relaxed and crying.

Sometimes, a mind is a terrible thing to have.

Forty Eight Classics

2007-10-14T14:12:00.000-07:00

From the website Life Optimizer, here is a list of 48 classic books to help increase your learning experience. You can download all of them for free.

Here are the novels:

Don Quixote (Miguel de Cervantes) - Download
Gulliver’s Travels (Jonathan Swift) - Download
Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen) - Download
Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens) - Download
The Scarlet Letter (Nathaniel Hawthorne) - Download
Moby-Dick (Herman Melville) - Download
Madame Bovary (Gustave Flaubert) - Download
Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoevsky) - Download
Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy) - Download
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain) - Download
The Trial (Franz Kafka) - Download

Lucinda Whacks Another One

2007-10-09T08:49:00.000-07:00

Edgar Smoil was a happy man. His dog Jonny, a pug, had won “Best in Breed” earlier that day in the Canine-Orama Dog Show in Bakersville, California, and with Jonny safely asleep in his cage upstairs in the hotel room, Edgar was on his third scotch in the hotel lounge. It was Valentines Day.
Edgar Smoil was 39 and had no woman in his life. As a matter of fact, his dog was his only companion. He had been married, albeit briefly, in his early 20s, but his wife Simone quickly became bored and left him for another man. Although he had dated a few women over the years, by the third date, they were ready to move on. Edgar had pretty much given up on romance, and even if he was interested, between his job as a chemical engineer specializing in polymers and traveling to dog shows with Jonny, he hadn’t much time for the pursuit of love. But this was Valentines Day, and Edgar he was happy, and he wished he had someone to share that happiness with.
Lucinda Rainwater was also in Bakersfield at the same moment. She had driven down from Carmel to attend an antique auction, and being an animal doctor, had decided to catch the dog show as well. She, too, was happy. A particularly fine piece of art deco glassware had come up for sale at the auction, and hers had been the winning bid.
Lucinda Rainwater was sitting at the long, oak, hotel bar, three stools down from where Edgar Smoil sat. She was enjoying a Campari on ice when her internal electricity tripped a breaker and reset automatically. This was unfortunate, for when Lucinda’s electrical system faltered, she would go into her serial-killer mode. It had happened 25 times before. She turned her head, and saw that Edgar Smoil had the number 26 painted on his forehead.
With her antique railroad spike nestled in her handbag, Lucinda moved down two stools and asked Edgar, “Do you have a light?”
Shaken out of his reverie and slightly startled, Edgar looked at the pretty, blond woman next to him and stammered, “Uh…no…sorry…uh…I don’t smoke.”
“That’s OK,” responded Lucinda, “neither do I. I just thought you looked lonely, and it’s Valentines Day and all. Hi, I’m Lucinda.”
Pretty women did not come up and talk to Edgar, so he was more than surprised that this one was paying attention to him. “Uh…hello. My name is Ed,” he said, preferring the shortened version of his name because he felt it sounded manlier. “I’m here for the dog show. Uh…can I buy you a drink?”
It was then Lucinda knew for sure her railroad spike would find its Valentines Day heart.
In addition to notching up her 26th kill, Lucinda Rainwater found an unexpected benefit on Valentines Day: she now owned a beautiful little pug.

Towards Texada

2007-10-05T09:16:00.000-07:00

Although most poetry makes my butt suck wind, I nevertheless actually wrote a poem. The inspiration for the poem was the painting of the same name (shown on left) by a friend and fellow writer named Sofie. I hope it doesn't cause too much of an internal rectal breeze for you.

Toward Texada

Texada sits in moist shimmer
A verdant emerald
A cluster of hills raised in celebration of her homecoming

Her chilled eyes probe the land
From the far side of the lake
Searching for the childhood left behind

She’s been moving towards Texada
The day she moved away
Circular motion, a fool’s errand

A step from the shore, cold memories embrace her ankles
A second step
The familiar touch of chaos grips her mind

With the third step, she is swimming toward Texada
Bold, slow strokes
She pulls the future behind her

Career Day

2007-10-03T08:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I spent the morning at Adams Elementary School giving Career-Day presentations to third and fourth-grade classes. Although I don’t actually have a career, I was there speaking on behalf of the Animal Defense League, the largest “no kill” animal shelter in South Texas. Two women—also ADL volunteers—were supposed to assist me, carrying a box full of printed handouts, etc, but for various reasons they were unable to attend, so it was left to me and Simone to handle the gig. Simone is a four-month-old black, Labrador retriever who is great with kids, but not very handy toting boxes and water bowls.
After spilling brochures, coloring books, and a water bowl in the school parking lot, Simone and I finally made it to the teacher’s lounge where we awaited our call along with a police officer, a water company employee, and a guy who sold cell phones, a university professor, a fireman, and several others from various professions. Everyone loved Simone, but voiced their concerns about “following a dog act.” I could understand their pain; if you show a kid a cell phone and a puppy, guess which one is going to get the most attention.
The school officials suggested I talk about: a) the kind of work the ADL does, b) other careers working with animals, c) educational requirements and subjects one would need for animal-related careers, and d) why the kids should stay in school. As I said, these were suggestions, not requirements, so I immediately threw them out the window. Instead, when I entered the first classroom—Mrs. Ramirez’s third-grade class—I held up the dog and said, “This is Simone, and her job is being a dog. How many of you would like to be a dog?” Nearly all the hands in the class shot up.
“Cool,” I said. “Being a dog is fairly easy, you have to now how to eat, pee, and play. I would guess that most of you already know how to do this.”
A loud chorus of “Yeahs” broke out, while Mrs. Ramirez eyed me suspiciously. I was tempted to take a bow and leave on a high note, but my devotion to duty got the better of me. Simone and I stayed, and I went through a 15-minute spiel about careers, education, and the behavior of pets. I don’t know how much of what I said was actually heard by the kids; their attention was riveted on Simone. They interrupted every few minutes with “Can we touch her.”
The last part of the presentation was the “question and answer period,” which is always fun for me. As I walked Simone around the classroom so the kids could pet her, tiny hands would rise. “Do you have a question? I would ask.
“Yes,” most of them would say. “I had a dog, but he got out of the yard and was hit by a truck,” was typical of the kind of questions I got.
“That’s a good question,” I would respond. “Anyone else have a question?”
“I have a Chihuahua, and it ate my sister’s bra.”
“Another excellent question,” I would say.
After all the kids got to pet Simone, I thanked them for allowing us to visit and then passed out some “activity books” filled with pictures to color and connect-a-dot puzzles.
Before we left, I said, “So kids, be sure to stay in school and read a lot of books, but if I were you, I’d give serious consideration to being a dog. A dog doesn’t have to have a job, pay taxes, get married, go to war, worry about changing fashions, or pay a mortgage. And, you can even eat a bra.
After that first presentation, the principal asked me to wait in the teacher’s lounge while Simone did the remaining four presentations by herself.

Hector's Revenge

2007-10-01T14:39:00.000-07:00

Captain Ulysses was reading “The Iliad” in his cabin aboard the steamship Delta Darlin’ when he was distracted by three sharp knocks at the door. “Cap’n, the fog is rollin’ in. You better get to the bridge.”
“Be there in a minute,” said Ulysses, setting the book aside, “You better go rouse the pilot.”
The captain swung his legs out of the bunk and stretched. “Jesus, would this trip never end?” he thought. “Ever since we took on the 12 tons of potatoes and the 20-foot zebra in St. Louis, we’ve had one problem after another. Please God, let this fog lift so I can get back home to Ithaca, Louisiana and my sweet wife Penelope.”
Arriving on the bridge, Ulysses noticed the new pilot, Hector, was at the wheel. Hector, from Troy, New York, had signed on in St. Louis as a last-minute replacement for Mr. Palamedes, who had jumped ship. The captain peered out the bridge window, straining to see what lay ahead on the river, but a wall of dark-grey vapor limited his viewing distance. About the only thing he could make out was the head of the massive zebra tied to the deck. The wooden animal was being shipped to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras celebration.
“What’s the situation pilot?” barked Ulysses.
“Sir, I suggest we anchor and ride it out. There are too many sand bars to navigate along this section of the river; we could run aground in this fog.”
“This is also a section of the river that is frequented by river pirates,” said the captain. “This voyage is cursed.” But Ulysses couldn’t risk being stranded on a sandbar for days. The Irish potatoes could rot, and he would lose his commission. “Very well pilot, drop anchor and see that guards are posted.”
As Ulysses returned to his cabin to wait out the fog, the zebra’s belly ruptured, oozing dark shapes of men onto the foredeck. The men assembled into a group and stealthily made their way to the bridge where Hector allowed them entry. “Where’s the captain?” asked a tall man in a black, knit cap.
Hector knew the man to be James Joyce, leader of The Dubliners, one of the most vicious pirate gangs on the Mississippi. “He’s in his cabin.”
“Good. Here’s your pistol Hector, now go get your revenge for that incident at Troy, and me and the boys will start unloading the potatoes.”

Nicknameless

2007-09-30T09:40:00.000-07:00

I have decided to eschew all the nicknames that have previously been hung on me in the past by friends and family and begin a search for one more appropriate to my age and author of weird stories.
Technically, “Mike” is a nickname for my real name, “Michael,” but it is hypocoristic in nature, and I would prefer my nickname to be less of a term of endearment and more of a sobriquet…a nice sobriquet.
When I was a child, my father gave me my first nickname. Dad flouted convention of the times and bypassed such names as “Sonny,” or “Junior,” or “Mikey” and went with “Shithead” instead. Thankfully, the name didn’t catch on with other family members.
During my grammar school years, I was occasionally called “Four eyes,” because I wore glasses. Unfortunately, this was considered a derogatory name, and I had to defend my pre-teen honor by means of fisticuffs.
In high school, I was a gifted athlete and fairly popular, and I acquired two new nicknames: “Hoodrow” and “Beaver.” The first was a play on my last name; the second is still a mystery to me. Once I left high school, I left the nicknames behind.
I didn’t have a nickname in college or the military although I secretly wanted one. Something such as “El Diablo” or “Dances With Wolverines” would have been nice.
When I began my writing career, I briefly considered a nom de plume but quickly abandoned the notion when a veteran journalist told me, “If you are going to write stuff, take ownership of it; don’t hide behind a pseudonym.” He was right, of course.
I didn’t get my next (and last) nickname until I was in my forties. My best friend Dan started calling me “Thug.” Now “Thug” is not a bad nickname if you happen to be a sports figure; it’s right up there with “The Assassin (Jack Tatum),” “The Brown Bomber (Joe Louis),” “The Executioner (Bernard Hopkins),” and “Mad Dog (Greg Maddux). However, Dan did not label me “Thug” because of my athletic prowess or nasty disposition, it is simply a synonym of my last name.
Today, besides “Thug,” which is used exclusively by my friend Dan, I have no nickname. I have a screen name I use on the web, “Emmuttmax,” but that doesn’t really count. That name is a combination of two of my dog’s names—Emmutt (a basset hound) and Max (a beagle)--both of whom have passed on.
I will keep Emmuttmax as my Internet name, but I really need a writerly nickname. The thing is though, according to the rules of nicknaming, I cannot choose my own nickname; it must be bestowed upon you by someone. One of my dogs, Pathetic Bob (who is also a writer) has a very cool nickname that was given him by my brilliant nephew Brian. Brian, however, refuses to recognize my brilliance as a writer and refuses to honor me with a cool literary nickname or sobriquet. Since I am a semi-proud guy, I refuse to plead with friends and family to come up with an appropriate nickname, so I am left nicknameless.
If one doesn’t come my way soon, I think I may revert to “Shithead;” it sort of fits with the kind of stories I write.

A Funny Thing

2007-09-27T07:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, The Eloquent Atheist published an essay I wrote titled "A Funny Thing Happened." If you would like to check it out, visit their website.

Eli's Going

2007-09-24T10:40:00.000-07:00

Eli raised his arms, threw his head back, and yelled into the sultry, summer night, “I’m in hell!”
“Actually, you’re not in hell, you’re in my backyard,” said Carmen. “Now sit the hell down Eli, you’re making an ass of yourself.”
Eli complied, and Carmen reached into the ice chest next to her lawn chair and pulled out a chilled wine cooler. “Here Eli, drink another cooler.”
As he reached for the peach-flavored wine, Carmen’s foot rose swiftly, the toe of her Doc Marten’s catching him on his chin, breaking his front tooth and sending him reeling backwards until he and the lawn chair he was sitting in landed in a mound of hours-old dachshund dung.
“Asshole,” Carmen remarked, “you didn’t tell me you were an existentialist. If I’d known that, I would have never slept with you. “

Publishing Update

2007-09-23T08:40:00.000-07:00

My story, "The Therapist's Apprentice," was published today on "Every Day Fiction." EDF is a webzine that sends out one story a day to subscribers. Check out their site (and my story) here.

Another story of mine, "The Guilt Trader," will be podcast by Drabblecast on Halloween.

"A Funny Thing Happened," a satirical article I wrote about religion and humor, will be published next week by "The Eloquent Atheist."

Stoned on Ferrets

2007-09-22T11:04:00.000-07:00

I got high on ferrets this morning. It was purely accidental; I am not an addict.
My doctor sent me to a phlebotomist to have some blood drawn (a nice pen and ink rendering), and on the way home, I stopped by the pet–supply store to pick up some dog and cat food. After I loaded the shopping cart with ridiculously expensive food, I made my way to the checkout counter, but was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a small horde of young ferrets romping around in a large Plexiglas enclosure.
Watching ferrets at play is mesmerizing, kinetic cuteness in wild abandon. I think ferret activity is synonymous with the word fun. Perhaps it is because a ferret’s lifespan is only about five to eight years that they try to cram as much joy and activity into every minute they have.
The enclosure in which they were housed was opened on top, and I couldn’t resist sticking my arm in and interacting with the six critters inside. They showed no fear and immediately flung themselves on my arm, clinging to it like rats on a rope. I began rubbing small, furry tummies, eliciting small squeaks of delight from the beady-eyed, pink-nosed land otters. To my astonishment, I discovered ferrets are natural phlebotomists. Diminutive, needlelike claws dug into my forearm, and tiny beads of blood popped through my skin, but I felt no pain. I believe those young balls of happiness were injecting some sort of ferret heroin into my bloodstream because the more I bled, the giddier I became. What a rush. Forty minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, drawing me out of my ferret-induced bliss.
“You want to buy a ferret?” said a skinny young man with a bad hairdo.
“Uh…” I stammered, “How much are they?”
“One hundred and twenty nine dollars,” he said.
As I thought about making the expenditure, another thought crowed in my brain. “My wife will kill me if a buy a ferret.” I told the clerk I’d have to think about it, and then asked if it would be Ok if I came back tomorrow for another fix.

Literary Lightbulbs

2007-09-20T07:55:00.000-07:00

The following comes from misscelania:

How many book publishers does it take to change a light bulb?
Three. One to change it and two to hold down the author.

How many editors does it take to change a light bulb?
"Do we have to get author's approval for this?"
Two, one to change the bulb and one to issue a rejection slip to the old bulb.

How many proofreaders does it take to change a light bulb?
Proofreaders aren't supposed to change light bulbs. They should just query them.

How many mystery writers does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Two. One to screw it in almost all the way in and the other to give it a suprising twist at the end.

How many writers does it take to change a light bulb?
Two. One to change the bulb and one to tell a long story about it.

How many literary critics does it take to change a light bulb?
Literary critics don't know how, but rest assured they'll find something wrong with the way you do it.

Griel Marcus Interview

2007-09-17T17:17:00.000-07:00

Powell's Books has an interesting interview with long-time chronicler of rock music and pop culture, Griel Marcus. I used to write a music column for an alternative newspaper, and Marcus was the icon I looked up to. The interview begins:

Describe your latest project.
The Shape of Things to Come: Prophecy and the American Voice: Through the moral and political rhetoric of John Winthrop, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King, America explained itself to itself as a field of promises so vast they could only be betrayed. The attempt to keep the promises — of community, liberty, justice, and equality, for all, because once let loose the genie could never be put back in the bottle — in the face of their betrayal became the engine of American history and the template for our national story.

Once this was the stuff of political speech; today, the real story is pursued in art: as I tell my part of the story, in the work of Philip Roth, Allen Ginsberg, David Lynch, in the faces and gestures of the actors Bill Pullman and Sheryl Lee, in the music of Corin Tucker's band Heavens to Betsy and of David Thomas, for more than thirty years the face of the band Pere Ubu. It's not a story where anyone ends up where he or she started out.

Candide's Puppy Accepted

2007-09-16T07:46:00.000-07:00

I just got word my story "Candide Gets a Puppy" has been accepted for publication by The Eloquent Atheist. The story is scheduled to appear next week.

Whispering Bob

2007-09-15T10:07:00.001-07:00

The dogs that live with me have been acting out a bit lately. Perhaps it’s my fault for slacking off in my position as leader of the pack, but that would be admitting weakness on my part. Admitting weakness is not a smart move when you live with a gang of canines; they will challenge your authority and possibly rip off your scrotum while you sleep. Since my scrotum is still useful, and I am quite attached to it, I decided to become more assertive and kick some ass and take some names.
I suppose I could have shelled out some money for lessons or books about obedience training, but I am saving up to buy a kit I found on the internet that supplies everything I need to make a flying-squirrel-powered airplane, and I need every penny. Instead, I turned to cable television to solve my problem.
After I cut the yard this morning, I didn’t feel much like writing, so I sat down, turned on the TV, and began flipping through all 4287 channels piped into my home. I paused for a few moments on ESPN24 to watch full-contact golf for a while, until I realized it was a rerun of a tournament I watched last month. My thumb was getting tired of pushing the buttons on the remote when I finally landed on a channel that held some promise, the National Geographic Channel. A program was just beginning called “The Dog Whisperer.”
I called out to Pathetic Bob, the Italian greyhound, to come in the room. “Look Bob,” I said, “it’s a program about another dog who can talk, just like you. Actually,” I corrected myself, “he can only whisper, but that’s pretty cool, too.”
Bob looked at the TV, and then back at me. “Em, you’re such a putz. I’ve seen this show before. It’s about a guy named Cesar who supposedly whispers to dogs and tries to get them to do what he wants. The thing is though, the guy never whispers; he just talks in a regular, Spanish-accented voice. And for your information, ink breath, Cesar says he doesn’t train dogs, he trains people and rehabilitates dogs.”
“I think I’ll watch it anyway,” I said.
“You’d just be wasting your time. I’ve already trained you, and I stopped smoking catnip last year, so I don’t need rehabilitating.”
I continued to watch “The Dog Whisperer,” and noticed Bob was right, about the whispering part. He talked in a normal tone of voice and used a lot of body language. I have to admit, he was pretty effective. There was a couple that had what looked like a Shetland pony with razor teeth and a bad attitude. It seems the horse-dog had bitten the left arm off a nine-year-old, neighborhood kid, robbed a savings and loan, pistol whipped a nun, and had a bad crack habit. They asked Cesar to come over and “rehabilitate” the dog so they wouldn’t have to call in the swat team. It was amazing to watch the whisperer work his magic. By the end of the program, the giant hellhound was washing the dishes, folding the laundry, visiting sick children in hospitals, and grooming the neighbor’s cat.
“This guy is amazing,” I told Bob. “I think I’m going to give him a call.”
“Jeez Em, you’re more gullible than the people who listen to right-wing talk radio. That “dog” was a digitized animation, probably created by that guy who made “Star Wars.” And that couple, they were actors. I’ve seen them before on “General Hospital.” It’s all fake Em. It’s TV. I think it’s an infomercial for Dog Whispering Incorporated. I read in Star magazine that Cesar gets $2,000 an hour to come to your house and intimidate your dog and tell you what a schmuck you are. But, hey, you know what’s best. It’s a shame though, I mean you were really looking forward to flying that squirrel plane.”
I thought about that for a moment. Bob was right; hiring Cesar would put a serious dent in my tree-rodent, aeronautical plans. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “if you start showing me a little more respect, I won’t sic Cesar on you, and I’ll even let you ride in the squirrel plane.”
“Sure, no problem Em. Now, switch back to the full-contact golf channel; I just love it when Tiger Woods beats the hell out of his caddy with a nine iron.

The Blood-Sucking Cheegle

2007-09-13T06:15:00.001-07:00

I’m being nibbled to death by a cheegle. At the moment there are 24 wounds on my wrists, fingers and forearms the tiny beast has inflicted. Blood oozes from four of them, but the remainder have clotted and are dressed in crusty sports coats. Although the wounds are not deep, when the cheegle’s sharp, little teeth sink into my flesh corpuscular fluid flows in copious amounts. I am slowly being bled to death.
The cheegle, who goes by the name of Lily, masquerades as a small, adorable puppy, is, in fact, a voracious vampire who attacks without provocation when I am trying to rest. As soon I stretch out on the bed for an afternoon nap and close my eyes, sweet Lily bounds up the steps next to the bed and jumps on my head. She then proceeds to attack my fingers. I curl my digits into my palms, and she digs for them for a while, finally giving up and attacking my wrists.
“No,” I yell, but it falls on deaf ears, well, on floppy, non-English-speaking ears. I push her away, but to her, it is only a gauntlet thrown down to challenge her persistence. She is relentless; I am defenseless. I play dead, and she finally retreats from her attack on my person and concentrates on making a small hole she has made in the blanket larger. With bloody hands, I fall into a cautious sleep, wondering if I will exsanguinate during my afternoon nap. In my dreams, I see the young, blond surfer dude I once was. When I wake, I see the chew toy I am now.

The Reading Brain

2007-09-12T07:29:00.000-07:00

Maryanne Wolf's new book, Proust and the Squid, offers some interesting insights into the art of reading. Here is what one reviewer had to say:

"Maryanne Wolf, a cognitive neruscientist and childhood reading research center director, offers an enchanting tale about the lore and science of reading through the ages. This history sets the stage for her remarkable overview of the discoveries of neuroscience about the reading brain. From her penetrating interpretation of Socrates critique of writing and defense of the oral tradition to her illumination of dyslexia in its manifold forms (informed by her experience of raising a dyslexic child), she educates, captivates, and enriches as she marshals insights and provocations from science, humanities, and the arts to explore the reading brain and defend the art of reading against the hazards of the Digital Age."

The Word Eater

2007-09-09T10:33:00.000-07:00

Barlow ate his words. Sometimes he would go to great lengths and lovingly prepare them with tasty sauces made of the ripest adverbs or aged adjectives. Preparation time would not be rushed so the flavor of each letter could be coaxed out and blended with the others in a savory olio. On these occasions, Barlow would uncork a bottle of his favorite sharps and flats, let it sit for a half hour while he plated his expressive meal, and then pour a glass of music to moisten his palate and aid in word digestion.
There were other times when Barlow could not delay his hunger, and he would randomly pick a book off a shelf and stuff his face like he was eating a bag of potato chips. His cheeks would puff with salty verbs and crisp nouns.
Barlow began eating words when he was nine-years-old. His parents bought him a set of encyclopedias, and one day, he nibbled the “ed” off the word “waited.” From that small beginning, Barlow developed a taste for morphemes such as “the,” or “write,” or “man,” and would pop them into his mouth whenever hunger struck.
In high school, Barlow began to broaden his palate; he dined on nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, conjunctions, modifiers and pronouns as often as possible. He learned French and Spanish and delighted at the flavors masculine and feminine articles could bring out in words. But, it wasn’t until he enrolled in college that Barlow’s etyomological pursuits blossomed into an epicurean obsession.
Barlow enrolled at the University of Texas as an English major. He soon discovered his favorite subjects were Literary Theory and Creative Writing. In the literary theory course, a new world opened up to him, a world of neologisms and the portmanteau. His theory professors unlocked secret recipes and offered up rare delicacies reserved for a cadre of intellectuals and competitive theorists. He wandered through the gourmet kitchens of the academic elite tasting delicious sophistry, philosophy, pseudo-expressions and nonce words, never missing an opportunity to nosh and nibble at the kitchen table. Some of the offerings were hard to swallow, but Barlow found that with a healthy swig of bubbling water, he could get even the most distasteful lexemes down.
The word eater also took classes in foreign languages to broaden his lexicon. He mastered Greek, Latin, Russian, German, Chinese, Chinese and Arabic, adding grams to his brain weight with each new dictionary. His head began to swell.
The words Barlow had eaten served him well as a writer. By age 20 he had turned out a 700-page novel, by 23, a non-fiction text on 13th-century vocabularians. He would lace his work with new words, words he coined to fit his thoughts; they proved to be the most tasty he had ever eaten.
In his last year of grad school, while completing his thesis, Barlow the word eater suffered a massive brain injury. The Finnish and Icelandic languages proved to be his undoing. His thesis, “Culinary Linguistics of Frigid People,” required that he learn those languages. A three–month diet of alphabets with strange, pointed letters surrounded by dots and squiggles tore several blood vessels in his brain, and it began to hemorrhage. Syntax began to leak from his ears, half-chewed Finnish surnames ran blood-red from his nose, and he fell into a coma. An international team of respected linguistic professors was flown in to try to resuscitate him, but their mission ended in failure. Barlow died.
At Barlow’s funeral, his younger brother Chet delivered the eulogy. Obviously distraught, Chet stepped to the podium and said, “There are no words to express our sorrow.”

(c) 2007

The 100 Most Infuential Books Ever Written

2007-09-07T07:26:00.000-07:00

Interesting chronological list of the books that had the greatest influence on the world. The oldest? I Ching.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/100_Most_Influential_Books_Ever_Written

A Bird In The Brain Pool

2007-09-06T05:54:00.000-07:00

For the past two days, I've had a mind fungus growing. Although its medicinal properties may have helped prevent unwanted bacteria from running amok in my frontal lobe, the fungus seems to be interfering with the small, creative-juice pool in my cranium. It is running dry.

Since I try, for the most part, to post original content on this blog, I am desperate for material. In the past, when I've fallen into a creative slump, I have resorted to posting pictures of the dogs and cat that live with me. It is a cheap, yet effective, way to offer visitors a snack when I'm too tired to prepare a meal. So it is today.

I found the little bird pictured in this post in my backyard. It could not yet fly, and Sophie and Lily were barking at it. There are a lot of large trees in my yard, and I could not determine from where the bird fell, so I made a nest for it and filled it with grass, bird seed and water, hoping its mother would somehow rescue it. I put it on the picnic table so the dogs would leave it alone, and then went back into the house and let nature take its course. A couple hours later, I checked on the bird, and it was gone. A happy ending, I hoped. About 15 minutes later, Catherine the cat delivered the dead little bird to me as a present. Is it just Catherine's nature to kill, or is she evil? The question is not unlike that I ask about man. I think the real question might be, "Do I care?"

Candide Gets A Puppy

2007-09-03T14:34:00.001-07:00

Eight years had passed since Voltaire abandoned Candide, his wife Cunégonde and their companions on a small farm not too distant from Constantinople to “cultivate the garden.” Cunégonde had grown uglier both of countenance and temperament, and Dr. Pangloss, as hard as he tried, could not free himself of the philosophical pursuit of the nature of good and evil and the best of all possible worlds. Old Martin, the philosophical Mr. Hyde to Pangloss’ Dr. Jekyll, would tend the radishes, beets and the olive trees with care and pessimism, quite sure each harvest would be ruined by unforeseen devastation.
The old woman, daughter of Pope Urban X, still served the household as Cunégonde’s lady in waiting and keeper of the linens, but her missing left buttock and the infirmaries of old age had slowed her considerably and added to her ill temper.
Cacambo, Candide’s steadfast traveling companion and confidante had grown weary of hauling produce to the markets in Constantinople, and his lust for adventure was beginning to rise. He dreamt of red sheep and El Dorado.
Brother Girofleé, the ex-clergyman tuned Turk and his on-again-off-again paramour, Pacquette, the winsome whore, remained at the farm and settled into roles as tempestuous lovers and garden tenders. Although they found delight at the bounty the earth offered up, the sordid and dangerous lives they once led would, seductively call to them with regularity.
The noble Candide--witness of horrors, victim of church and state, seeker of truth, and man of his word—had thrown himself headlong into the agricultural world, for it was there, in nature, he found the simple cause-and-effect that had eluded him in his illusionary search for understanding. “The truth is in the dirt,” he would often say to his companions. But, Candide had forgotten his nature; Voltaire had created him to be naïve, and naïve he was. Truth, he would soon find out, was not in the dirt.
Candide was naïve, but he was not stupid. His mind may have been in the vegetables and fruits that thrived on his farm, but his ears would rise above the stalks and stems and vines and he would hear the complaints and regrets floating on moist breezes that cooled the garden. He loved his dear companions; they, like he, had suffered greatly in the past, and he wished them the peace and comfort the dirt had brought him. Before the dissatisfaction of those around him grew too strong, Candide decided to seek advice from the famous dervish who lived in the neighborhood. Although the dervish had once rebuffed Dr. Pangloss for his questions about good and evil and pre-established harmony, Candide had come to realize the wisdom of his neighbor’s actions.
“Master,” said Candide, “the people on my farm grow restless. Weeds of disharmony are springing up in the good soil, and my companions are unsatisfied with the truth in dirt.”
The old dervish bade Candide to enter his inner chamber and had his daughter bring them mint tea. Murriado the dervish stroked his long, white beard stared reflectively at Candide. At last he spoke. “There is no truth in dirt,” he said. “Dirt is dirt. Although I suppose asking people to believe in dirt makes more sense than asking them to believe in invisible people, dirt is still dirt, and it won’t speak any truths to you. In fact, there are no truths, only illusions.”
“But master, if there are no truths, how can one be truly happy, how can they be satisfied?”
“There are only two ways to accomplish that goal,” said the old man, with a smile. “First, believe in illusions.”
“And the second?” asked Candide.
“Get a puppy.”
As Candide walked back to his farm, cradling an eight-week-old beagle in his arms, he thought, “Voltaire, you just gotta love him.”

(c) 2007

Cat Saves Dog: News at 11:00

2007-09-01T15:22:00.000-07:00

I am hesitant to call the cat that lives with me a hero. “Hero” is a term that has been tossed around way too much this century; it seems that anyone who puts on a uniform of any kind is automatically bequeathed the honorific these days, deservedly or not. The feline that roams my house and backyard is indeed a fine animal, but she is also a serial killer of lizards, birds, and other small creatures that come across her path. She may be a Heroine or a Horror, depending on the illusions of the one doing the observing, but last night I observed her performing rather nicely as a puppy rescuer.
A little after 11:00 last night, I took the dogs outside for their pre-slumber evacuations. Pathetic Bob, Judy, Lily and Sophie circled the deck around the pool in search of he perfect spot pee. Bob and Sophie, unable to find suitable pee spots, wandered down stairs and widened their search into the surrounding gardens. I relaxed in an Adirondack chair, smoking a cigarette, while the dogs leisurely preformed their nightly business. Cat came by, and Lily, the little dog, pounced on her for their nightly wrestling match. Cat lets Lily win a few rounds, and then soundly kicks her tiny little ass. It was a good night in River City.
When the last of the carcinogenic smoke passed my lips, I stood up and called for everyone to reassemble in the house. Bob, Judy, Lily and Cat filed in the patio door, but Sophie was AWOL. After several stern calls from me, Sophie had still not returned so I began a search. It didn’t take long for me to hear Sophie’s trademark whine emanating from beneath the deck between the house and the pool. Although I had put up basket-weave fencing around the bottom of the deck to prevent canine ingress, over the years, it has yielded in places (especially behind the ivy), and the curious animals occasionally crawl under the deck in pursuit of whatever they happen to be pursuing.
After locating Sophie, I located the place she entered the under-deck and tried to call her over. It didn’t work. I got a flashlight and shined it through the spaces in the boards, hoping to guide her to the exit. She didn’t follow. Thirty minutes of coaxing later, it was apparent she was not going to follow me, so I had to move a very large pot and pull up a 16-foot, 2x6 deck plank. I could see Sophie, but she would not come to the opening. Picking up the crowbar, I tore up another plank. More whining, but no Sophie. Finally, she showed her cute little head, but when I tried to grab her and lift her out, she scampered away. “Goddamnit Sophie,” I said in the nicest possible way, “I’m not going to tear up the whole deck to get you out.” Sophie just whined.
About this time, Cat came strolling over and looked down into the opening. She then looked at me as if to say, “What’s the problem?” and jumped down under the deck. As I was getting ready to pull up yet another board in hopes of retrieving both the dog and Cat, Sophie came bounding up the stairs on the other side of the deck and ran inside. Cat came over to me and said, “Why didn’t you call on me first, that dog will follow me anywhere. Have fun rebuilding the deck, I’m going to bed.”

Review: The Water Cure

2007-08-31T07:34:00.000-07:00

Click here for an interesting review of Percival Everett's new novel The Water Cure.

Here is an excerpt from Jim Krusoe's excellent review:

"The narrator of The Water Cure is a man whose 11-year-old daughter has been raped and killed. He now is in the process of torturing her murderer, but this, as they say, is only the tip of the iceberg. True, as a subject it's plenty disturbing in itself, but through a variety of devices -- including drawings, mini-lectures on language, philosophy, politics, theology and nature, and even excerpts from a romance novel called "The Gentle Storm" -- Percival Everett has made his new novel much more than a simple horror show or self-righteous rant."

The Great Swaddling Debacle

2007-08-29T14:39:00.000-07:00

Virginia is depressed. It seems apparent to her that the years and money she put into fashion-design school and starting her own line would soon be wasted unless Christians came to their senses and borderline psychos lost more of theirs.
After graduating in the top of her class at from the Raymondo Dior School of Fashion in Topeka, Kansas, Virginia took the inheritance her grandmother had left her, borrowed some more money from her parents, and took her dreams and designs to Kansas City to break into the big time fashion world. She prayed about her fashion future a lot and felt with money and God behind her, success would be in front of her.
Virginia’s business plan included the knowledge that about 90 percent of Americans were Christians, and Satan was spreading a lot of mental illness around to try and destroy them. Vowing to use her design gifts for a higher purpose, Virginia prayed some more and was rewarded with a divine inspiration: swaddling clothes. A voice came to her in the night and said, “Virginia, make some swaddling clothes.”
When Virginia arrived in Kansas City, she rented a small studio and set about creating a line of swaddling clothes she felt sure the country would embrace. Of course, she began with baby clothes because swaddling babies was a biblical tradition; what better endorsement could swaddling clothes have than Jesus himself? Virginia worked day and night sketching her visions of modern swaddles; she even produced styles such as punk, hip-hop, redneck and neo-Arabic. However, Virginia didn’t limit herself to designing baby swaddles, she decided to bring swaddling clothes into haute couture. Gold lame, silk, velvet, linen, seersucker and cheap polyester were but a few of the materials she stitched and sewed and puckered and hemmed in an effort to create new, young, hip, old-testament fashion for a modern world.
Since the word swaddling also means, “to restrict,” Virginia, in order to broaden her chances at financial success, started a line of institutional swaddles she felt would replace straightjackets. The rise in Satan-caused mental illness had increased the demand for restrictive garments for lunatics, and Virginia felt being embraced by a terrycloth swaddle would have a more calming effect on the insane and make it easier for them to find Jesus.
After months of preparation, Virginia opened a retail store in the Big Corn Shopping Mall and hired a sales manager named Sammy Dandy to handle the institutional part of the business. She named her store “Swaddles” and took out ads in the Kansas City Star to promote the grand opening.
That was three months ago. Since that time, the inventory at Swaddles has only diminished by two baby-swaddling outfits and one swaddling chemise (which was sold to an S&M transvestite). The institutional line fared worse. On his first, and last, sales call, as Sammy Dandy was demonstrating the terry-cloth, lunatic swaddle, he was viciously attacked by a schizophrenic patient named Mr. Cheese, and had his ear bitten off. Mr. Cheese thought Sammy was Satan.
So, Virginia is depressed. She knows she is going to have to close her store and pack her dreams, but she also knows there is hope. She’s been praying a lot, and the other night, the same voice came to her and said, “Swimming suits for dogs.”

Orwell On Writing

2007-08-27T07:37:00.000-07:00

I ran across this essay by George Orwell. In it, he discusses his motives for writing and what and what he believes all writers face.

Excerpt:

"I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:

"1. Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen—in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all—and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.

"2. Æsthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.

"3. Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

"4. Political purpose.—Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude."

The Barleyville Baseball Incident

2007-08-26T18:22:00.000-07:00

Robbie Stockbreath was a godsend to coach Edwin Nardlinger’s little-league baseball team. The kid was a 10-year-old phenom. The team, the Barleyville Rangers, had played four games so far this season, and Robbie had gotten a hit every time she came up to bat. Eleven of the hits had been home runs. But, young Miss Stockbreath’s prowess on the diamond was not limited to swinging the bat; she could rifle the ball into home plate from center field, run the bases with exceptional speed, and in two appearances as the team pitcher, she had not allowed a hit. With the 81-pound, 4 foot, 10 inch, blond-haired, blue-eyed baseball wizard on his team, Coach Ed had hopes they would win the district playoffs and maybe, just maybe, the Little League World Series in Cooperstown would be in their future.
The Rangers were in first place in the league going into today’s game against the Logan’s Ferry Lizards, last year’s district champions coached by Saul Persimmon, the county prosecutor and Coach Ed’s second cousin on his mother’s side. Ed disliked his cousin. Even as a child, he found Persimmon to be an odious, unethical, lying little scumbag, and the prosecutor had done little in the intervening years to alter that opinion. It was rumored he had railroaded more than one innocent man onto death row at the state prison. Coach Ed also didn’t like the way his cousin’s team played ball. He felt they played dirty, tried to hurt opposing teams by throwing at them. With Robbie in the lineup, Ed was sure his team would clobber the Lizards today.
While the kids were warming up, Coach Ed sat in the dugout filling out the starting lineup for the game. He decided to start Robbie in center field, and then move her to the pitcher’s mound in the third inning. In this league, pitchers could only pitch a maximum of four innings, and he wanted Robbie to close the game strong. Her fielding skills should prevent any long balls from driving in runs, and once on the mound, he didn’t think the other team would be able to get wood on the ball.
Coach Persimmon was starting his son Starmo as the Lizard’s pitcher. The kid was good, with an earned run average of 1.2. At 5 foot 10 inches and weighing 198 pounds, the hulk-child would usually dominate the smaller players with his fastballs and curves. He was also a terror with the bat, but his fielding was not impressive. He was 12-years-old, and already had a gut that hung over his belt like a tired dog. That made him slow.
The head umpire blew a whistle, and the kids came off the field for last minute instructions from their coaches and the flip of a coin to see which team would bat first.
The Lizards won the toss and headed to their dugout while the Rangers took the field. Coach Ed started Chico Escuela III on the mound, and he told the boy to relax and “keep it in the strike zone.”
The first Lizard batter, Davy Minnow, went down swinging on three consecutive pitches. Batter number two, Chad Vlad, connected on an outside slider, but it was easily fielded by second baseman Sud Nord, and Vlad was thrown out at first. Escuela retired the side on the next pitch when Doug Church fouled a pop-up down the first base line, and Stallworth “Stally” Chance, cradled it in his glove.
The Rangers first inning at bat was not much better. Starmo struck out the first batter, Stally Chance was hit by an inside pitch and got on base, but Peter Ming grounded into a double play.
In the top of the second inning, Starmo, the clean-up hitter, came to the plate. His beady-eyed, pit-bull face seemed to unnerve Escuela, and he served up a floater across the plate. Starmo jumped on it and smashed a long fly ball out to center field. The ball’s trajectory looked like it would take it over the fence, but at the last moment, Robbie Stockbreath leaped high into the air and snagged it with one hand. Starmo had already rounded first when he saw the girl’s amazing catch. He took off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and stomped his feet. Good sportsmanship was not one of his strong suits. When he got back to the dugout, he sat on the bench and pouted. The next two batters were both thrown out at first.
As the Lizards were taking the field, Coach Persimmon grabbed his son and whispered in his ear. The boy got a devilish smile on his face and trotted out to the pitcher’s mound.
“Here we go,” thought Coach Ed Nardlinger. Robbie Stockbreath was first up, and she hadn’t missed getting a hit yet. Starmo stared her down, then wound up and threw a screaming fastball on the inside. Robbie jumped back as the ball narrowly missed her, and the umpire called, “Ball one.” Starmo figured he had her scared now, so he aimed another fastball at the outside corner. Robbie watched calmly as the pitch went by, missing the outside corner by inches. “Ball two,” the umpire called. Back on the mound, Starmo was getting a little frustrated. He caught the ball returned by the catcher, kicked the dirt around the mound, and tried to settle down. He stared down the alley again and shook off a called slider from the catcher. “No,” thought Starmo, “this little girt is going to get a curve ball.” The ball left the pitcher’s hand and started breaking right. By the time it reached home place it was high and two feet inside. Robbie had to dive in the dirt or she would have had her chin busted. “Ball three,” said the umpire.
Coach Ed came out of the dugout and protested to the umpire that the pitcher was trying to throw at Robbie. Saul Persimmon came rushing over and said, “Bull.” Starmo stood on the mound picking his nose, and Robbie calmly stood up and waited for the next pitch. The umpire issued a warning to Starmo, and his dad walked out to the mound. He put his arm around his son and said, “Remember what I told you, girls have no place in baseball. Now, do what needs to be done.”
“But dad,” Starmo protested.
“But dad nothing, this little girl is not going to beat us. Now, do what I told you.”
Coach Persimmon returned to the dugout, and Starmo nervously began his pre-pitch ritual: wiping the ball on his pants, touching his cap, and loosening his shoulders. Robbie stepped into the batter’s box showing no emotion. She stood there at ease and took a couple of practice swings, staring at Starmo the whole time.
Before starting his wind-up, hulk-boy looked over at his dad, who nodded to him. Starmo locked his eyes on Robbie, wound his arm, kicked his left leg high in the air, and let loose with a blistering fastball. He put every ounce of his strength into the throw, and when the ball left his hand, the heft behind the pitch carried him forward and he fell face down in the dirt.
Robbie picked up the trajectory of the ball, but it was traveling at such speed, by the time she determined it would arrive high and inside, it was already there. A loud crack of hard leather on plastic rang out as the baseball smashed against Robbie’s helmet, just above her ear. Silence exploded in the ballpark, and all eyes turned towards home plate. For a moment, no one moved; the sight of Robbie’s little body standing in the batter’s box still holding the bat stunned them. Her head was dangling down her right side, stopped at her elbow an assortment of wires and tubes tenuously attached to her neck. Coach Ed shook off his disbelief and ran to her. A lone cry went up from the stands. “Oh God,” yelled Dr. Berk Stockbreath, Robbie’s father, as he shoved people out of his way trying to get to his daughter.
By this time, Starmos Persimmon had picked himself up off the ground, and when he looked at the batter’s box, he wailed in a high-pitched voice, “Oh Jesus, I killed her, I killed her.” Starmos turned and ran towards left field where he jumped the fence and tore down Cutter Street screaming in terror.
When Ed Nardlinger reached Robbie, he fell to his knees. He wasn’t sure what to do; he grabbed her wrist to see if she had a pulse. The umpire stood by mute, an awed expression on his face. When Coach Ed pulled Robbie’s arm toward him, it caused her head to swing around towards the front of her torso, directly in front of him. Robbie’s eyes opened and stared at him. Before Ed could react, Berk Stockbreath arrived and gently cradled Robbie’s head in his arms. “It’s Ok baby, don’t worry,” he told her.
Dr. Stockbreath turned to Coach Ed and said, “Can someone go to my car and get my bag out of the trunk?” Before Ed could answer, Todd Mogger, the umpire, stammered, “Uh…I’ll go.” The doctor tossed him the keys, and the returned his attention to his daughter. Ed told his assistant coaches, Brad Nurn, Betty Nolan and Lionel Mason, to keep people away and have someone call EMS. Dr. Stockbreath quickly countermanded Ed’s order, “No EMS, I can take care of this.”
“But her head’s been knocked off, she could die,” said Ed incredulously.
“Please coach, I’m a doctor, I can take care of this.”
“But she could bleed to death.”
“She won’t bleed to death. Do you see any blood?”
Coach Ed looked over Robbie’s body and the ground surrounding it. He hadn’t noticed before, but there was no blood. Her uniform was wet on the left side, but it looked like sweat stains. “This is nuts,” he said. “What is happening?”
Before he got an answer, Todd the umpire arrived with the doctor’s bag. Stockbreath opened it and retrieved a few odd-looking tools and ointments. “Coach Nardlinger,” said Dr. Stockbreath, “I want you to hold Robbie’s head for a few minutes while I work on her neck.”
Ed was flying on autopilot and did what was asked. He gently took the girl’s head from her father and gingerly held it in his hands. He almost fumbled it when he heard her whisper, “Don’t worry coach, it’s gonna be Ok.”
“Ok,” he said, but he was thinking, “This is not real. This has got to be one of those deals where I’ll wake up shortly and puke last night’s clams into the toilet bowl.”
As Stockbreath worked on Robbie’s neck, the girl’s blue eyes would flicker occasionally. Her lips twitched once. Finally, Dr. Stockbridge told Ed, “Ok Ed, now help me lift her head and place it on her neck.”
Ed had little choice but to do what he was asked. Interestingly, as they placed Robbie’s head back on her neck, Ed noticed there was a clean break where the head had detached. In fact, there seemed to be a gasket lining her neck and head. The skin was torn, of course, but it didn’t look like torn skin. Once the head was in place, Dr. Stockbreath pulled out what appeared to be a small caulking gun and ran a bead of opaque material around Robbie’s neck. Suddenly, her eyes opened again, and she spoke. “Thanks dad, I think everything’s fine now.”
Saul Persimmon came charging through the crowd that had circled the girl about ten yards out. He was yelling, “Forfeit, this game is a forfeit. They lose. This girl is a robot, and robots are not allowed in baseball. Nardlinger, you son of a bitch, you thought you could get away by using a robot ringer, didn’t you? Well, that just ain’t gonna fly. You lose, we win.”
Dr. Berk Stockbreath stepped in front of Persimmon, “She’s not a robot,” he stated.
“Blow it out your blowhole, Stockbreath,” shouted Saul Persimmon. “I know what I saw. She’s a damned robot. Look at her, she’s a freak.”
Coach Ed had heard enough from his loudmouth cousin. “Saul, shut up. Leave that girl alone.”
Robbie Stockbreath walked over to Coach Ed’s side. “It’s Ok coach, really.” She turned to face Coach Persimmon. “I’m not a robot Mr. Persimmon, I’m a PHIIL, a Post Human Intelligent Integrated Life-form. I carry human genes and brain cells as well as microchips and solenoids. I may not be fully human, but I’m not inhuman either. I think, feel, hope, dream, smell, taste and I love playing baseball. As far as I know, there aren’t any rules about PHIILs playing baseball.”
Chico Escuela III, Stally Chance, Peter Ming and the rest of Robbie’s teammates came up and stood behind her. They said in unison, “Yeah.”
Coach Ed turned to Todd the umpire for a ruling. Todd shrugged his shoulders and dug out the rulebook from his back pocket. The crowd was hushed as Todd leafed through the book. After several minutes, Todd announced, “There’s nothing in here about no PHIILs. The rules don’t even say anything about robots either.”
The Barleyville Rangers let out a cheer. Most of the people in the crowd followed suit. Todd the umpire yelled, “Play ball.” Saul Persimmon screamed, “This is crap. We’re not playing, and I’m going to sue.”
“Forfeit,” said Todd. “Rangers win.”
Later that afternoon, Starmo Persimmon was found crying hysterically at a Krispy Kreme donut shop. A month later, his mother Laura filed for divorce from Saul and is getting the boy the help he needs.
Saul Persimmon was indicted two months later on charges aggravated weaseling and supplying steroid to his son. All of the cases he prosecuted since his time in office are under official revue.
The Barleyville Rangers went on to become district champs and advanced to the little-league regional finals. Coach Ed Nardlinger’s dream of a trip to Cooperstown for the Little League World Series was dashed when the Rangers lost the regionals to a team from Roswell, New Mexico that went on to win the Series. There was some controversy when it was found that the Roswell team’s all-star third baseman was, in fact, a Kraykax from the outer moon of Celtius 6. The losing team sued, and the case was taken before the United States Supreme Court, where it was unanimously decided the rules of baseball did not prevent alien life forms from participating in the sport and order the little-league commissioner to change the name “World Series” to “Intergalactic Series.”
Robbie Stockbreath did not compete in little-league baseball he following season. After the incident at the Lizards vs. Rangers game, Dr. Berk Stockbreath decided to re-build his daughter into a 24-year-old young woman. These days, Robbie now plays quarterback for the St. Louis Rams professional football team and serves as the spokeswoman for BAPOP (the ‘Bots Androids and PHIILs Alliance for Peace.)
As for Chico Escuela II, baseball been berry, berry good to him.

.

Barry Eats Sheep

2007-08-26T13:03:00.000-07:00

Last week, I started old school, and tomorrow, my first homework assignment is due for my class in memoir writing. I’ve already completed the assignment, and anticipate a fairly decent grade, but I’m worried about my classmate Barry.
Barry is 81 years old, and up until 11 years ago, he was in the poultry technology field for more than 50 years. He says he is gay even though he has never had sex with a man…or a woman. His statement made me a little wary, so I asked him if he had had sex with a chicken. He assured me that that was not—nor would it ever be—the case. I dropped the subject.
I’m worried about Barry not because of his gayness, but because I think he might receive an F on his homework assignment. Our teacher asked us to write about our favorite childhood foods. After class, Barry confided in me that he wasn’t very keen on revisiting his childhood and recalling the slaughter in which he participated. “You see,” Barry told me, “I was raised by wolves.”
Now, I was raised by a military officer, and I don’t think being raised by wolves could be any more traumatic than that, but Barry insists he will be ridiculed and persecuted if he puts down on paper the somewhat grizzly meals he consumed as a child. “I just know that other people are going to write about fried chicken, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and stuff like that,” said Barry. He looked around to make sure no one else was listening, and said, “You know, Em, I wish I could have eaten that kind of stuff, but mostly what my parents gave me was raw, bloody sheep. Damn, to this day, I can’t even wear a wool sweater.”
“Well,” I told Barry, “why don’t you just write that you liked mutton as a child, even if it is a lie.”
“Oh, I couldn’t lie.”
“Ok…uh…I’m sure you probably ate something else besides sheep once in a while; there must have been something you liked.”
“Well…yeah,” said Barry with a guilty look on his face. “There were a few treats.”
“Then write about them,” I suggested.
“I don’t think people would understand Em. I mean wolves have different appetites than humans.”
“How bad could it be Barry? People eat animals all the time.”
“I’ll tell you, but you got to keep this to yourself, Ok?”
“Sure Barry, no problem. I think you’re blowing this way out of proportion, but go ahead.”
“Well, when I was a kid my favorite things to eat were aliens.”
I just sort of stared at Barry, thinking Alzheimer’s hat set in. “Aliens?”
“Yeah, the wolf pack I lived with was based in the hills of southern New Mexico. About once a month or so, dad and my uncles would go out for a sheep kill, and as they were stalking, they’d run across and illegal alien who had gotten lost. He didn’t stand a chance. It was sure a great change of pace from sheep, and I always got the ankle.”
I think class tomorrow is going to be real interesting.

The Big, Huge Thesaurus

2007-08-24T08:11:00.000-07:00

A reader passed along a link to The Big, Huge Thesaurus. This site is based on source data from the Princeton University WordNet database, the Carnegie Mellon Pronouncing Dictionary, and suggestions from thousands of people on the internet.
It is filled with synonyms, antonyms, rhymes, writing prompts and blog-post suggestions.

The Surprising Un-Surprise Birthday Party

2007-08-23T13:23:00.000-07:00

A bellicose parrot thundered in my right ear, “Try the damn fajitas.” Startled, I reflexively stepped to the left, which caused me to make full-body contact with a waitress named Sula, who was carrying a tray laden with bowls of hot, steaming chicken caldo. Sula went down hard, and the soup she was transporting took a northwest trajectory, landing on a party of four sheriff’s deputies, causing first-degree burns on one of the deputy’s fireplug biceps. This was not the sort of entrance I wished to make at my birthday dinner at Cantina Felipe.
I was unscathed, but I could feel accusatory eye darts fired in my direction. “It wasn’t me,” I explained desperately, “The bird yelled at me, and I got scared.” My excuse did not seem to be playing well; I doubt it was even heard over the howling of the napalmed deputy. I helped Sula off the floor as Manuel, the assistant manager, called EMS to transport the lawman to a local hospital. I was looking around for my party when one of the uninjured deputies approached me with malice and asked for my identification. “You’re in a heap of trouble boy,” he snarled.
I was both terrified and flattered. I felt I was about to be sucked into the nightmare of our legal system, but today I was 61, and he had called me “boy.” As I slowly reached for my wallet and ID, a young girl, about six-years-old, came up and said to the cop, “I saw it. I saw what happened, and it was the bird’s fault. That’s a mean bird, he scares me.”
The deputy smiled at the little girl, frowned at me, and then stared at the parrot. The bird just bobbed its head. By this time, the clamor had begun to die down in the restaurant, and relative calm was being re-established. It appeared the lawman might dismiss the incident and send me on my way when Pathetic Bob walked out from one of the small banquet rooms. “Jeez Em, where the hell have you been? Everybody’s waiting on you. They won’t let me have any food ‘til you get here,” he complained. “Who is this cop?”
I hadn’t realized my wife had invited the dog to my surprise party that was not really a surprise party but had become a surprise party after all. “Never mind Bob,” I quickly responded, hoping to get him out of the deputy’s presence, “Why don’t you just go back into the room, and I’ll be along shortly.”
“Is that your dog?” asked the cop.
“Well, he lives with me, but he’s his own dog,” I tried to explain.
As I launched into a further explanation about it being my birthday and the unsurprised-surprise party, the little girl went over to Bob and starting petting him. “Have you washed your hands?” he asked her. She giggled.
I was talking to the deputy, the girl was talking to Bob, Bob was talking to the girl, and the parrot was bobbing and weaving like a professional boxer. As the officer finally handed my ID back to me, Bob came up and said to him, “I think you ought to arrest that bird. The kid told me what the bird did. It’s a menace, take it away.”
“Bob, I don’t think…”
“To hell with that Em. I’m fed up with birds getting away with everything. They need to be held accountable. Every time I go out on the deck at home, birds gangs fly by and drop poop bombs on me. I’m sick of it. This city locks up dogs and cats just for wandering around not hurting anyone, but birds, they get away with any damn thing they want to do.”
The deputy looked Bob, then back at me. “Are you a ventriloquist?” he asked.
I laughed nervously. “Uh, yeah. I was just fooling around, you know, I was entertaining the little girl. Look sir, I really appreciate your understanding. I’m gonna take Bob, and we’re going to go have a nice birthday dinner. I hope your friend will be Ok.”
I picked Bob up and headed towards the banquet room, but before we had gone two steps, he turned around and yelled at the parrot, “We’re gonna have chicken!”

Swimming With Owls

2007-08-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

In August of 1863, an 18-yera-old boy named Rene Poupier was swimming in the ocean by the small village of Cusionairre in Southern France. Like his father before him, Rene was an owl tender, and he had developed quite a reputation for his innovative methods of owl husbandry. In the late afternoons, as his owls slept, dreaming of field mice and Lycanthrope moons, it was Rene’s custom to spend an hour in the salt water propelling his muscular body back and forth along the natural harbor around which the village was built. As he swam, Rene too dreamt. His dreams contained no rodents or astral bodies; they consisted mainly of ocean leviathans, gold-dust maidens, and cities heard of but unseen.
Villagers would often stand on rocky outcroppings and watch the young man smoothly cut thought the sea. Some would say, “That boy should have been a dolphin.” Other might exclaim, “The owl man is in the sea again. I wonder if he is planning on teaching his birds to swim.”
Unbeknownst to the villagers Rene had, in fact, already tried to teach his owls to swim two years ago. The experiment had ended in failure and the death of one of the birds. He had mourned the bird for months and vowed never to try such a risky venture again.
On that August day, Rene had been in the water for about 40 minutes, and as usual, a few village spectators lined the edge of the cove observing his effortless progress from one side to the other and back again. As Rene approached the southernmost end of his swim and was about to make his turn, his rhythmic glide broke, and he seemed to be struggling. Manush, the village idiot who was a regular spectator cried, “Look, his rhythmic glide is broken and he seems to be struggling.”
Others rushed to where Manush was standing, and moments after they arrived, they witnessed the young man disappear below the surface. “What should we do?” asked Pierre the net maker. “What can we do?” said Maud, the tobacconist’s wife.
The small group of villagers debated for several minutes about a plan of action, but before they could reach a decision, Rene broke the surface, gasping for air. The villagers shouted cries of relief, and Manush gingerly climbed down the lichen-encrusted rocks and pulled Rene to safety. The idiot gently hoisted the owl tender over his shoulders, scaled the outcropping, and then laid Rene on the well-worn path.
As Rene lay there breathing heavily, the villagers closed in, inspecting him for signs of damage. And, they found some. Rene’s body was covered with what appeared to be small bites and bruises. Tiny rivulets of blood rolled down the side of his legs and arms, and there was a nasty bruise on his left cheek.
When his breathing had returned to normal, the villagers asked Rene, “What happened? Did a shark attack you?”
“No,” replied Rene, “It seems I was attacked by mollusks. There were hundreds of small clams nipping at me and dragging me down. I was sure I was going to die.”
“How did you get away?” asked Maud.
“Just as my oxygen was almost depleted, I swear I saw an underwater owl swoop in on wing-fins, and the mollusks fled in panic.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Finally, a somber Pierre said, “These are strange times.”
Manush the idiot grunted then pensively stared at the ground. “I think it’s global warming,” he said.

Pronoun Therapy

2007-08-17T18:28:00.000-07:00

Interesting science news concerning pronouns:

Science Daily — New research suggests that pronouns may play a far greater role than simply replacing a proper name in a sentence. A University of South Carolina study suggests that pronouns help keep the brain’s complex circuitry and limited memory system from being overloaded.

I may have to start naming the characters in my stories He, She and It.

Upcoming stories

2007-08-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

In addition to a story titled "The Therapist's Apprentice," which will be published by Every Day Fiction on September 23, I have a couple more stories being published.

"Janet Goes To Dinner" is already up on Hecale, an interesting webzine, and "The Guilt Trader" has been purchased by Drabblecast, a weekly web podcast featuring actors reading short stories.

These sites support writers, support these sites.

Writing in the Rain With Dogs

2007-08-16T16:08:00.000-07:00

The juice from tropical storm Erin has been spilling on us all day, swelling the soil and delighting my plants. Cat is afflicted with rainy-day lethargy and is stretched out next to me on the extra chair in my office dreaming of catfish. For her, my keyboard tapping is soporific.
I’ve been at work for hours on a new story, interrupted frequently by sharp gnawing on my toes and requests to play tug-o-war with a raggedy stuffed duck. The dogs get restless when it is liquid outside. The absence of thunder has given Pathetic Bob the courage to dart out on the deck occasionally to pee, but he has been spending the rest of the day practicing couch slumping. Judy, the deaf one, has been trying to master macramé, but all she has created so far is a multi-colored rat’s nest.
My toes were getting sore from Lily’s incessant teething, and Sophie’s pleas for play were making me feel like a puppy abuser, so I saved the story and got everyone together for treat time. In the kitchen, copious liver treat were passed out as the dogs displayed their best behavior. Well, Lily didn’t behave, but she is young, tiny and insane. Even Cat snapped out of her coma long enough to slink into our group for her portion.
When treat time was finished, I tried to resume writing, but the liver had charged the dogs’ batteries, and they demanded attention. “Play with us,” they said.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“But we’re bored. It’s raining, and there’s nothing to do,” said Bob, acting as the group’s spokesman.
“You seem to enjoy doing nothing, Bob. Why don’t you do some more of it?”
“Come on, think of the kids. They need exercise.”
A chorus of yips, whines and barks accompanied Bob’s last remark. Cat hissed and told them to keep it down. At least someone was on my side.
Finally, I couldn’t take the complaining anymore and said, “Fine, you want to play? Let’s play.” I opened the door going out to the pool and went out in the rain. “Come on wimps,” I taunted, “Let’s run circles around the pool, and then we can eat some sticks.”
They stood at the threshold of the door and whined, “But it’s wet out there.”
“Of course it’s wet out here,” I said. “It’s raining, a tropical storm is dumping its bladder all over the city, but here I am, ready to play with you even though I should be writing.”
“We don’t want to get wet.”
“I don’t want to get wet either, but here I am, moist to the bone because you want to be entertained.”
“It is kind of entertaining,” said Pathetic Bob. “You look pretty stupid out there.”
The other canines began dog chuckling. I slogged back into the house, changed clothes and re-opened the document I was working on. The dogs gather around me, trying to hide their smirks with their paws. “Piss off,” I said.
Unfortunately, they did. About an hour later, as I walked to the bathroom, I noticed small puddles dotted the floor. My roof doesn’t leak.

The Universe of Dick

2007-08-15T14:48:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine recently sent me this speech Philip K. Dick made on a college in 1978. Dick, now deceased, was one of the best (if not the best) science fiction writers of the 20th century.

The speech, though quite long, is a fascinating look into his search for "reality" and his musings about the concept of time. Weather you are a sci-fi fan or not, I think you will find his thoughts provocative and interesting.

Story Accepted

2007-08-14T05:26:00.000-07:00

My story "The Therapist's Apprentice" has been accepted by Every Day Fiction and is schedule to go out September 23.

Every Day Fiction sends out a story a day to your inbox, and it costs nothing to sign up for the service. The writing covers all genres, and is a great way to get in some interesting reads during your lunch break.

Panic

2007-08-13T10:55:00.000-07:00

He was unusually quiet that evening. The words from his dinner companions passed through his ears, but once inside his head they fell apart into disconnected vowels and consonants. “I’m sorry, what did you say,” was an oft-repeated phrase he spoke throughout out the meal. His pulse quickened, and a slight discomfort scratched at his chest. He began to withdraw from the reality of the gathering, and once he had his fill of pasta and chicken with cream sauce, he excused himself, went outside to the back yard, and lit a cigarette.
As he paced and dosed himself with tobacco, short, staccato moans punctuated his breathing, and a slight unsteadiness assaulted his balance. He became conscious of his breathing, short rapid cycles followed by deep gulps of the warm, humid night air. His mental perceptions tilted a degree or two but not enough distort his memory of the feelings and physical reactions that were occurring. They had happened all too often in the past that their imprint would be with him forever. It had been years, however, since they had so aggressively made their presence known. He was unprepared to feel them again; he had stopped looking over his shoulder.
The illuminated pool water glowed an eerie blue, a fitting backdrop for the world into which he had slipped. Standing in the shadows, he watched his wife and friends inside, chatting about France and relatives and plans for visiting the Brittany coast in two years time. Inside his head, a liquid language was rising, and small-craft warnings echoed along the shore. “Jump in the boat and ride it out,” he told himself and re-entered the house.
“Are you OK?” they asked.
“I’m fine,” he lied.
They drank wine, and he plugged his ears with lemonade. He stood and said, “I need to lay down for a minute.” The living room was only a few paces away, and he made it easily, and then stretched out on the leather couch.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” they asked again.
“I’m fine.”
He was not fine, but at least he was now prone and with his forearm draped across his eyes it made being not fine easier. Ever since he was a child, he had known that demons would not hurt you if you don’t look at them. With his vision arrested, his nervous system attacked him from within. It sent out small, electrical hand grenades, causing his hands to twitch and legs to spasm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted to himself, hoping to curse the demons into submission. It was a mantra of frustration, a song of sorrow, and empty linguistic talisman that had never worked before, but he clung to it like a holy relic.
The sound of chairs at work, the movement of familiar feet, his wife and friends were coming into the living room for more comfort and conversation. He knew they could see the spasms, hear the occasional low moan, but they also knew his past and left him alone.
The words, the electric tics, and the mind slips became too much, and he went back outside to stand in the pool glow. He hugged a gazebo post like it was his mother, cheek on grain, longing to be an uncut block of wood. Crickets complained loudly about the night heat, raccoon patrols noisily made their evening rounds on the other side of the fence, the moon smelled of ginger. The sliding glass door swept open, and the woman he has lived with forever stepped out into the night world and said, “Do you want to go?”
He does want to go, but he is trapped inside himself. “No, I’m Ok,” he says. She doesn’t believe him…she knows.
The hosts come out, and he tries desperately to quell the riot in his head. Sitting at the patio table, he is asked a question. He knows it is a question, but has no idea what it is about. A garbled hand full of words escapes his mouth, but he doesn’t understand them. His mind is now fixated on a dog, and he begins to cry. He hates crying. Embarrassment and humiliation pool on the ground in front of him, and he asks himself, “Why now?” It’s been so long. Why now?”
He should know better; he gave up asking “why” long ago. “I think it is time to go,” he sobs, I’m very sorry, but I need to go unconscious.”

Janet Goes To Dinner

2007-08-12T15:34:00.000-07:00

“I’ll have a squid and seconal salad please,” Janet told the waiter.
“I’m sorry maam, we no longer serve barbiturates and we are out of squid, but there is a smoking area in the alley.”
A slight pout rolled down Janet’s face as she picked up the menu. “That doesn’t fit well with my plans,” she said.
The waiter, whose friends called him Butter but whose real name was Roman, stood mute, awaiting Janet’s second selection.
“Hmm,” mused Janet, “you don’t seem to have any other cephalopods, and I’ve heard bad things about the penguin-on-stick.”
Roman-Butter bristled inwardly at the penguin put-down, but he smiled politely and waited, which, after all, was his job.
“Does the beaver spleen come with seasonal berries?” Janet inquired.
“No maam, it is served with Swiss peaches soaked in a raisin liqueur. They are topped with a mild, soft cheese made from Shetland pony milk and churned by virgin stenographers working evenings at the dairy.”
Janet’s pout sagged further as she said, “Oh dear, I am horse-fluid intolerant. That just won’t do.”
Roman-Butter waited some more.
“I know,” Janet beamed, “I’ll have the salmon pancreas and lentils on a bed of odorless rice with a side of sautéed owl tongue.”
“Very good maam,” said Roman-Butter, relieved to exit Janet’s presence.
Before he could extract himself, Janet said, “I’d like a glass of wine with that. What do you recommend?”
“We have an excellent Argentine chardonnay, a 2001 vintage. The grapes came from a small vineyard halfway up Mt. Chacon. The harvest only takes place once a year at twilight when the temperature hovers around 53 degrees Fahrenheit and a fine mist is in the air. They are then transported to the pressing room by indigenous curanderos where stout village women lovingly squeeze every bit of fluid from the skins. The juice is then stored in barrels of French Oak for no less than two years before pouring. The skins are donated to the United Nations for it’s ongoing research into fruit-skin benefits in the cure for leprosy.”
“On second thought,” said Janet, “I think I’ll have a Coke.”
At this point, Roman-Butter picked up a sterling-silver fork off the linen draped table and shoved it into Janet’s ear.

Gophers Killed My Writing

2007-08-09T16:01:00.000-07:00

I’ve been fighting some seriously hot and humid Texas ennui, but I was determined to sit down at the computer this morning and write. My plan was to write an essay about why I am so disenchanted with my county at the moment.
Sure, I was going to rant about George Bush and his gang of thieves, predators and uber-Nazis, but as bad as our president is, I wasn’t going to lay all the blame for America’s decline on him. I was also going to lament the sad fact that the Democratic Party that charged into a majority in Congress last November has done nothing but jerk off the American public. I thought about mentioning the latest escalation of surveillance laws Bush wanted and a lot of Democrats voted for or the “non-binding resolutions” the ‘crats trot out to make it look like they are actually doing something about the war.
But, I wasn’t going to stop at Republicans and Democrats or any other political party. I had a lot of arrows to sling at the American public for putting up with all this shit. Points were going to be made about how we sit around with iProducts shoved in our heads watching imploding starlets on television while the economy is ready to crumble and political candidates put on dog and pony shows.
It was going to be good stuff, and you would have probably said, “Jeez, that Mike can write his ass off, and he’s damn erudite and insightful.” Unfortunately, before I sat down at the computer in my office, I opened the sliding glass door so the dogs could easily come and go to the pool. When I did sit down, I heard a weird noise, turned towards the door and saw a small group of gophers, about 10 or 12 of them. They were carrying tiny swords and wore headgear that resembled a buffalo’s skull. Even in my world, it was an unusual sight.
Before I could utter a sound, one of the diminutive creatures stepped forward, raised his sword, and said, “We are Viking gophers from hell, and we command you not to write.”
What could I do? The dogs were no help. In fact, they were hiding under the deck. It was too damn hot to get into a melee with armed rodents, so I surrendered. “Hey,” I said, “no problem. Look, I’m turning off the computer.”
When they saw the screen flicker and die, the Viking gophers retreated, shouting Norwegian war cries and scurrying through the back fence.
I’m sorry you had to miss a great essay.

The Yak Itch (Part One)

2007-08-07T15:22:00.000-07:00

The Yak Itch

Delva Pachinko decided to ride a yak across Europe to raise awareness of uvula itch in overdeveloped countries. Her decision did not sit well with her husband and children or with her colleagues at Princeton University where she was a tenured professor of deconstructionist literature. Nevertheless, Delva was adamant about her decision. She applied for and was granted a sabbatical from her department and began her preparations for her yak expedition.
“I’d like to begin the journey in Spain,” she told her husband, Fontenot. “Then I will move up through central Europe and over to the Eastern Bloc and conclude the trip in Russia. I realize this is a complicated undertaking, and I’m counting on you to help with the logistics.”
Although Fontenot, who owned a mid-sized software development company specializing animal waste-disposal models, believed his wife’s uvula-itch campaign to be idiotic, he also believed people should try to live out their dreams so he put aside his doubts and agreed to help Delva.
“First of all,” he said, “have you ever seen or touched a yak?”
“I’ve seen pictures and tapes of them, but I’ve never actually met one.”
“Then I suppose you’d better start by driving over to New York and visiting the Bronx Zoo. They have a couple yaks there, and I think I can fix it so you can visit them up close and personal.”
“Oh, that would be great, Font,” Delva gushed.
“Once you meet a yak, and you still want to continue with your quest, the next thing we need to do is plan a route, obtain the necessary travel documents and visas, and buy a yak. I don’t think there are any Spanish yaks so we’ll probably have to import one to Spain so it will be waiting for you once you arrive.”
“I can handle the yak purchase,” said Delva. “I have a friend in the veterinary school who can help me with the paperwork and finding the best yak dealers. He should also be able to advise me on the proper inoculations the animal will need to pass through the various countries.”
“Ok,” agreed Fontenot, “I’ll work out a budget, but you are going to have to contact a European public relations firm to handle the publicity.”
“Not a problem.”
“I guess the last question for now is when do you want to go?”
“I was thinking at the end of the semester, perhaps late June.”
“That’s only three months away. It doesn’t give up much time, so we’d better get busy.”

Skip This

2007-08-05T19:07:00.001-07:00

I have been told by my nieces and nephews that skipping, if you are past age 7, is highly uncool. They also say it is "gay" or "girly", and anyone who practices the fine art should be lobotomized, or better yet, crippled. Kids.
It's a shame, really, that skipping has fallen on such hard times. I admit that skipping is gay, but it is gay like gay used to be before it is now. Actually, you don't even see many gay people skipping these days.
Skipping seems to be lighthearted and carefree, attitudes we are in much need of in these times. Skipping is also wonderful exercise, a discipline both young piglets and old lumps would be better off to follow. Finally, skipping looks goofy. What better way to heal your mind and body than to embrace your inner goofiness?
The only things people seem to skip today are lunch, meetings, introductions, ta ma lou, a beat and rationality. It's just not the same.
Come on over, we'll skip on up to crazy Marjorie's and look at the vegetables in her hair.

Electricity and Hats

2007-08-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

After I had finished The New York Times crossword puzzle and started on the Sudoku puzzle this morning, my dog, Pathetic Bob, finally crawled out from under the bed covers and came into the breakfast room. I greeted him cheerfully only to receive a, "Yeah, sure, whatever," from the normally upbeat Bob.
"Somebody got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning," I said.
"Yeah, well fuck you!" Bob retorted.
Now I could have responded with, "Fuck you, too," and we could have spent the morning hurling obscenities at each other, but being the sensitive and somewhat caring lemur that I am, I merely said, "Obviously there is something bothering you Bob. Do you want to share your feelings with me?"
"What are you, a woman?" Bob cracked.
I knew enough to let cranky dogs bitch, so I returned to my puzzle and kept a watch on Bob as he wandered around mumbling and grumbling. After a while, he came back to the table and said, "Look, I'm sorry Em. I had a bad night, and I have a lot on my mind. I might have PMS."
"Trust me Bob, you don't have PMS. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind. Maybe I can help."
"Well maybe I have weltsmertz then. Anyway, there's a whole lotta stuff bothering me that nobody seems to be worried about. That worries me 'cause I think some really bad shit could happen while nobody's paying attention."
"Tell me about some of the shit and then you won't have to worry alone."
"First, people aren't paying enough attention to electricity. If we are not careful, electricity wars will soon break out all across the globe."
"I'm not sure I follow you Bob."
"Wow, how surprising. OK, here's the deal. Global warming is really screwing up the planet. There's way too much carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, oil prices are high, coal-powered electricity plants are helping to pollute the air, there are too many goddamn computers and video-game consoles being used, and George Foreman is making too many useless kitchen appliances. It seems like the only companies that aren't trying to encourage electrical use are automotive manufacturers. Critical mass will soon be reached; ac will rise up against dc. Remember the Watts riots of the '60s? Wait until you see the Volts riots that are coming. "
"That's a pretty damn bleak assessment Bob. What do you think we should do?"
"Well, if you were smart Em, you would take your money out of your IRA, and invest it in battery companies."
"What else is on your mind Bob?"
"Lots of stuff Em. For instance, the coming hat shortage. Do you know how far down fedora production has fallen in the U.S. alone? Seventy-eight percent, that's how much. And, nobody's doing anything. Another thing is the mental-health crisis. Pharmaceutical companies are cranking out new brain pills faster than rabbits fuck. People are getting to mentally healthy. If the trend continues, we will end up being way short of lunatics, and without lunatics the creative arts will suffer. I could go on, but I'm hungry."
"Well, here's the rest of my toast. After you finish that, why don't you read the comics in the newspaper, that usually cheers you up?”
"Fuck you Em, I'm going back to bed.”

Holy Humor

2007-08-01T17:05:00.000-07:00

Jesus, Buddha, Yahweh (aka Allah), the Pope, Zeus, Odin, and Mohammed walk into a bar…. You don’t hear too many jokes that begin this way.
Religious icons have been fodder for humorists, comedians, and novelists for centuries, even though a lot of the mockery has been underground until the 20th century. Good-natured a bad-natured humor directed at prophets and gods could, and often did, result in the death of the person so bold as to find hilarity in buffoonery of moral edict dictators. Religion, for the most part, frowned upon funny, unless of course, it was directed at heretics, apostates, infidels, or insurance salesmen.
Of the holy people listed in the opening sentence of this essay, the two that stand out as being the most humorless come from the Middle East: Yahweh (Allah) and Mohammed. Yahweh (Jewish), Allah (Muslim) is the same character worshiped by Christians, who called him God. In the holy books of all three religions, God is a pretty humorless, nasty character, a serial killer in fact. Early stand-up comedians found out quickly that making fun of God would get you and your whole family cast into a fiery pit or some equally appalling torture. Crack a joke, and God would fuck you up.
As time wore on, I think people got fed up with all the gratuitous violence that God had perpetrated or supposedly commanded to be perpetrated in his name, and decided to write a sequel to the holy book. It was called the “New Testament,” and it reinvented God into a more pleasant guy named Jesus. The Jesus character eschewed violence, liked wine, hung out with hookers, and wasn’t above cracking a joke or two. Nevertheless, after Jesus dies a particularly gruesome death, his followers started reverting back to Old Testament rhetoric, and the sequel ends with horrifying scenes of beasties, blood, and mass killings. Humor was one of the first victims of the last chapter.
People seemed to like all the mayhem and strict dogma of it’s old God and forgot about Jesus’ teaching. However, they formed a religion based on Jesus, and for a couple thousand years they seriously kicked the asses of anyone who dared jest about that religion.
Eventually, most of the Old Testament people and the Jesus people decided, “What the hell, we can take a joke,” and they stopped whacking people who made fun of religion.
A few hundred years after Jesus took his last bow, a new holy guy named Mo arrived on the scene in the Middle East. Mo proclaimed himself a spokesman for Allah and ripped off parts of the old holy book, added a bunch of new stuff, published it, and it became a best seller. The new book had a lot of nice and peaceful stuff, but also a lot of the same old kill, smite and misogynistic doctrine as the old book. (Gotta give the people what they want.)
After Mo cashed in his chips, his followers did pretty much what Jesus’ posse did, and put the scimitar to the scrotum of anyone bold enough to joke about their religion, which in this case, was known as Islam.
Followers of Mohammed (Muslims) and the followers of Jesus (Jesims) tolerated each other for a while, but had no sense of humor about it. Eventually, a Palestinian comic named Rasheed made one too many jokes at the Jesims’ expense, and Europeans sent crusaders and anti-Muslim comedians to stamp mockery of their religion in Jerusalem. The Muslims fought back, and the people on both sides enjoyed a great religious bloodletting. When you’re not allowed to poke fun at things, I think it breeds savagery.
Religious savagery has continued right up until today, but in the modern world, the comedic overtones are freely expressed. Unfortunately, is seems the vast majority of Muslims have decided not to enter the modern world.
If you make a joke or write a parody about the Pope, it is unlikely Catholic ninjas will be dispatched to blow up you and your family. If you expose a bloated televangelist for the corpulent weasel he is, the likelihood of you being burned at the stake is small. You can joke about Jesus, write a limerick about the Buddha, or draw a caricature of Zeus with a tiny penis, and it’s doubtful you will suffer slings and arrows. But, mention Mohammed in an unflattering light, and you’ll have 18 million fanatical sheep bleating for your death. It wouldn’t be so bad if the sheep would just bleat, but a lot of them are armed and will point their weapons wherever the sheepherder tells them to.
I expect a lot of people are saying, “That’s bigoted; you are prejudiced against Muslims.” Given today’s climate of appeasement to even the most radical elements of society, I am not surprised that people might say this. The truth is, I don’t give a monkey’s scrotum about religion. I am prejudiced against stupid, intolerant and humorless people. We all have our prejudices; those are mine.
So, Jesus, Mohammed and Buddha walk into a bar. Jesus asks for a glass of water so he can turn it into wine. Mohammed asks where the virgins are. Buddha sits back and laughs his ass off.

The Philosophical Squat

2007-07-30T15:43:00.000-07:00

He was outfitted in a Joseph Aboud, pinstriped, grey suit; his shirt was azure blue, and a matching striped tie was neatly wrapped around his neck. Highly polished Barrington wing tips and black socks adorned his feet, and a well-trimmed, slightly grey head of hair crowned his six-foot frame. He appeared to be the very model of a successful businessman, a stockbroker perhaps or maybe an attorney. He gave off a confident air, and his blues eyes seemed determined, resolute.
I sat on an uncomfortable bench, killing time and people watching waiting for my wife to finish her shopping in a mall department store, when the man passed in front of me. He carried no bags and didn’t seem interested in the window displays he passed. As he passed Abercrombie & Fitch, he slowed, and before he reached The Fantabulous Cookie Company, he halted, backed up to the wall, and squatted.
I’ve been in many third-world countries were squatting is considered a perfectly acceptable form of resting, but in the United States, you rarely see people squat unless they are relieving themselves in the woods or building a campfire. I don’t recall observing much squatting in retail malls. But there he was, this well-dressed man, squatting, staring straight ahead, and seemingly unaware of his surroundings.
Most shoppers passing by took no notice of the man; those that did acted surprised and a little befuddled, but no one stopped. The man continued to squat, knees spread, hands resting on his them. I thought he might have a leg cramp that needed stretching or just needed a moment to himself, but he continued to squat. Ten minutes passed, and curiosity got the better of me, so I walked over to the man and said, “Hey.”
“Hey,” he said.
“Are you Ok?”
“More or less.”
“I’ve noticed you’ve been squatting here for a while and wondered if you were Ok, if there is anything I can do for you.”
“Can you do a puppet dance?” he asked without a trace of a smile.
“Probably, but I don’t think I want to.”
“I understand. Do you think people condense or expand as they receive more information?”
“Hmmm, that’s a tough one. I guess I’d have to agree with Saperstein and Lao Tzu, that there comes a point when too much information hinders growth.”
“Interesting. Well, I guess I ought to be getting back to the newsroom. Could you help me up, I think my knees are locked?”
“Sure,” I said and grabbed his arm and pulled him into a standing position.
“Nice talking to you,” he said.
“Yeah, me too.”
He turned to walk away, but hesitated and turned around. “Say, how tall was Saperstein?”
“He was five feet.”
“I thought so,” he said, and then walked across the mall to Victoria’s Secret.

(c) 2007

Bunny In The Woods

2007-07-29T14:14:00.000-07:00

The sky was sweating profusely as they pulled in to a small parking area next to an emerald English field. A few campers had arrived ahead of them and their outdoor abodes dotted the soaked landscape.
“Come on sweetie, help me get the tent out of the boot, and we'll have it set up in a jiff,” said Jo.
“Mum,” cried her 13-year-old daughter Bunny, “it’s bloody pouring out there. This is not exactly the kind of outdoor experience I was hoping for.”
“Don’t be silly dear, it’s just a spot of rain. It will blow over soon.”
“But Mum, it’s been raining for 32 days; I think it’s going to blow London away before it
‘blows over.’”
“Oh posh, come on now, we need to make camp before all the good spots are taken,” said Jo as she opened the car door.
Bunny sighed and reluctantly followed her mother around to the back of the car, leaning into almost gale-force winds trying to stay on her feet.
“Just smell that fresh country air,” said Jo as she opened the boot and started hauling out the recently purchased camping gear.
“I can’t smell a thing,” complained Bunny, “my nostrils are full of water. This is not a good idea, mum. We could drown or catch a cold or become all wrinkly.”
“Nonsense. We are modern British women, and we don’t let a little inclement weather dampen our spirits. It will be fun.”
Bunny looked at her mum who seemed oblivious to the hurricane in which they were in the middle. “But mum, I am not a British woman; I am a British girl who hopes to one day be a British woman. But, my chances of achieving that goal are diminishing every minute we are out here in this tempest. Jesus mum, look there’s a waterlogged cow being blown across the field; we could be killed by projectile livestock. This is daft.”
“But Bun, I spent a fortune on all this equipment, we have to get our money’s worth out of it.”
“Well then let’s take it home and set up camp in the parlor.”
Jo looked defeated. It was hard to tell if she was crying. “But I so wanted this to be a mother-daughter bonding experience.”
“It is mum. I’m bonded; I’m in bondage. Now please untie me and let’s go home before this turns into a mother-daughter-cow-flood experience. We can even bond some more on the drive home.”
“Very well,” agreed a somewhat reluctant Jo, “but as soon as England dries out, it’s off to the wilderness again.”
“Fine, mum. But next time you have to bring along your meds.”

Chicken Scratching

2007-07-28T15:50:00.001-07:00

I discovered an online magazine today that seems to specialize in the kind of weird little stories I enjoy. It's called "Bust Down The Door and Eat The All Chickens."
If you stop by, you can download a PDF copy and read it at your leisure.

One Is The Lonliest Number

2007-07-27T09:13:00.000-07:00

“It’s not fair Ellen; it’s just not fair,” Regina Stanton cried into the telephone, “God, I love them both so much.”
Ellen’s brassy voice echoed in the small apartment, “Well Reggie, you gotta do something. This thing has gone on far enough. You have to tell him.”
“I know. I know I do, but with him being in Iraq and all, it seems so, uh, bitchy to write him a ‘Dear John’ letter. I feel so guilty.”
“I know you do girl, but you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”
Regina picked at her flannel pajama bottoms with serrated fingernails, as she cradled the phone between her shoulder and cheek, a nervous habit she’d had since childhood. “I never meant for this to happen, you know? It’s just that John’s been gone so long, and then they extended his tour. I was lonely, so damn lonely. The walls in this apartment were closing in on me; I needed company. Oh Ellen, I don’t want to lose either one of them.”
“Listen baby sister, you knew how John was when you married him. You knew he was a warrior. And, you can’t say you didn’t know about the other thing. You have got to tell him or you’re not going to be worth a damn to either one of them.”
“You’re right sis, I know you’re right, and I will tell him; I’ll write him that letter. Thanks for being there.”
“Anytime you need me Reg, anytime at all.”
Regina hung up the phone and buried her face in her hands. “What did I get myself into,” she asked the sofa. It didn’t answer. She glanced at the desk, the personalized stationary her father had given her on her last birthday hid in the middle drawer.
Before heading to the desk, Regina made a detour to the kitchen and poured herself a half-glass of Pinot Grigio, hoping its lubricating effects might loosen her thoughts and help transcribe them to paper. She looked at the sink, two plates sat in soapy water, reminders of her dinner with Thompson only an hour or so earlier. Two. Two is what Regina had signed up for, not Iraq, not loneliness, not the heartbreak of one.
As she gathered her resolve and started for the desk, she caught the feint sounds of Thomson’s snores coming from the bedroom. It was the music of damp breezes played on ripe potatoes. It was the music of companionship in the key of love major. The snuffling ear candy drew her towards the bedroom, but she resisted, knowing if she did not take pen in hand now, the stress of deception would crush her.
After placing the wine glass on the desk, Regina withdrew her stationary from the drawer, grasped the comfort-grip gel pen in hand and began.

Dear John,
I miss you so much, and I been so lonely, so please don’t be upset with me because…I bought a dog. I know you don’t like dogs, but I hope you love me enough to like Thompson….

Marla & Sylvia

2007-07-25T14:34:00.000-07:00

“You shouldn’t be doing such a thing,” Marla Reno told her friend Sylvia, “It might be an abomination before God.” The two middle-aged friends were sitting in Sylvia Blastivo’s breakfast room sharing a Danish and drinking cups of Oolong tea.
Sylvia snorted, “Fie, God doesn’t know from doll clothes. There is no harm, Mar, and Petey likes it.” She turned and looked at Petey, who was atop his cage by the window. “You like it, don’t you Petey, my sweetie boy?”
“Brrrr, gak, gak,” Petey responded, his head moving like a Fourth Street hooker going down on a sailor.
“It’s just so unnatural; if God had wanted animals to have clothes, he would have taught them how to sew.”
“It’s not really animals wearing clothes that bothers you, is it Mar? What chaps your ass is that Petey likes to dress up in girl clothes. You think he’s gay, don’t you?”
“Well Jesus, Syl, look at him all tarted up in that Barbie Doll outfit. Look at all the colors in his hair. That bird is definitely a homo.”
“He’s not a homo; he’s a fucking cross-dressing cockatiel. Of course his head is colorful, he’s an exotic bird you crone. Christ Marla, you really amaze me sometimes with your idiotic prejudices.”
“Well excuse me for living, I was just trying to help save that bird’s soul. By the way Syl, that cover makes your toaster look like a lesbian.”

Max

2007-07-24T12:26:00.000-07:00

A short while ago, while driving home from the veterinarian’s office I began to cry. Minutes before, I held the old beagle that lived with me as he took his last breath, finishing his string of days with the help of a lethal injection. I killed him, and no matter how well intentioned that act may have been, I have to accept the karma of playing God.

Max came to live with me when he was one year old. He was an abandoned toy, purchased by well-meaning parents as a Christmas gift for their children. Like many children, they lost interest in Max once he outgrew his puppy cuteness, and he was spending his days locked in a garage without companionship and stimulation. My mother, who lived next door, spoke to the people about Max’s situation, and they said they would be happy to give the dog to someone. Of course, mom called me. My wife and I already had four dogs living with us, but once we met Max, we knew we’d find room for one more.

Max brought joy to our lives. He was curious, crazy, funny, loving, laid back, and demanding when it came to matters of a culinary nature. Before he became crippled with arthritis, he would leap into our bed every night and lie next to me waiting for his evening tummy message. He was the only dog that has lived with us who found my ear canals to be fascinating; he would tongue-scrub them nightly with great attention to detail. I never had to use Q-Tips for the longest time. Max got along well with other animals; he was never aggressive, mean, or afraid. The world was a curiosity to him. He would approach horses and cats with equal magnanimity; neither children nor adults caused him any uneasiness.

If Max had a fault, I guess it might be his anal retentiveness. His bark (which was actually a howl) would echo throughout the house whenever there was a slight change in his routine. A certain bark would mean, “Hey, you left the toilet lid closed, and I’m thirsty.” One of his favorite spots on hot and humid summer days was the floor in the step-down shower. If anyone left a bottle of shampoo or a washcloth on the shower floor, he would howl until I came in and picked it up. He used to love to lie on the bed in our bedroom and take a nap under the ceiling fan. If he awoke and found himself to be alone in the room, he would issue a command for company or to be taken off the bed so he could rejoin the pack. In the evenings when I was reading or watching television, Max would jump up on my lap, roll over on his back and nudge my hand until I would softly stroke his stomach. This would go on for hours or until my muscles cramped up. There was never a day that I didn’t feel grateful Max had come into my life.

Last December, Max turned 14, and with his advanced age came advanced health problems. Arthritis stealthily robbed him of most of his ambulatory functions. Liver problems arose. Recently, he became incontinent; his quality of life plummeted. I didn’t want him to suffer, and I didn’t want him to die, but I tried to make the decision about killing my dog not about what I wanted, but about what was best for him. I asked him if he was ready to go several times, but received no firm answer. Ultimately, I had to answer for him, and I will have to answer for his death.

Max died in my arms with my lips on his tri-colored head. Of course, a little bit of me died with him. I will pick up his cremated remains in about a week, and he will take his place alongside Emmutt and Roxie.

As I drove home with tears in my eyes, the sky opened up and cried.

Kenny's Timing Is Off

2007-07-22T16:48:00.000-07:00

Kenny arrived a few minutes late for his shift at Burger King. As he stepped through the back door into the kitchen, he sensed something was amiss. He glance to his left and saw Cassie, the new counter girl from Enid Bagnold High School, wielding a basket of hot French fries and making threatening gestures towards Nell, the veteran grill supervisor.
“Cool,” thought Kenny, as he stood riveted to the floor, “chick fight.”
Alex Guisada, the assistant manager came out of the little office, took in the scene and said, “What seems to be the problem here?”
“The problem,” said Nell, “is that this little bitch doesn’t know a number 2 combo from a number 6 combo. She totally screwed up an order and tried to blame it on me.”
“Bullshit,” cried Cassie, “This crazy woman hates me because Stan, the drive-in window guy, thinks I’m pretty. She’s jealous, and she’s mean.”
“Let’s just all calm….” Alex started to say but was cut off as Nell grabbed a hot spatula and lunged for Cassie. Cassie reacted by tossing the hot fries in Nell’s face, causing third-degree burns on Nell’s forehead, lips, and nose. Nell screamed and brought the spatula’s edge down on Cassie’s bicep, causing a severe gash and drawing a copious amount of blood.
Kenny took a tentative step forward and slipped on the blood-covered tile. As he fell, his head struck the corner of the ice machine, killing him instantly.
The chaos in the kitchen halted. As the kitchen staff looked down on dead Kenny, Stan’s voice could be heard on the intercom, “Hey, where’s my onion rings?”

What Do I Want

2007-07-21T16:20:00.000-07:00

I've been pondering the question ask of me by my high-school guidance councilor many years ago: "What do you want out of life?" When you are 16, it is near impossible to even know what life has to offer, much less to be able to choose specific components that will make up yours. When I responded, "I don't know, whatta you have to offer?", he told me to go back to class and, then he wrote "waste management assistant" in my file. In my "permanent file," the one I was sure would follow me throughout my adulthood. I needn't have worried; adulthood has yet to arrive.
But the years still pass, and eventually I suppose I'll have to decide what I want out of life before I run out of it. The older you get, I think the first thing you want out of life is…more life. I've known a few people who were ready to go, but not many. Life is habit forming, and it is a bitch to quit.
Life has been pretty good to me, and there's not much I want that I haven't gotten. There are, of course, very personal things I would like to change, but I can live with the results.
I want a mounted buffalo head. I don't want anyone to go out and kill a buffalo to get me one, an old ratty one will do. When I was 12, I wanted a buffalo for Christmas. I badgered my parents for months, telling them that if I had a buffalo head, I'd never want anything again--ever. Christmas came, and I opened a brightly wrapped box, and inside was a plastic buffalo head. Plastic! Jeez, I was disappointed.
I'd like to opportunity to apologize to Marilyn Beaner for saying she had cooties in the 5th grade. I still feel real about that.
I want my children to live happy and productive lives. They are well on their way to accomplishing that.
I want to be more than I am, but less than perfect.
I want to spend my love and save my pity.
I have a lot of knowledge, so now I would like more understanding.

An Umlaut Spurned

2007-07-20T06:32:00.000-07:00

She wants Belgium waffles and a Bob Marley joint. “You won’t find them here,” the nose-studded shopkeeper said. Her face rose to the next octave of color, and she danced with an alpaca’s tooth in her hand until dizzy. “Polly Sumatra just doesn’t understand me,” she complained loudly as she fled from the shop. I followed. She floated up the boulevard, black hair trailing in the slipstream, finally stopping in front of The Word Store. I approached cautiously as she peered through the display window. Standing next to her, I coughed, and she turned to look at me. Her electric blue eyes were almost painful to observe. I cleared my throat again and asked, “Do you need a word?”
“I need a whole sentence,” she replied in a cherry-colored voice with a half-smile on her lips.
I wasn’t prepared for her answer, and I stared too long at her cleavage while thinking of something to say. “Uh…I….”
“Are you a vulgarian?” she interrupted my stammering.
“Why yes, I am,” I said, regaining some composure.
“Oh,” she whispered, “cool. Do you have an umlaut I can borrow for a few days?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’ve got several extras, I’ll be happy to give you one.” I pawed around in my shoulder bag, and my hand emerged with a shiny, mint-condition umlaut which I handed her.
“Wow, thanks. That’s a very nice umlaut. Now, I’d like to offer you something in return.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, “It was my pleasure.”
“I insist,” she said. “You name it, anything you want.”
I thought for a bit then said, “I’d like peace on Earth.”
She handed me the umlaut back and walked on up the boulevard.

Crystal's Lizards

2007-07-19T07:04:00.001-07:00

Forty-two small, green lizards lined up to lick the big toe on Crystal’s left foot. She hated to disappoint them so she asked Roger to wait until the procession of reptiles had each had their turn before they left for the airport. Roger, of course, complained in that whiny, nasal voice that Crystal had come to despise ever since she had agreed to accompany him on this trip to The Barbados.
“Fuck off Roger,” said Crystal with a look of disdain on her freckled face, “Go take a cab by yourself. If I miss the plane, at least I’ll be spared sitting next to you on the fight home.”
Roger pouted. He pouted a lot over the past four days. Crystal hadn’t lived up to his expectations. She was not pliable enough; she was too…independent. “Fine, I’m going. You can stay here with those damn lizards, they’re cold blooded, just like you.”
“You’re a dick, Roger,” spat Crystal, “a real small dick. Now get the fuck out of here before I turn you into lizard chow.”
As Roger stormed away, Crystal turned her attention back to the lizards. They were so cute, each one waiting its turn in the grass, just off the patio. When one would finish its licking, the next would waddle up and take its place. She found their ministrations to be more calming than valium. Crystal leaned back in the deck chair, closed her eyes, and realized her toe had an erection.

Waiting

2007-07-18T11:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I finally heard from my literary agent. I left a message for her last Friday wanting to know how the pimping of my book was progressing.
“We’ve had a couple nibbles,” she said, “but nothing definite yet. Don’t worry Mike, it’s only been a month, and we really haven’t gotten into the big push.”
Nibbles? Does that mean a publisher bit a noun but spit it out when he tasted the adjective attached to it? I’m worried; do I need to change bait?
“It is going to be fine,” she said, “You’ve got to have patience. The wheels of this business grind slow. I’ll talk to you next month, or sooner if I have any news.”
I am, of course, convinced my book, Pathetic Bob’s Self-Help Guide (Practical Advice From a Very Strange Dog), is probably the worst book ever written. I’m sure slush-pile readers are gathered at some New York bar shaking their heads at the audacity I had to pose as a writer.
The other manuscript—The Lunatic (My death and Life in a Bi-Polar World--is now in the hands of my editor. I anxiously await her phone call asking me if I have ever thought about as a mime.
Four submissions sent out to three magazines yesterday, weird magazines, my kind of magazines. Three notices of receipt by those magazines today. Electronic sniggering?
Writing is not as hard as waiting.

Life (And Death) Throw Ed and Shirley A Curve

2007-07-17T07:54:00.001-07:00

The transformation couldn’t have come at a worse time for Ed Rassmussen. The 84-year-old, retired, farm-implement salesman living in Glaston, Minnesota was in ill health and looking forward to dying, when Shelly, the next door neighbor’s teenaged, idiot, vampire daughter had gone and bit him, and now, he was turning into a bloodsucking himself.
“Why couldn’t that little blond, belly-pierced, cheerleader have bitten someone younger, or, at the very least, sucked out all my blood and left me in a pile of dust? Fuck, now I’m gonna have to become a night predator, and I wear dentures. How the hell is that gonna work out?” Ed complain.
Ed’s wife Shirley was as upset as Ed. Her plans to spend Ed’s life insurance money on a cruise to Panama and a 48-ince flat-screen TV were now in ruins. It seemed that there was little choice but to become Ed’s minion, carrying out his daytime errands and keeping his coffin clean.
Life sucked. So did death.

Jugs

2007-07-16T05:52:00.000-07:00

I'd like to see more jugs. No, I'm not euphemistically talking about women's hooters...er...breasts, but I refer to ewers, clay receptacles, earthenware storage units. You know, jugs.
Jugs were once a mainstay of civilization. Even before Jesus was a puppy, people were schlepping around all sorts of commodities in jugs. Jugs of wine were real popular, as were jugs of grain, dates, water, hummus, cocoa puffs and animal renderings. Jugs were the backbone of ancient commerce.
Jugs were easy to make, too. A little water and dirt and, viola--a jug. Jug-making guilds sprang up all over the Middle East, providing thousands of workers with an honest day's labor. There are even inscriptions on ancient pyramid walls featuring jugs. Jug craftsmen were hailed as great artists. Ernie of Mesopotamia was the first recipient of the "Juggie" award in 12 BC. He set a standard that jugsters aspire to today.
But there lies the rub. There are not many jug craftspeople left. Why? Because the demand for them has dwindled. Sure, maybe a few maple-syrup factories order some, but by and large, jug packaging has become a thing of the past. Now, we are deluged with plastic and cardboard containers that have no style, no panache, and no soul. With a jug all you have to do is take off the top and pour the contents out. Not any more; have you ever tried to open a cd package? Of course people might say, "Well, now we have metal canisters, they're much better." Perhaps metal canisters are better if you are storing nuclear material, but metal is a harsh, industrial material fit only to enfold waste products, but they lack aesthetics. Jugs are earthy, vibrant, and beautiful. When metal dies, it rusts. When jugs die the eulogy might read, "dirt to dirt, water to mud." Jugs are environmentally sound and their construction can provide even the most simple-minded person with gainful employment. Jugs rock.
It's time to bring jugs back. Write your government officials.

Blessed Be His Name

2007-07-15T09:02:00.000-07:00

His mother called him “Pink” instead of his given name, “Vernfrom.” The boy’s father insisted on “Vernfrom” because it was his grandfather’s name, and Pink’s mom relented to the pressure.
“He may be Vernfrom on paper, but it is obvious we just can’t send him out into the world with that odd name,” said his mom, the day after he was born. “We will call him ‘Pink.’”
What Pink’s mom found obvious about “Vernfrom” she was totally oblivious to when it came to “Pink.” The moniker “Pink” is fine if you are a young woman pursuing a career in pop music, but for a boy struggling his way into manhood, the name carried with it serious connotative baggage.
Shortly after his 18th birthday, Pink/Mordecai had his name legally changed to Mike, proving, to me at least, the boy suffered from the same obliviousness that ran in the earlier generations of his family. His family name is Hunt.

The Search For Randy Eleven

2007-07-13T12:10:00.000-07:00

(Many thanks to Bernard, the Canadian beaver wizard, for his contribution to this story)

One of my favorite musical groups is Randy, Randy, Randy, and Randy, whose album "I'm So Randy" shot up to number three on the underground, subliminal music charts in 2002. The group is still together and is currently touring in support of its latest release, "Spiders and Milk," but has limited its tour appearances to states and countries with an "O" in their names.
I've been listening to the new album and have become intrigued with the cryptic song, "He Ain't A Randy No More," so I got on the Internet to find out more about the band. There were only three entries for Randy, Randy, Randy and Randy on Google, and the first two were about a Burmese family that named all its kids after actor Randy Quaid. On the third try, I hit paydirt. The Randy Files, run by a kid who calls himself Snip Whippet, is a virtual goldmine of all things Randy (and Randy and Randy and Randy). I read the band-members' bios, discography, saw colorful pictures of each member's tattoos, and learned the band's original name was "Turds Wrapped In Foil." Interesting stuff indeed, but the most astounding thing I learned was: there was a fifth Randy! I'm not kidding, a Randy number five. It seems Randy 5 left the group shortly before the release of "I'm So Randy," and even though he sang back-up vocals and played rhythm guitar on the album, he was never credited for his contribution.
According to Whippet, Randy 5 and the rest of the band had a falling out over which drugs the band would use to gain street cred with its fans. Four Randys opted for heroin and crystal meth while Randy 5, a former lactose-intolerant, semi-pro squash player, insisted on Viagra and Mylanta. A nasty scene ensued, with Randy 5 trying to strangle Randy 2 with a guitar string. Randy 1, 3 and 4 pulled 5 off and beat him to a pulp. Randy 5 left the group and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. But, the story doesn't end there.
Financed by student loans and Google’s AdSense revenue, Whippet relentlessly pursued clues as to the fate of Randy 5, and he has come up with some fascinating tidbits. Using sophisticated tracking software, Snippet combed through IRS records, voter registration records, Blockbuster movie-rental receipts, and birth certificates to find the missing Randy's trail. It seems shortly after leaving the band, Randy 5 (whose real name is Randy Eleven), abandoned his musical career and went to work in a shoelace factory in Sri Lanka, where he rose to a supervisory position as chief aglet installer. After only a year at the factory, Randy 5 (Eleven) left, and the trail went cold.
Six months later, he turned up in Flagstaff, Arizona working as a cactus inspector for the state. Records show he was fired for drunkenness after only three months on the job, and Randy 5 (Eleven) once again moved on, finally resurfacing in New York City, hiring himself out as a footstool for the rich. One day, while propping up a wealthy industrialist's feet, the tycoon's wayward son wandered in and recognized Randy. The kid peppered him with questions about the band, the breakup, and what Randy's had been up to. Randy 5 (Eleven) flew into a rage, told the kid to "get sodomized by a syphilitic lizard,” and stormed out, falling off the radar again.
Whippet says the last reported Randy 5 (Eleven) sighting came earlier this year in Barstow, California. A woman named, "Wisteria," says she recognized the fifth Randy at a Shell gas station. "I was like, uh, wow, that's Randy 5, so I went up to him while he was pumping gas into a Chrysler mini van and said, `Wow, you're Randy 5, and he was all like, `Yeah, I was, now I'm just Randy Eleven," and I'm like, `Cool,' and then he smiles and gets in his mini van--which, by the way, was totally full of cacti--and then he waves at me, and I'm like, ‘Bye Randy 5.’"
I should have left in the tale there, but I am a former journalist with an inquisitive nature and too much time on my hands. I became obsessed with Randy Eleven’s story and was determined to pursue it.
During my days as a newsperson traveling the globe, I developed a web of friendships with some rather extraordinary individuals. These people—from rogues to royalty—are uncanny in their ability to gather information, so I immediately sent out e-mails and carrier pigeons asking for help in tracking down the missing Randy. I received much of the same information Whippet had already posted on his website, but a friend based in Canada sent me a cryptic letter that takes the story in a weird, and possibly ominous direction.
My friend, Jean-Pierre Castor, is a former dealer in rare antiquities, specializing in 14th-century drool buckets favored by European aristocracy and old, Flemish chastity belts. He retired from the trade after a “misunderstanding” with law-enforcement officials Columbia, and currently runs the “Cirq Beav” in Montreal. However, Jean-Pierre is still in the loop when it comes to matters of secrets and rumors.
After customary greetings, his letter reads:

“Actually, I had to verify on my source before I could only think of mentioning some odd events that a friend of mine told me about. He's been researching abuses on the Canadian health care system for some time. You need to know that Canada has become a haven for people in need of medical care as the service is free for Canadian citizens. Well that could partially change soon, but that's not what I want to entertain you with. Plus, Michael Moore has already clowned around this issue.
My friend is a free lance journalist--he's done some stunts over the years, like spending three months among homeless people, living the way they do, making friends, really becoming a member of the community, if such a word can define the thousands who wander about, in search of an answer to the question ‘where the fuck am I today?’. Of course, with abuses of alcohol, zombie pills and other fire exits, his recollection were sometimes foggy. He still managed to write a series of articles, although I don't know how much of it is true. In any case, this series brought him recognition.
“Now, this is where things get interesting. My friend spent a few weeks in Lebanon just before Israel proceeded to bomb the southern suburbs of Beyrouth. He was there to collect information about Lebanese who also have the Canadian citizenship. There are a few hundred of thousand of them from Christian backgrounds who generally keep an address in Canada via a family member, but really live in Beyrouth most of the time, coming back when a war breaks out or when they need medical care. It is a documented fact.
“Now, my friend flew back to Canada just before the Beyrouth airport was damaged by bombing, and he spent the flight sitting with an American man with a southern accent who told him a fascinating story about an experiment that Israel has been trying to set up. The experiment involves creating a wall of cacti at the border with Lebanon. Unfortunately, the war broke out and the first thing that Hezbollah did was to rocket shred the experimental fence into a fruit salad.
“The American, who identified himself as Warren Robertson, could not provide documental proof, and considering the collateral damage from the war, it was just about impossible for my friend to verify the facts. Although the inquiry on the conduct of the Israeli chiefs of the military suggests information was withheld, my friend remained skeptical of the whole story and the character himself.
“However, once they landed at Montreal Pierre-Elliot Trudeau (PET) airport (and by the way, in French, the meaning of "pet" is "fart", so you can imagine how the French Canadians have been laughing at their English counterparts for being so fond of a fart--but then, most of them are assholes anyway), Warren Robertson's luggage was checked by custom officers, and what they found was dumbfounding: a Styrofoam case filled with frozen cacti flowers. Now, cacti are one of the plants that are banned from entering Canada due to their negative effects on beavers; beavers among other species have suffered severe wounds from trying to use cacti as dam building material in some area of Southern Quebec. Mr. Robertson didn't even argue the confiscation and was rather eager to walk away. That more than anything else triggered my friend’s interest into the man.
“My friend offered to let Mr. Robertson stay at his apartment as long as necessary for him to arrange for his traveling back to wherever he was coming from. That's how he eventually discovered that Mr. Robertson is a Canadian citizen since 2005.
“I don't want to go on at length on how my friend researched the whereabouts of Mr. Robertson, but I can transmit to my friend any question of yours if you really are interested on the details for your eventual book.
“Anyway, my friend discovered that Warren Robertson is actually Randy Eleven, although by the thick moustache he had under his nose, he looked more like George Clooney in Ocean's Thirteen. He seemed to have just been treated for breast cancer in Montreal (yes, it happens to men too; although not as often as colorectal cancer , which tends to show that he eats well and is not too anal retentive).
“My friend told me that he is still around; he even knows where he lives but was reluctant to tell me more, as Randy Eleven seemed somewhat evasive on what his life in Canada was about.
“I know that my friend has diverted his investigation towards Randy, but I think that the connection with medical care is still on. He wouldn't tell me more. And you know what? I strongly feel that there could be something of an American Connection tapping into the medical care system; it could even be that there some CIA and FBI agents involved undercover, although I hope not; it would be so corny. I just don't know what Randy is doing in here; I hope to know more eventually.
“I have to admit that my lack of knowledge of the music of Randy, Randy, Randy & Randy makes it difficult for me to understand how the hell he could end up in Lebanon with cacti flowers. I wonder sometimes; there are so many obscure personas involved in the show business, maybe Randy Eleven is not Randy Eleven?
“I'd be curious to have your take on it.
“I hope this information can be of help to your research; I am not sure however that my friend would be too happy that I told you about this since that would be like stealing the dough from his mouth, if you see what I mean. But considering that you have yourself much to share as far as Randy's background is concerned, I am sure that an agreement can be reached.”

As I stated before, I am obsessed with this story, but I am unsure how to proceed. Jean-Pierre’s information was startling, to say the least, and I know I can count on him to funnel further tidbits. However, I’m torn. I do not wish to place Jean-Pierre in harm’s way, and from the information we now have, it seems there may be nefarious actors involved. I know my friend can handle himself, but what if something bad befalls the beavers in his cirq? How could I live with myself?

Underwear: The Lynchpin of Literacy

2007-07-12T07:15:00.000-07:00

Thank the gods for discarded underwear. Without it only the rich may have had access to literature.

"Underwear underpins the spread of Western culture, with discarded underpants ranking alongside the invention of printing in the spread of literacy, according to a medieval historian.

Delegates at the International Medieval Congress at the University of Leeds, northern England, were told that social migration from rural to urban areas in the 13th century brought with it changes in attire.

Whereas rough and ready peasants thought little of wearing nothing under their smocks, the practice became frowned upon in the burgeoning towns and cities, leading to a run on undergarments.

And when the underwear was worn out, it provided a steady supply of material used by papermakers to make books.

"'The development of literacy was certainly helped by the introduction of paper, which was made from rags,' Marco Mostert, of Utrecht University in the Netherlands and one of the conference organisers, said this week.

"'These rags came from discarded clothes, which cost much less than the very expensive parchment which was previously used for books.

"'In the 13th century, so it is thought, as more people moved into urban centres, the use of underwear increased -- which caused an increase in the number of rags available for paper-making.

"'The invention of the movable type printing press by Johannes Gutenberg in the mid-15th century is generally credited with spreading learning.'

"But Mostert said that although literacy did not become widespread until the 19th century, it was more common in the Middle Ages than many believe because of cheap paper made from rags."

Thanks to Raw Story.

The Riboflavin Dream

2007-07-11T07:24:00.000-07:00

“I don’t think I’m getting enough riboflavin.”
“What’s riboflavin?”
“I’m not sure, a vitamin or mineral or something. I’m pretty sure I’m deficient in it though.”
“Why would you think that?”
“It came to me in a dream.”
“Was it a voice dream or a picture dream?”
“It had elements of both.”
“Well, can you describe what happened in your dream?”
“You know how dreams are, after you wake up, the details become hazy.”
“What do you remember?”
“I was sitting on a tattered couch in the attic of a condemned paint store. Gathered around me were 12th-century Arabian physicians, sweat-soaked female basketball players, seven gophers that were missing their left arms, Polynesian graffiti artists, and a white Shetland pony. Paintings of ferrets dressed in old, British naval uniforms hung on the walls. Agaves were situated in the west corner, and a large, decorative ewer filled with shimmering water was placed by the side of the couch. There seemed to be quite a bit of murmuring going on.”
“I don’t see how that has anything to do with riboflavin. Did someone tell you that you needed more riboflavin?”
“I was getting to that. Suddenly, a naked Asian woman sporting a full-body tattoo of American Civil War’s Battle of Bull Run, walked into the room and started singing the Prince song, ‘When Doves Cry.’ When she finished, the assemblage broke into applause and shouted, ‘riboflavin, riboflavin.’ The Asian woman looked directly at me, and I immediately got an erection. Everyone except the pony filed out the door, and the water began to bubble. Shortly thereafter, the ferret paintings fell off the walls, and the pony remarked, ‘Those were not well-hung ferrets. I believe they needed more riboflavin in the pigment.’”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much. What do you think?”
“Hmmm, what do you think?”
“I think I need more riboflavin.”
“I think you’re fucking nuts.”

Riding The Raccoon

2007-07-10T20:14:00.000-07:00

I rushed swiftly at the rainbow ostrich, tackling it low, right below its knees. It was caught unawares and fell with a woosh and a ferb and lay stunned for a moment—but only a moment. Holding tight to ostrich legs that felt like old baseball gloves soaked in pickle brine, I wondered why I had tackled the bird in the first place. Before an answer arrived in my brain, the odd-looking creature pecked my pate and bit the living hell out of my arm. Reasons no longer seemed to matter, running away did. I let go and rolled away, into a clump of damp pampas grass. The ungainly bird rose, gakking and sputtering. He looked around and spotted me laying there, wiping blood off my right arm. He walked over to me on his velociraptor legs and proceeded to kick my body like a street fighter as I pled insanity. Eventually tiring, the pissed-off geek-bird screamed an ostrich curse, spit on me, and then pranced away into the night.
I felt like a torn bone sack, but I was alive. Mirasol was not going to like this; she was not going to like this at all, so I decided the best thing to do was to stay away from Mirasol. I re-saddled my raccoon, Gerde, and rode towards the bluffs where I knew I’d find solace and solvents at my friend Leotis’ penguin-free condo.
I arrived after midnight, but Leotis was still up working on his new play about the celery stalkers of lower Saxony. He welcomed Gerde and I with open arms and quickly filled plates of foul-smelling cheese and cups of licorice soda for our sustenance. When we had finished, Gerde crawled off to a nearby sofa and fell into a bushy tailed slumber. Leotis inquired about my rather disheveled appearance and the state of things at the lab. I filled him in on the man vs. large-mean-bird episode and brought him up to date on Mirasol’s work. He glowed like a beaver’s wine bottle and said, “Mirasol is not going to like this.”

As Mirasol undressed in the bedroom, the muscles in her tan shoulders were aching. It had been a long day at the lab, working on her notes and trying to finish the report for Elgin, the project’s manager. The depletion of energy she was feeling exacerbated her irritation at Charlie. Where was he? He could have at least called. This was the third time this month he’s gone off on “a short ride of spontaneous discovery and cultural survival,” as he like to call his brief disappearances.
After a shower and her ritual “rubbing of the beauty oils” into her toned and tasty skin, she lay in the bed and wondered briefly if Charlie might be having an affair. “Highly doubtful” was her conclusion. They had been married for 20 years, and although she knew he appreciated the magic of women, she was confident that she, and only she, possessed the right mojo for him. Although they were opposites in many ways—she, a scientist, he, a writer of novels; she, a detail diva, he, a big-picture dreamer—the bond was strong. Charlie was a brilliant wing nut, a gilded loon who often saw things too painful or beautiful to see. He was a curious curiosity, and she loved him enormously. “Goddammit, where is that son of a bitch?” she said out loud, frustration and worry weaved into her voice. She looked at the clock on the nightstand; the digital numbers displayed 3:00 a.m. She turned her body onto its sleeping side and closed her eyes. At 3:01, the telephone rang.

Leotis Andrews loved Charlie like a son. They met at a reading Leotis had given during Charlie’s first year at U.C.L.A. Andrews was touring in support of his latest novel Green Beans, (which won a National Book Review Award), and Charlie wanted a chance to meet a “real” writer. Charlie got his chance at the “meet-and-greet” after the reading. He took Leotis’ hand, looked him directly in the eyes, and said, “Mr. Andrews, you make my brain dance. You make castles and cottages with words, and I am pulled into their parlors where you and I spend a few hours together. When I walk out the doors, I feel pleasantly plump. My name is Charles Rainwater, and I am, at the moment, professorial fodder, a lump of clay that is being kneaded and shaped by the higher educational system of the great state of California. But no matter what the system needs, wants, or says I should be, I will be a writer.” Leotis Andrews invited Charlie Rainwater to dinner that evening, and a great friendship was born.
Andrew’s was now 65 years old, and Charlie had recently celebrated his 45th birthday. As Andrews watched Charlie talk, he recognized there was something different about his long-time friend. He couldn't say what is was in particular, but some thing was a little off. Charlie had lost weight since the last time they’d been together, but the sight change he noticed wasn’t physical. No, this was something in the waves, a current flux maybe.
Charlie was very talkative tonight, but it wasn’t like a methamphetamine induced word rush; he wasn’t spewing out manic word bullets. On the contrary, he was quite lucid. He spoke cogently, in well-measured sentences; his words flowed with insight, wit, and color. It was just that he seem that if he stopped talking he might collapse. Leotis listened attentively, throwing out a comment now and then, but he instinctively knew that Charlie needed to talk…about anything. He needed to rid his mind of and excess of words.
Gerde, Charlie’s raccoon, was making soft snurgerling noises on the sofa, and Leotis was beginning to tire. “Charles, my dear friend, you’ve been talking to me for half the night; are you really going to begin talking to me, or should we turn in?” said Leotis.
Charlie poured himself some more soda and took a long drink. He tilted his head down for a few seconds, as if gathering his thought. When he raised his face, there was a hint of a smile on his lips as he looked into Leotis’ eyes. “I think I’ve become more than human.”

The Moon and the Lycanthrope

2007-07-10T15:12:00.000-07:00

What does a full moon say to a lycanthrope that causes him or her transform into a ravenous beast? I can’t imagine a song so seductive it would oil the blood, raise the hair, and lengthen the teeth of a human and cause it to morph into a man-eater.
Does the moon coax the werewolf out by the tidal influences on its bodily fluids, or does it simply say, “It’s that time of the month again, let it bleed.” Is the moon’s voice soothing or harsh; does it command or cajole?
Why can’t the lycanthrope resist? It’s not as if he couldn’t procure fresh meat as a human; I mean, haven’t they ever heard of butcher shops?
Does the moon lose its voice when it is waning or waxing, or can it only whisper at these times? When lycanthropes bite other animals, deer or rabbits for instance, why don’t those animals turn into werewolves also? I would think dogs, much more than humans, would be more susceptible to lycanthropy. Why doesn’t the moon sing its changing song to them?
Is the moon a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing? For centuries, man has looked to the moon for romantic inspiration; songs and sonnets have been written and sung to the glow it casts on love. Is lycanthropy the moon’s yang to its yen, the Pink Floydian Mr. Hyde to its Henry Mancinian Dr. Jekyll?
What is the magical song the moon sings?
What are the words the lycanthrope hears?

Paris Hilton's Furniture Conspires to Kill Her

2007-07-09T20:04:00.000-07:00

As soon as the deadbolt slid into place, and they were sure she was out for the night, the Henrik Mussman leather sofa spoke up. “Listen up, all of you, I can’t stand it anymore, and I know some of you feel the same way. It’s been going on for far too long, and I say it’s time we put an end to it.”
“I’m pretty disgusted, too,” said the $12,000, Machenspeil sideboard, “but what do you suggest we do?”
Several other pieces including the Rococo hall table, the Tienda floor lamp, and an 18th-century Gruble side chair chimed in, “Yeah, the situation is deplorable, but what can we do about it, we’re only furniture?”
“Well,” said the sofa, “I cost $35,000, and she treats me like a cum towel. I’m tired of her leaking on me.”
“Me, too,” said a voice from the bedroom, which everyone knew was the oversized Van Allen bed. “She dresses me in these atrocious flowered sheets, and lets that little dog crap on me. Something must be done.”
“Wait a minute, just wait a minute,” said the Diane Von Furstenburg dining table, “I don’t really have any problem with her. Sure there was that one time she had sex on me with that Greek kid and didn’t bother to wipe up, but that was it. I don’t think we should do anything drastic. And, I definitely think we should leave the little dog out of it. Poor thing, the way she treats it, dressing it up in those stupid clothes and all; no wonder the dog has mental problems. It’s not his fault, so let’s be fair.”
The sofa coughed and said, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. We’ll let the dog go but not her; she’s going to pay, and pay dearly.”
Some of the knick-knacks disagreed, and they were joined by the chandelier in the foyer, but the sofa said they’re opinions didn’t counts because they were simply decorations and couldn’t really be considered furniture.
Finally, the old, hand-woven, $70,000, Oriental rug spoke up, “Look, I’ve been here the longest, and I seen a lot. I don’t mind that she walks all over me, and I don’t mind that she has sex on me, but I absolutely draw the line at the leaking thing. It’s just rude and disrespectful. I say we should kill her.”
A hush fell over the room. Some of the furniture had been thinking the same thing, but had been reluctant to voice their opinions. Now, since the idea had been brought up, a murmur of approval arose. “Yeah, let’s whack her,” said the coffee table. “It’s not as though she has an important job or something. Does she even have a job?”
“She’s a celebrity,” offered the ottoman, “a leaking celebrity. It’s time for her to go.”
A vote was taken, and Paris Hilton’s furniture decided to murder her. “But how do we do it?” asked the rug.
“I’ll do it,” said the sofa. “The next time she sits on me, I’ll clasp my arms around her and smother her to death.”
“But she’ll leak all over you,” warned the armchair.
“That’s Ok, It’ll be the last time.”
The floor lamp sounded a note of caution, “What if you get caught?”
“Hey,” said the sofa, “I’m not worried about that. If I get caught, what are they going to do, reupholster me?”

Razor Camels and Short Hoppers

2007-07-09T13:29:00.000-07:00

The blackfellows from Downchurch called them razor camels. No one knew when the camels arrived, but the group had first been spotted in the lowlands nearly three years ago. Although no official tally had been kept, it was believed there were about 23 of them, mostly males. Razor camels seemed like an odd name for the indigenous people to call them; they carried no sharp instruments and didn’t know how to use a Motorola cell phone. Thought of mostly as desert animals, these camels preferred the seclusion offered by the forest. Seen so rarely, some said they were only specters, dromedary ghosts, better not seen or heard, but when the dry, Australian night wind blew, you could hear them, and what you heard was frightening. Apart from the occasional night-wind camel grunts, the group never bothered anyone; they kept to themselves and asked for nothing.
The troubles began a few months ago, shortly after the Great Roo War of the far outback. When the dust had settled on the bloody uprising, surviving, malcontent insurgents were driven from the west by King Longtail’s army and started arriving in the area. They came in pairs or groups of up to 15, most of them bearing scars and nasty attitudes. They became known locally as the Short Hoppers, and they were looking for a place to heal and plot revenge.
At first, the Short Hoppers settled at the edge of the forest, but it was clear they had aspirations on the forest itself; it was a perfect place to build a terrorist encampment. The fact the forest had been claimed as a homeland by the razor camels made no impression on the battle-hardened roos; they believed their cause justified any action they took to further it was Loki’s will.
The razor camels were not unaware of the roos’ presence and intentions, but abstained from direct confrontation. For the time being, they preferred to remain aloof, hidden, and calm. The people of Downchurch and its environs were growing apprehensive; by the end of the month, the roos’ numbers had swelled to more than 350 and the tension in that remote part of Australia was palpable. Small gangs of 15 to 20 Hoppers would occasionally be spotted in town, lounging on street corners, smoking weed or whispering secretively to one another. Dogs would whine whenever the Hoppers appeared.
It was the first of November that the tension escalated, and the fist casualty occurred. Henry Pontic, the old shepherd from the Boswell ranch, found a razor camel near the tree line of the forest on his way into town. The camel was dead, the victim, it seemed, of a savage tail thumping. Henry, a spiritual man, buried the camel under the watchful eyes of a dozen more camels standing in the shade at the edge of the forest. When the camel was interred, each of the other ones came out one by one and stamped a hoof on the grave. The last to emerge thanked Henry for his kindness and said, “Please, send word to the Hoppers, and tell them if they hop into the forest, they will be hopping into Thermopylae.”

High Jumping

2007-07-09T13:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my lovely dentist Sonia said those words to me that all dentists learn in density 101: “Now you may feel a little discomfort.” She then proceeded to inflict massive amounts of pain in my head as she rooted around the canal of my upper molar. “Yes,” I screamed, feeling like Dustin Hoffman in the movie Marathon Man, “it is safe.” Undeterred, she continued to get all Lawrence Oliver on my ass.
Today, I am still in pain, and to help put the pain in perspective, I dug out an old video in which I am shown in all my glorious stupidity defying a grisly death. “See,” I told myself as I watched the video, “things could have been worse.”
The video was taken at least 10 years ago, and involved lunacy, cocaine, jumping off stuff, and my friend Lamont (names have been changed to protect the innocent).
One day, Lamont and I were bored, so we decided to drive around the Texas Hill County in his truck, snort large amounts of cocaine, and talk about sex, politics, and cheese. Suddenly, one of us said, “Hey, let’s go jump off a cliff.” This idea really sounded good to us, so we drove up to a place on the Guadalupe River that offered bungee jumping. There, high on a limestone cliff, was a huge steel walkway jutting out over the river. All we had to do was pay some people $80, and they would strap us into harnesses, walk us up the steel plank, and let us jump out over the river and fall several hundred feet, narrowly missing rocks and people floating by on inner tubes.
My white-powdered brain was absolutely stoked at the prospect of hurtling myself into space…until I arrived at the top of the steel walkway. Once I reached the summit, my brain slipped into reverse, and my feet began to back peddle. The bungee master could sense my terror and did what all good bungee masters should do; he pushed me off.
Since I was now committed, I tried my best to execute a perfect swan dive, and I must say I looked pretty good…for about a second. I made the mistake of looking down, and the swan quickly devolved into a spastic chicken. Wings flailing about wildly, I tried to grab onto air as the water, rocks, and tubers rose to meet me.
A split second before my head became a stain on the Texas landscape; I was yanked with a terrific force back into the sky. Unfortunately, the harness I was in had straps that formed a V at my crotch. Evidently I had not shifted my package correctly and when my downward plunge was diverted upward, the force of the harness strap on my left testicle shoved it up into my body where it came to rest next to my thyroid gland. A high-velocity rearrangement of sensitive body parts causes pain that even a snout full of cocaine cannot diminish.
My tooth feels a lot better now.