The Boy Who Could Fly - Updated, with Action

A comic book script (c) Impending (me), 2005. Newly updated 12-28-2005, 9:30 am.

Yeah, I know, the "boy who can fly" think has been done. But everything's been done... I've written 50 pages of this as a juvenile fiction type novel, but I wonder if it'd be better as a comic book. I've been reading about how to write comic scripts...Here's how I'd start it. The story is set on Aquidneck Island, home of Newport...

This is part 1 ... Click here for part 2!

Page 1:
Panel 1: DOM PARKER walks into the school gym. It's the first day of school. All of the students are gathered on the bleachers at the other end of the gym. Banners hang on the walls celebrating the "Portsmouth Patriots." Teacher types mill about on the floor in front of the students. We first see DOM from behind -- his view as he pauses to look over the assembled kids. He has a backpack slung over his shoulders. He's a typical kid, not one of the cool kids, above average smarts. He's wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans.

DOM (in caption -- voiceover(VO)): "First day of high school and it's another new school. Did this four years ago, and now here we are again. It's always the same, really. You look over the class and you pick a place to sit. If you're lucky, you find a friend."

Panel 2: DOM'S face. Again, typical kid. Skinny, good looking but not gorgeous. A little glum... a little thoughtful, a little standoffish.

DOM (VO): That's how it works. You just pick out a face in the crowd...

Panel 3: Closer view of the kids on the bleachers. Slight spotlight on BRIAN. Blonde hair, blue eyes. A bit tousled, a bit rough-around the edges. Wearing a crew-neck sweater, drawing in his spiral bound notebook.

Panel 4: Dom sits down next to Brian and gives a nervous wave.

DOM: Hey. BRIAN: Hey. You're new.

DOM: Yeah. Moved here from New Jersey.

BRIAN: Congrats. Brian.

DOM: Dom. What're you drawing?

Panel 5: Close-up of Brian's notebook. It's a scene with a knight in bloody battle with a dragon. Something out of Frazetta...or the brothers Hildebrand...but hastily scribbled.

DOM: Cool. You're pretty good.

BRIAN: Thanks. You play D&D?

DOM: No.

BRIAN: You want to?

DOM: Sure.

BRIAN: Cool.

Page 2

Panel 1: Dom sitting in class, among a bunch of kids at desks, next to Brian, mostly paying attention as Brian passes him a note.

DOM (VO): "Simple as that, you have a friend. You get an instinct for this after a while."

Panel 2: Dom walking down the street with his backpack slung over his shoulder, the school bus passing by in the background. He's at the top of the street, which is mostly unkempt field.

Dom (VO): "But it's hard. I used to like moving. I didn't like this one. But Dad's job moved and we had to move with it."

Panel 3: We see more of Dom's street. More unkempt field, but we see now that he's at the top of a hill that ends in the bay (one that looks more like a river -- we're on an island only a mile away from the opposite shore). The street is an unfinished development that runs in three esses down to the bay. There are five houses scattered about 2/3s of the way down. The one in the middle is Dom's house. DOM trudges down the street.

DOM (VO): "So I move on. Leave behind the old, take on the new. New friends, new school, new life. It sucks."

Panel 4: We see Dom's house. It's a colonial -- basically a big rectangle with an attached garage. The yard is a hill, the driveway winds a little. There's a really nice wide slate porch in front of the house, where you can sit and look over the street and down past a handfull of houses and see the bay. Nice house, not a mansion but a nice house. GRETA, a medium sized black dog is racing down the driveway. She's a black lab mutt -- smaller than a lab, a little chubby. "This is my new house. We moved here a month ago. Me, my brother, my sister, Mom and Dad and Greta, the dog."

Panel 5: Dom's point of view. We see the entry hall, stairs to the right, kitchen down the hall. Dom's mother, DEENA, is focused on her laptop computer at the kitchen table.

DOM (VO): "That's my mom. She's going to open her own business. Some kind of gift shop, I think."

DOM: "I'm home!"

DEENA: "Hi, Dom."

DOM: "How was my first day?"

DEENA: "How was your day?"

Panel 6: Close up of Dom's face. He's glum.

DOM: "Fine."

Page 3:

Panel 1: Dom's room. No posters on the wall. Bland walls, wood trim. Old style single bed with dark wood finish. Similar dark wood desk, flat, with books and notebook papers with on top. A bookshelf filled with paperback sci-fi and fantasy novels. Three longboxes holding comic books in the corner. Window that overlooks the bay.

DOM (VO) "This is my room. It's a room."

Panel 2: Full view of Dom standing in the doorway of his room. DOM: (out loud, in bubble): "I've got to get out of here."

Page 4:

Panel 1: Close up of Dom riding his bike down the street -- more field, some houses in the background. It's late afternoon, almost 4:30 pm or so. The sun is headed downward.

Dom (VO): "There's this thing you don't know about me. I need to be alone sometimes."

Panel 5: Dom walking out onto a rocky, shell-strewn beach. His bike is laying against an old wood post. A chain runs from the post across a driveway you'd use to bring your boat to the beach. A sign hangs from the beach that says NO FISHING. To Dom's left, the beach turns into a rocky shoreline -- big rocks that you have to climb and clamber over.

Page 5:

Panel 1: Dom is clambering over the rocks. Up ahead, there is a hill that rises into a cliff. Dom is clearly heading there.

Panel 2: Dom is pulling himself to the top of the cliff. Lush greenery -- trees and such is behind him ... this is a mostly private spot. But across the bay, there are houses. You might see a boat in the distance.

Panel 3: Dom pulling his sweatshirt off over his head. Panel 4: Dom, shot from below a bit, shirt off. He's skinny.

DOM (VO): "Something happened to me a few months ago. Something I haven't told anyone about." Panel 5: You see Dom's view over the bay. Some houses dot the opposite shore. You see Dom from behind again, arms crossed, clearly cold.

DOM (VO): "I haven't done this much. I can't. But...sometimes...I have to."

Page 6:

Panels 1-5 -- small panels. Dom in profile. 1) takes a deep breath. 2) lunges forward. 3) jumps off the cliff, falling...

Panel 4: Falling, head on, fear on face.
Panel 5: Face determined, wind whipping back his hair.
Panel 6: half the page...He swoops upward! Face set in a giddy, joyous smile. Great, transparent wings fan out behind him. Powerful, transcendent scene. For the first time, Dom seems fully alive.

Page 7:

Full page... multiple shots of Dom swooping and diving and turning. Ascending and descending... wobbling and catching himself at times -- he hasn't done this too often.

DOM (VO): "I can fly. But I guess you know that now..."

Page 8:

Panel 1 – DOM in close up, face grim, a little nervous, body tilted slightly downward.

DOM (VO): “The problem, of course, is landing…

Panel 2 – Dom from the side, long view, heading for the rocky, shell-strewn shore, still over the water, which is a bit choppy. It’s a gray September day, and the water is going to be cold. His arms are thrust out in front, to ward off the inevitable crash.

DOM (VO): “You can’t find advice for this on the Web. Some hang-gliding sites say you just kick your feet out and run fast. Sure.”

Panel 3: Dom swoops up a bit. He’s out of control now, arms and legs flailing. He’s about 12 feet off the ground, just at the edge of the shore, over a spot that’s much too shallow.

DOM: Whoaaa!

Panel 4: Splashdown! He lands flat on his back, in about 2 inches of water. It looks cold and painful. He lays there. His eyes are closed. The wings are gone.

Panel 5: Still laying on the shore, a shadow falls over him.

Panel 6: Dom opens his eyes. He’s startled.

Page 9: Part II

Splash page: Title: The Boy Who Could Fly, Part II: More Than Human.

DOM is on his back, inching backwards on his elbows. He’s open mouthed, wide-eyed and startled. He’s looking up at someone wearing black boots and a long, black overcoat. All you see is the left boot and the bottom of the coat.

DOM (VO): Great. First month in a new town, and I’m already busted. Of course, back in Vermont, they’d shoot at me. Thought I was a vulture or something.

Page 10:

Panel 1: Dom, still on his back, struggling to sit up. CYRIL still in shadows. You can tell he has long, dark stringy hair.

CYRIL (Mostly off panel): “That was extraordinary.”

DOM: “Who-who are you?”

CYRIL: “You know me.”

DOM: “What?”

Panel 2: Bigger panel. Our first view of CYRIL. He’s 16, tall, dressed in black. Pale face, shoulder-length, stringy black hair. A bit of a Goth. Black overcoat, black t-shirt, black jeans and tall black boots. His hands are in his pockets. He has a bemused smile on his face, like he knows a secret.

CYRIL: “This morning. At school. ”

DOM: “Yeah. Right. I was lost…”

CYRIL: “I showed you the way.”

DOM: “Uh yeah. Thanks.”

Panel 3: Dom’s standing, brushing himself off. You can see that his back and sides are scratched from his hard landing. Dom and Cyril are talking. Cyril is about 4 inches taller than Dom. Cyril is solicitous. Dom is turned away a little, not meeting Cyril’s eyes. He’s suspicious and nervous.

CYRIL: “I can show you the way again.”

DOM: “What?”

CYRIL: “Your power. You have no idea of your power, your strength.”

DOM: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Panel 4: Close up of Cyril, sneering.

CYRIL: “Don’t play dumb with me. I saw you. I know you. When you were younger, things happened. Plates flew off the table and shattered. Toys just out of reach, flew into your hands…”

Panel 5: Close up of Dom. Clearly, Cyril is touching a nerve.

CYRIL (off panel): “… You’d get mad, and glass would shatter. Enemies would back off with mysterious pain. Am I getting close?”

DOM: "And then, one day, you can’t take it anymore. So you shut it down. Turn it off. For your own good. And everyone else’s."

Panel 6: Close up of Cyril. Sinister…gleeful.

CYRIL: “Until something happened…”

Page 11

Panel 1: Full view of Cyril and Dom on the beach. Dom’s looking away from Cyril, gazing off into the distance, talking like he’s in a trance. Cyril looks gentler, expectant and excited.

DOM: “Yeah. Last year. It’s a family camping trip…I’m hiking in the woods. Me, my folks, my brother and sister…."

Panel 2: DOM’s family hiking up a mountain trail. Older sister, younger brother. Mom and Dad. Show them all from behind… Dom’s in the lead, happy, ready to take off up the trail.

DOM: “You guys are too slow… I’m going ahead!”

DEENA: “Be careful, Dom!”

Panel 3: Dom’s face…he’s running up the trail, around a bend. DOM (thought balloon): Shut up, Mom.

Panel 4: He’s rounded a corner. His family is out of sight. He’s facing a tall rock wall; behind him the trail falls off into a deep ravine.

Panel 5: Rocks falling from above…an enormous brown bear’s face staring down.

DOM (VO): I never saw it coming.

Panel 6: Dom from behind, flailing, plunging off the trail… a bear’s claw swiping the air where he’d been.

Page 12

Panel 1: Dom is falling. His shirt and jacket ripped wide open from the back, and the transparent wings spread out gloriously from his back.

Panel 2: Same view, still falling but now slowing, circling.

Panel 3: Dom laying on the ground, on his stomach, amid some trees, his body generally contorted.

DOM (VO): “I must have fallen 200 feet. I was even worse at landings then. Broke my arm here. Bleeding pretty badly. But I was alive. And I knew…”

Panel 4: Back at the beach. Dom and Cyril still talking.

CYRIL: “And you did it…again and again. You felt your power growing…”

DOM: “No…What?”

Panel 5: Closer in view of Dom and Cyril. Dom’s “trance” is broken and he’s looking skeptically at Cyril, who looks anxious, hungry and a little wild.

DOM: “Who are you? How did you…”

CYRIL: “Let me demonstrate…”

Panel 6: Close up of Cyril. Arms stretched out before him…gathering his power.

Page 13

Panel 1: Cyril gestures and a blast of rocks, shells and sand crashes over Dom. Dom cries out.

Panel 2: Dom looks up, and the blast of rocks, shells and sand has turned into a swarm, flying over Dom’s head.

Panel 3: Cyril, from behind. He gestures, we see the swarm scatter across the water.

Panel 4: DOM (VO): I’m not proud…I was scared as hell.

Dom runs away, toward his bike.

Panel 5: Dom racing away on his bike. Cyril laughing.

CYRIL: “You could learn a lot from me.”

Panel 6: Close up of Dom’s face, riding hard, a tear rolling down his right cheek. He’s scared, and ashamed.

CYRIL (off panel): "I’ll see you around!"

DOM (VO): That was my first day of school. It gets worse.

Click here for part 2!

# # #

A comic book script by (c) Impending (me), 2005

Winners and Losers: A One-Minute Story

"You win some, you lose some," said Coach Jim Brodsky to the line of 22 somber-faced 10-year-olds. The boys were quiet, muddied. A few dirt-streaked faces were cut with tears.

Kenny had played the game of his life. Too skinny, too slow, he hadn't been a factor on the flag-football team this year, and he probably wouldn't play an organized sport again. But this day, he flashed through the defense like he was standing still, and ripped the flag from the opposing quarterback's hip before he could take two steps...and then did it again. They blocked him well from them on, respect he'd never received before.

Toward the end of the game, he had one more chance. The running back came around the left end, and Kenny reached and grabbed the yellow flag just as he went by. He ran hard, pulling Kenny off the ground, bouncing him along like a string of cans hanging from a newlyweds' car. The coach screamed for him to hang on, and he did, and the flag finally clicked loose, dropping Kenny to the ground.

But at the end of the game, their last game, they lost. For the first time all that fall. The boys didn't know how to take it. They'd never lost before. Some stared at the ground and kicked at the dirt. Others cried. The coach was grim.

"You win some, you lose some," he said. "Sometimes it's just not your day."

And sometimes, thought Kenny, it is and it isn't.

# # #

My Inner Voice

My best friend of my high school years always said I had a stick up my butt, and he was right. I wouldn't ask out a girl unless I knew she'd say yes. It wasn't OK for me to take something just for me to be happy, or to do something, unless everyone would be happy. Other people were free to do what they wanted, say what they wanted... to be free. I was a man of honor, of duty. My job was to be sure that everyone was OK ... to take charge when I was needed ... otherwise, to hang back and help.

My friend, on the other hand, was obnoxious. He worked at Pizza Hut, and there was this waitress he was in love with (a Catholic girl!). He pursued her constantly, his smooth voice insinuating himself into her thought and into her life. I thought he was nuts. Clearly, she liked him okay, but she was a couple years older, and when someone resists that much, what's the point? Finally, she'd agree to go to the Howard Johnson's with him after the late shift, and then to a movie or something. He'd keep at it. I still thought he was nuts. Soon, he got pretty quiet about it with me...and eventually, I'm pretty sure she became his "first."

A month or so later, we were driving by her house to see if she was home, and talking about what went wrong...he was obsessed...she'd moved on...I was right -- she wasn't that interested, but he'd managed to convince her anyway. I'd have backed off long before...but who had the more interesting experience?

For various reasons, I'm finding it easier to listen to my inner voice.

It's a very simple thing...the inner voice says, "I'd like to go sledding today," and instead of waiting for my wife to bring it up, I say it aloud. Or my mom says, "What do you want for Hanukkah?" and my inner voice says, "I could use a nice sweater for work and some new DVD movies...but I shouldn't admit that I want anything," and, instead, I say it aloud and maybe I'll get a sweater.

I know, mundane. But it's a start.

It's a powerful thing -- not the inner voice itself, but the ability to recognize it, and to know you have a choice, that it's OK to want, to need and to act. It's OK to take as well as give. People may actually find that you're more interesting if there are things you want for yourself.

You might find yourself more interesting, too.

Bay Area Journal

I finally took a vacation. With a massive movement of men and materials, the Family traveled by plane to my parents' house -- 9 days in Redwood Shores, Calif., just a bit south of San Francisco, where we were joined by a massive influx of relatives.

The scorecard: My wife and three boys, 5.5 years and under; my sister, her husband, and one-year-old; my brother, his wife, and boy and girl, 3-years and under; my dad's mother and her husband; my mom's mother and her husband; and my mom, dad and their, dog, Sadie.

But we got there early, dropped off the kids and headed up to Napa for two days of wine sipping, fine dining, mountain hiking and spa treatments. The wine on Day 1 was OK, and dizzying... they took us for six bottles.

Day 2 may well have been my best day ever:

- Wake up late.
- Massive continental breakfast in the lobby of the Yountville Inn. Bagels, crumbcakes, fruit, juice, coffee and cereal; brought back more to the still-sleeping wife in our room.
- Relaxed in the whirlpool, then a dip in the well-heated pool.
- Shower and dress, head off to Calistoga, home of spas, hot springs and more wineries.
- We decided to hike up an old mountain mining trail...on the way there, we stopped at a spa and found a convenient appointment for mud baths and massage.
- A two-hour hike. Picnic on the mountain. Critters and birds flitting by. Massive, spread-winged vultures floating overhead (Vultures may not sound so great, but at the time, I thought they were eagles, so it was glorious...my outdoors-y brother-in-law burst the bubble upon seeing my digital photo of the bird in flight, but it was too late by then).
- On the way down the mountain, an amusing but embarrassing episode for my wife. The less said about this the better. Let's just say that it's good that we had a lot of napkins along.
- The spa -- I'd never done this. I must do it again ... first, a bath in hot steaming mud. Then a mineral bath soak. Then the steam room, a little relax time and a massage from my shoulders to my toes. Complete, giddy, bliss.
- Delicious steak dinner, then back to the hotel to seduce my wife and watch movies.

You can't really top perfection, and my extended family certainly would not be able to try. But there were no major blow ups, fist fights or hurt feelings to speak of, and everyone loved our kids. And we finished the trip with a visit to the Millbrae In-N-Out Burger, chomping down a fresh Double-Double and feeding french fries to the birds.

I know, positivity is boring. But this was indeed a good vacation.

And, now, back to our regularly scheduled misery.

People that I Miss

This blog is pretty anonymous, and it should stay that way (except for you special few, you know who you are, you little dickenses...). But I've been mulling the past, and how I've left too many people behind in my life, through too many moves across the country and too much laziness and forgetting and closing off my mind and my heart to anyone or anything that might cause an excess welling of emotion.

Given the power of Google, I thought I'd throw out a few names of people I miss, who I think about all the time but have lost from my life completely... If you come across this, and think you might know me, leave a comment or send me an email. In no particular order...

Brian Anton -- my best friend through 8th grade. Then I moved. Comic readin', Micronaut playin' buddy. I remember you asking me once, in 8th grade, if we would still be friends if it weren't for comics. Two answers: yes...and what does that matter?

Homer Cepeda -- It was Homer and Brian and me through 8th grade. Went off to private school after I moved. You'd think you could Google a guy with a name like Homer Cepeda, but nothing comes up but the baseball stats of Orlando Cepeda.

Scott Chankin -- My bowling and summer camp buddy before I moved. I've never gotten over my guilt for not replying to your letter to me after I moved out of town.

Dan Rubin -- College buddy. I'd heard you'd been laid off. You'd always kept in touch. Now you've disappeared and I'm regretting not keeping up. Where did you go?

Eric Geoffroy -- College buddy ... best friend, really, until senior year when you moved off campus and I got a girlfriend, I guess. Tremendous musical talent who opened my eyes to real creativity. What the heck are you doing now?

Lisa Spencer -- that college girlfriend. Hey, look, I'm happily married with kids and all that, but I'd just love to know what you've made of yourself.

There's a longer list, but I'll stop there for now...

Nooooooooo!

I'm at my office. I've got my pen, I've got my New York Times Arts section, open to the crossword puzzle. I'm ready.

And there's a line for the men's room.

This is so wrong.

Decisions, Decisions

that little song at the end of my previous post has been a theme in my life of late. I've been having problems with decisions. It's really very simple: I need to do something else with my life. I need to follow my muse for writing. I need a job that I feel some passion for, or at least I can tolerate enough that I can do decent work. I need to be able to order my life so that I have a few "perfect days".

I need to quit my job.

Unfortunately, I'm afraid I'm moving in that direction, but not on purpose. My main client is putting us up for review. My business will take a big loss for the work I'm doing, for a client we may not get back. And for my part, it's all I can do to get myself to do any work at all ... I've been distinctly unimpressive to the very people who will make the review decision.

Decisions, decisions.

The idea, of course, is to choose your own path. To chose a goal, chart a course, and boldly sail the schooner of life in that direction, not letting the storms of distractions and the icebergs of fate impede your path or trap you in the sargasso of indecision.

My alternative theory is to choose the river of your fate and to see where it takes you...and if you feel you're going the wrong direction, you can hope that it will divide somewhere downstream and you'll be offered a new path, right in front of you, that a mere push of the pole will set you on a new course. But what if the river never divides? You can choose a new river, but it's very hard to do...since the river never stops and neither do you.

Decisions, decisions.

More Songs in My Head

Some songs I'm imagining myself singing...

Livin' on the road my friend
Is gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
Your breath's as hard as kerosene.

- "Pancho & Lefty" by Townes van Zandt

They say that these are not the best of times
But they're the only times I've ever known...

I have seen that sad surrender in my lover's eyes
I can only stand apart and sympathize
For we are always what our situations hand us:
It's either sadness or euphoria.

- "Summer Highland Falls" by Billy Joel

I've been driving
Sixteen hours
This rain is like a
Metronome.

- "Been Set Free" by Peter Himmelman

I was singing a song about open plains
I was singing a song about a rope.
I was about a southbound train
I was singing a song about hope.

And it's not like I'm goin' nowhere
'Cause I'm getting there awful fast.
It's not like I'm in a hurry to get there
Sometimes I wish I had more of a past.

Everyone is cheering
While I'm leanin' against the rail.
Everyone sees their future nearin'
While I'm just afraid to fail.

And what were you thinking when you told me you loved me?
Did you even know that you had lied?
What were you thinking when you looked me in the eyes...
And made just one..lonely ... plea:
Decide...

"Decide" by me, Impending, today

ABC News: Bush Nominates Alito for Supreme Court

Don't you get the feeling that all of a sudden, Bush and team have started to watch television. It's like each move and counter move is perfectly designed to integrate with prevailing wisdom of the press. The Harriet Miers nomination was kicked back by movement conservatives who thought she had no judicial credentials (because, well, she didn't...) ... here's Alito, with the mostest judicial credentials ever! Miers was too much of a blank slate ... Alito has lots and lots on his slate! It's like Bush is saying, "You want experience? You want a record? I'll give you the mostest ever!" And the media just eat it up. Having the newsmakers conveniently package the news into the storylines they've already written makes things so darned easy for them. The story just writes itself! Which, of course, is the problem...the nub, as it were.

One Minute Story: Comic Book Dreams

I was sitting on a park bench, dreaming.

In my dream, I was in the army. But when I fired my gun, I didn't kill anyone. They would just keep coming and coming, over the dusty, dirty hill that was dotted with patches of green and brown grass and wavy, straw-like grains. Then I'd look over the hill and they'd be gone, and the hill became an expanse, a valley, that went on forever. So I forced myself over the hill and then I fell and rolled, but I didn't feel like I was rolling and I couldn't feel the bumps and I should have been bruised but I wasn't, probably because I was dreaming.

And I stood up with my gun at the ready...but there was no enemy, only this empty plain that stretched on forever.

So I sat down and laid my gun on my lap and I had a smoke. Only I don't smoke. So I started coughing. So I dropped the cigarette and it set the grass on fire. And there was fire all around me like in a ring and I got up and gaped at it, open mouthed I gaped at it, standing, ready to shoot something. But nothing came and it was hot. And I was scared.

And then I woke up.

* * *

"So, what do you think, Doc?"

"What do you think, John?"

"I think I'm getting hot under the collar!"

"What is that, some sort of movie line?"

"I think so. Probably not."

"What do you think your dream meant, John?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you have some unresolved conflicts."

"Pffffft. Okay..."

"I think you're angry and helpless. And you realize your only enemy is the one you can't fight -- yourself."

"Well, yes. That's all true, but..."

"But what?"

"But I think it was about my frustrations..."

"Yes, that's what I said..."

"...about my inability to successfully gain super powers."

"That's funny..."

"You see, I tried to irradiate a spider. But it's not easy to find radiation. They don't sell it at Radio Shack."

"I'd imagine not..."

"Cosmic rays aren't easily available, either."

"I'm not familiar with..."

"So, I've been working in my garage on an exoskeleton. Mostly with scrap metal and transistors, some old machine tools and minimotors."

"And what will this exoskelton do for you?"

"The exoskel-e-ton will give me super strength, of course. and I'll be bulletproof. Mostly."

"So, when you say 'bulletproof' that's really a metaphor for ..."

"Protecting me from bullets, yes."

"And who would be shooting at you?"

"Villains. Look, if you're not going to take me seriously, I'm going to have to..."

"Are you threatening me?"

"... take you to my garage and show you. It's really cool."

"That's okay. I believe you."

"You do?"

"No, I don't."

Lines in the Sand

Some days I feel like I'm running around in circles. There's a starting line, just beyond the edge, but I keep circling just shy of it, every lap arcing so close that if I just stopped ... I could step right over.

But I can't.

Yesterday, I discussed with someone (OK... my therapist ...) what a thrill it might be to see what I can really get away with at work. Could I, potentially, finish a week's worth of work in one or two days, and then relax and enjoy the rest of the week. My answer: I probably could. What's scary about that? That I have no idea what I'd do with the rest of my time. But wouldn't it be fun to see if I could do it?

The problem is getting started. How do you get off the track? How do you 'just do it' when something, a little child inside you is screaming, "I don't wanna face this"?

So here's my answer: From hereforth, I'm going to take George Costanza's advice and 'do the opposite'. Whatever I want to do, I'm going to do the opposite. If I want to avoid work, I'm going to work. If I don't want to make a phone call, I'll make the phone call. If I don't want to write the article, I'll write the article. If I don't want to have lunch with my old boss, I'll call her and set it up.

God I hate this idea.

(which probably makes it a pretty good one).

My Perfect Day

As it happens, I hate my job. What would comprise my perfect day?

6:00 am -- Wake up. Realize it's 6:00 am. Go back to sleep.

6:45 am -- Shuffle downstairs. Get newspaper. Have cup of coffee from coffee shop magically appear in my hand. Drink coffee and read paper. Cook can of corned beef hash. Feed kids.

7:15 am -- Eat bowl of cereal, corned beef hash and orange juice. Continue reading paper.

8:30 am -- Shower and stuff. Get dressed: No suit...but lookin' sharp and comfy.

9:30 am -- Go to coffee shop. Drink more coffee. Write stories.

11:30 am -- Lunch! Gyro or falafel. Read magazine.

Noon -- Make phone calls. Take meetings. Do Emails. Do work.

2:30 pm -- Writing time. Another coffee shop. Don't bug me.

5:00 pm -- Dinner! Lots of delicious food! From a restaurant. How 'bout some ribs?

6:00 pm -- Play with kids.

7:00 pm -- Put kids to bed.

8:00 pm -- Watch TV. Zone out.

9:00 pm -- Work more ... send more emails ... while watching TV.

10:30 pm -- Seduce wife.

11:00 pm -- Read compelling novel. Or comic book.

11:15 pm -- Fall asleep.

Opening Lines

Someday, I'm sure to write a novel. Doubtless, I will choose from among the following opening lines:


Rene wasn't tired and she wasn't hungry. She wasn't anxious and she wasn't nervous. She wasn't happy and she wasn't sad. She was perplexed. And who wouldn't be: there was a sea lion in her living room.

* * *

Turbulence wasn't a word used lightly among pilots. "A little bumpy," they might say. Or, "we're hitting a rough patch." So when the speakers crackled with shouts of "Turbulence!" from the cockpit, Jack knew he'd best check the seat pocket for that little paper bag.

* * *

One thing I was sure about growing up: I would never be caught by an elephant with a pound of peanuts stuffed in my underwear. But here I am.

* * *

I like butter. A lot.

* * *

Swimming is easy. It's breathing that's the trouble. Always remember to breathe, my grandma told me and I took that advice to heart.

* * *

"Call me, Ishmael!" I shouted. But, alas, my love had gone to sea.

Thumbsucker - A Movie Review

Last night, I went to a free sneak preview of Pride and Predjudice, and, after a series of wacky mishaps involving my mother-in-law and a large, extra-spicy burrito, and upon discovering that Pride and Predjudice is based on a Jane Austen book, making it a movie which no self-respecting male should attend alone, I found myself $15 poorer balancing a Coke, a bag of hot, buttery popcorn, and a ticket to "Thumbsucker".

Thumbsucker is a movie about resolving the conflict between who you are and who you want to be. Seventeen-year-old Justin Cobb has an embarrassing habit: He picks his nose. Ha! Just kidding -- he sucks his thumb. He does it by himself, when he's stressed, or tired, or just wants to relax. Understandably, his unrequited jock dad doesn't thinks he's an idiot, and his celebrity obsessed, fantasizing nurse mom is enabling. Dad gets so upset, he writes his own initials on Justin's thumb -- MFC.

Justin is a nice kid, a little buck-toothed and a little mopey. He's on the debate team, where he's in love with Rebecca, who has big boobs. It appears we're headed for tender teen romance when, after their first kiss, Rebecca notices MFC written on his thumb and asks him what it means ... so responds, well, poorly.

So Justin goes on a journey to see how he can change himself -- to become the person he's supposed to be. He tries hypnosis, pharaceuticals and pot. He gets advice from his hippie, new age orthodontist (Keanu Reeves), a recovering addict TV-star (Benjamin Bratt) and his recovering teen debate teacher (Vince Vaughn).

And eventually, you know, discovers himself and stuff.

You know, writing reviews is hard, and I have to get back to work. It was a good movie. I liked it... go see it. Thanks.

Art for Art's Sake

Ahh...the glorious music of the keyboard...oh the art you can create:

l;aksdjfl;asdfja;sldjfasl;dfjka;sldfja;ldfja;ldfj;aldfj;aldfj;aldfjal;dfjal;sdfjla
;dfjla;dfjalsdf

Now, look how I start to mix in other rows... here's the middle row plus QWERTY! ...

aj;sdlkfjas;ldjfa;lsdfjqwoeituawoeitywoeitlkdfasl;dkfasodfjqopweityakdfj
aoetiuqwodfasdl;ufweijasdfwioetujawoeiuldkfwoe

And now, a little three-row action...

al;ksdjalkdjacm,v.x,cjgoeifnmaweoifnxcvkdhtiodnvawencvweopifnkl
d;vnaeiocvcmcxnwoehaxcvmnoer

And numbers!

;aklsdfl;aksj20935u239045lsdjf032459lksdjf23095ldsf340mncvc
gj3049lkdjeowkdac.,vcm409

With but a touch of the shift key...punctuation!

lka;sdnval;df()*#$@Y(*@NC@)#$*(SVMCXNGLDGC">NVEG@()$GNVDM<>SVMCXNGLDGC

(oops...CAPS LOCK! what spontenaeity!)

And now... the whole keyboard....!!!!!

lkajdlvna;lhgdkjh03489*()^(JHKDN(DS*Y983453mfdmnzxc,.vn48thasdklfzd90v8h4rtio

Thank you, thank you...yes I know... I feel blessed that we could be a part of this artistic experience together ...

How to Shoot an Apple off a Man's Head at 100 Yards

How to Shoot an Apple Off of a Man's Head At 100 Yards

If you enjoy nature hikes up easy rolling hills, antiqueing in an old river town, a variety of unique crafts by local artists, and teeth-rattling near death experiences, the Stillwaters Art Fair, this Saturday and Sunday, is for you. Here are some highlights.

Nature Hikes

Bring your backpack and take a hike! Trails will take you through historic Stillwaters and up the Lenaole Overlook, where there's plenty of space to spread out the picnic blanket, sip lemonade and watch the apple-shooting exhibition down by the river from a safe distance. Don't jump -- it's only gunplay!

Antiquing

If it's old, it's here! Stillwaters is known worldwide for its antique stores, where the motto is, "It may be 100 years old, but it's new to you!" The Stillwaters Musket Society has recently taken posession of a cache of vintage Civil War Benchrest Rifles, found just last month by a now-unknown Wisconsin antiquer, for the annual Apple Shoot. Polished and lovingly restored, these beauties were designed to be accurate from 1800 feet...but that was a long time ago!

Arts and Crafts by Local Artists

What is Art, and what is a Craft? Well, we'll let the philosophers sort out that timeless question! We've put Arts and Crafts together in a one-of-a-kind tent show sure to satisfy the aesthetic eye. Special this year is a piece of metal-craft by artisan Chris Crawford of Minnetonka, who has developed an ingenious apple holder that can be sized for the youngest and most ... ample ... amongst us. But don't clamp that apple too tight, Chris! It has to fall off!

Teeth-Rattling Terror...and Fun!

This year's 100th Anniversary Apple Shoot should be more thrilling -- and safer -- than ever, due to new rules that require at least three weeks of firearms training for all contestants. Also, men -- and women, too, for the second consecutive year! -- who wish to wish to be Apple Tablers will use Chris Crawford's Apple Holders in hopes that it will help avoid unfortunate incidents like the wounding of Johnny Smeltstrom by Steve Olson, who accomplished what everyone agrees was an excellent piece of shooting when he tracked the apple as it prematurely fell from Johnny's head and shot a bullet right through the apple as it passed Johnny's sternum. Ouch! The new safety measures have led to some grumbling from long-time Apple Shoot enthusiasts, but most everyone agrees that sometimes the "old school" isn't the best school!

Remember, early sign up for Apple Tablers begins tomorrow. Tourists welcome! See you there!

# # #

One Minute Story: Takin' it to the Streets

A One-Minute Story ...

"I'm mad as hell, and I'm..."

"Not going to take it anymore...yes, of course," I said drolly. This was becoming tiresome.

"But I really am. I'm ready."

"I'm sure you are," I said, and began packing up the assorted papers and file folders I'd spread across John's desk. The piles of papers and folders and magazines already heaped thereon made it hard to tell which papers were mine and which were his.

"That's mine," John said.

"Yes, yes, of course. I really have to go now. I have a meeting ..."

"I told you I'm ready to do something. What are we going to do?"

"What would you like to do," I said, sighing and sitting back down, briefcase closed upon my lap.

"Something. I'm going to quit. And tell the media. I've had enough of the lies, the deception, the sheer callousness..."

"Yes, well... I have to advise against that. You'd only find yourself alone. Ostracized. Jobless. Is that what you want?"

"Yes! I mean...no, not really," John looked sad, and conflicted, and I realized that he had told the truth the first time -- like Garbo, he wanted to be alone... but he wanted it to happen to him...not to happen because of his own actions.

"There are always consequences," I said. "Every action is a decision, especially when you can predict the outcome. What will you decide to do today?"

"I don't know yet. I have a lot of work to do."

"Don't we all..."

#

What I ate in Chicago

I spent a week in Chicago at a trade show in the massive McCormick Place. I'm back now and my feet still ache. The highlights of the trip hinged upon, as usual in my case, what I ate and where I ate it. Here, for your consumption (get it, consumption...'cause it's about food...get it? no, not tuberculosis...what are thinking? Anyway..., is a recap of my visit.

• Best cheeseburger -- the Boston Blackie at Boston Blackies. A half-pound of ground, grilled, cheesed deliciousness, washed down with a draft Sam Adams. Enjoyed with Travelin' Colleague Tony, who is from Boston.
• Best Steak -- The New York Strip at the Saloon. This also was the only steak eaten on the trip, but it was a good choice -- gigantic, moist and delicious all the way through.
• Best Spaghetti & Meatballs -- A little known fact about me is that I only order spaghetti and meatballs at Italian restaurants. However, I didn't go to any Italian restaurants in Chicago. After Friend Brian (one of the proud few that read this blog) blatantly ignored my plaintive cell-phoned pleas to attend his party, I walked Michigan Avenue, bought the Marvel 1602 graphic novel at Virgin Records, read more graphic novels at Borders, and even found time to pick up a bracelet for my lovely wife. Upon my return to the hotel, I ordered spaghetti bolognese from room service and dove into the world of 17th century superheroes. The spaghetti could have used some meatballs.
• Best Drink -- Gin and Tonic, Tavern on Rush. The drink was competent, the conversation, with Friend Nancy and later joined by Travelin' Colleague Tony, was delightful. Even more important was that while I waited alone at the bar for said Friend Nancy, I'm pretty sure that at least two attractive women gave me the eye and a little smile. I'm happily married with three kids, so just that's enough fantasy to keep me going for awhile.
• Best Sushi -- Mirai. I don't even like sushi. This sushi has left me craving sushi. The warm saki and Tsing Tao only embellished the experience.
• Best Pizza -- None.
• Worst Pizza -- Connie's at McCormick Place -- thick slabs of cheese covering bland red sauce and chunks of recently defrosted sausage.
• Most Average Burger -- The Big 'N' Tasty, McDonald's at McCormick Place. First off, the the McDonald's "Express" doesn't carry the Quarter Pounder. Secondly, "Express" in McDonald's language apparently means "30 minute wait". However, the Big'N'Tasty was, as expected, medium sized and OK.
• Best Pancakes -- Pancakes & Eggs in Rosemount. I didn't eat breakfast for the entire trip -- too lazy, too stressed. Until Thursday, on my way out of town, when Friend Colleen and Kid Will intercepted me on the way to the airport for delightful conversation and funny faces. Pancakes were fluffy, but small. However, two extra stars to the P&E for providing Corned Beef Hash as a side dish. It wasn't quite Mary Kitchen ... in fact, it might have been fresher than that... despite that, it was a delicious, welcome and stomach-filling treat, and I happily fell asleep upon takeoff.
• Best Homecoming -- My 16-month-old, who gave me just about the biggest hug ever. Awwwwwwwwwwww....

I'm back now...

Overheard at My Wife's 20th High School Renunion

Tall, blonde, beautiful former cheerleader from wealthy family to a gay man. Spoken with sincerity:

"You know, apparently some people didn't have a good experience in high school."

You think so?

# # #

Important Song Lyrics

Popular Musicians Can Teach You So Much! Here are some "nuggets" that I have found very deep and meaningful for my life! Maybe they can help you, too! They sure do help me!

"Sad songs say so much," Elton John. They do don't they? Much more than the happy ones.

"She steals like a thief but she's always a woman to me," Billy Joel. Billy Joel has a whole lot of what I like to call 'advice songs.' These have been very meaningful to me. I'm not sure what this one means. Perhaps women don't usually steal.

"Honesty. It's such a lonely word..." That's our friend Billy Joel again. I often feel quite lonely. Honest!

"But when you're born to run, it's so hard to just so down," Stevie Winwood. So true. I probably wasn't born to run, but I've kept this in mind!

Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care? If so I can’t imagine why? We’ve all got time enough to cry," Chicago. It took a band like Chicago to ask this timeless question. And to answer it. Indeed, we do all have time enough to cry, and shouldn't that be enough?

"I want a new drug...One that won’t make me sick...One that won’t make me crash my car...Or make me feel three feet thick..." Huey Lewis and the News. I think of this nugget as everytime I take my anti-anxiety medicine. Hee hee!

I'll probably think of more tomorrow! Oboy!

# # #

Folk Music

Folk music. The music of the folk. Storytellers. Tellin' stories.

If I could choose a new career, right now, money no object, I'd be a folk singer. And I'd move on this right away, if not for my distinct lack of talent on the guitar and ability to carry a tune further than I could throw one. Oh, and the fact that I write songs almost daily in the car on the way to work...with lyrics that are forgotten almost as soon as they are composed.

Be that as it may, I've come to realize that there is a whole population out there of middle class folk who lack folk music telling ther story of said folk. Woody Guthrie covered the Depression-era dust bowl, and a host of unwashed, pale, wide-eyed, patched-jeans wearing folkies covered the Baby Boom in all of its Magical Youth.

But where, oh where, is the musical chronicler of the modern office worker. The dull-eyed, fresh-air deprived worker who once counted on lifetime employment in loco parentis from his company now at the mercy of efficiency experts, automation and the rising tide of highly competent foreigners happy to do his job at a more reasonable rate for the shareholders.

I've only heard one song about an office layoff -- Ben Folds' "Fred Jones, Pt 2", a song as emotionally fraught as any for those of us who aren't sure what 'added value' they bring to make themselves irreplacable:

There was no party, there were no songs

'Cause today's just a day like the day that he started

Noone has left here that knows his first name

And life barrels on like a runaway train

Where the passengers change

They don't change anything

You get off; someone else can get on

And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones

It's time.

It's hard when you're so close to it. I'd squirm if I heard a singer wailing,

"Outsourced...what a terrible way to be...

Outsourced! Why'd it happen to me?

I gave all I had for the company,

now they've shifted my job off to New Delhi..."

Ouch.

Or maybe, if the lyrics were a lot better (and I meat A LOT better), like those Depression-era grape pickers in California gathered around the tractor trailer, you'd find people gathering around on the sidewalks downtown, munching on their Vienna Beef hotdogs and nodding their heads and smiling...knowing that someone out there knows what they're thinking could happen any day... and maybe a few more people will try a little harder to be irreplaceable.

Or decide it's time to see what that old dream was all about...

# # #

Impending...in the Dells!

No, no real disasters impending... but I'm blogging today from the gloriously tasteful environs of the Wisconsin Dells. A long-overdue family vacation, since I'm hopelessly burnt out at work...this may or may not help...I will admit to checking my work email here at the Route 12 Internet Cafe...my reward is...ta da!...I get to blog!

Getting here, was, as usual, half the fun ... a 3.5 hour drive from Minneapolis turned into about 6 hours, during which we were forced to pull over on I-94 due to a blinding rainstorm (and a near panic over my driving from a certain passenger...who insists that I was far closer to hitting that motorcycle than I possibly could have been...really! No...really!). We started driving again, and discovered we were still rain-blind, but were able to see well enough to inch the car to an off ramp and, as if called by a divine power, into the parking lot of a Burger King with a Play Place. Two cookies, one milkshake, a pair of Spider-Man goggles and a mini Optimus Prime Transformer, three bathroom breaks and one-and-a-half hours later we were back on the road.
If you've never been to the Dells, think Branson, MO, without the southern-fried tacky. More midwestern tacky...or... oh hell...it's hard to be cynical and aloof when you and your wife have three kids, five-and-under, in tow... When you have three kids, what's tacky about Pirate's Cove Mini-Golf? Or the Ripley's Believe it Not Museum? Or the Tommy Bartlett Water Show? Or the castle-themed Camelot Hotel, chosen to replace the campsite that was no doubt washed away in today's storms, which uses a castle shaped facade -- admittedly successful at delighting the kids -- to hide a perfectly lousy hotel where the wife and kids are trying to sleep while I -- assuming the traditional male role of hunter-gatherer -- head to the Wal-Mart for morning vittles -- a cereal variety pack, milk, bread and a squeeze bottle of jelly.

So, my loyal reader or two...wish me luck... in mending my jaded spirit...in fogetting the cares of the office...in relaxing enough to have a little fun...in getting a little sleep...and in stalking and capturing a delicious squeezable bottle of jelly before Wal-Mart shuts down for the night. It'll be a close one.

# # #

If I Were a SuperHero

I've been relying on the esteemed Prof. Scott Tipton to revive my knowledge of the past two decades of Marvel and DC superhero history, further fueling my descent into fantasy universes I'd left behind for friends and women.

More productive, perhaps, is that my five-year-old son wants to start a company with me, one that would publish comics and make superhero movies. We've created quite the superhero universe already...he takes them quite seriously. But he's also come up with some rather ... odd ... heroes...that would make for fun stories:

STATUE MAN! He's able to stand completely still...like a statue!

ODDBALL! He's big and fat and round, and he can...what exactly can he do?

DINO SIX! A member of the Fantastic Six, Dino Six can turn into any dinosaur. Or, any part of a dinosaur. Like with a Tyrannosaurus head and Stegasaurus tail and Triceratops' horns. A formidable hero.

YELLOW LIGHT! He can look into the sun...without blinking or hurting his eyes! Very useful, because his bad guys hide in the sun!

SLOW MOTION MAN! He's so coooool! He moves extreeemleeeeeeyyyy sloooowwwwwleeeeeeey...

# # #

One Minute Story: "Desperation"

He couldn't get rid of the feeling that there was so much left undone. It gnawed at his stomach, souring the fluids where he supposed his brain floated, untethered from his mind.

It was all very juvenile, really. Stack the boxes on the shelf. Check to be sure that the labels faced the aisle and like products were grouped helpfully together.

And the crates were empty and the labels were grouped, helpfully, and faced the aisles in a stunning display of All-American plenty. And yet, Jonathan sat on the floor and clutched his stomach, thinking of all that was left undone.

A cart peeked around the the aisle, followed by the slow shuffle of an older lady seeking Matzo ball soup mix, which was nearly invisible amongst the more gentile offerings. Then a boy of five or so rounded the corner, laughing. He stopped and ran back the way he came, his voice echoing across the aisle: "There's a grown-up on the floor over there. He has brown skin."

"Is he OK?" a woman asked.

"He's just sitting," the boy said.

"OK...you know, it really doesn't matter that he has brown skin, Jason."

"I know," Jason said.

But it does matter, doesn't it? Something has to matter, or nothing does, he thought. He thought about what his manager said that morning, when Jonathan asked him why his manager's new boss was arranging interviews with each employee.

"He wants to get a feel for morale. And productivity."

"Why?"

"Because that's what managers do."

"I'm not going to be here much longer," Jonathan said. "Can I skip this?"

"You've been here nine years. Where are you going now?"

"I've got a plan...there's so much..."

"Left undone...yes, I know. Look -- this job is what is it is and you are what you are..."

"What is that?"

"A very good stockboy."

"Don't you call me..."

"I know...it's the title..."

"I know...

"Do you want my job? You can do my job..."

"I don't want your job...thanks, though."

"It is what it is, you know?"

"You keep saying that. You know it makes no sense."

"I know, but it keeps you going, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Jonathan paused. "I'm going to go finish up now. Then I'm going to quit this job."

"Yeah?"

"For real."

Jonathan finished up. It took him two more hours. Then he punched out, took a deep breath of cool evening air, confirmed his schedule for tomorrow, zipped his coat and walked to the bus stop.

# # #

Space Knight!

My kids and I play this game were we make up superheroes and then I tell stories about them. They're utterly insatiable. Here's me coming home from work:

"Hi, guys! I'm home!"

>>continued reading of books or leaping upon couch-pillow mountains<<

"Umm...hello?"

"Daddy! Tell us a Fantastic 6 story!" says kid 1

"No, tell us an Awesome Eight story!" says kid 2

"Tell us a Space Knight story!" says kid 1.

"OK, wait, Daddy," says kid 2, who is older by a year and a half. "Tell us a Space Knight story now and then tell us an Awesome Eight story for our bedtime story."

"How about we tell no stories now and read books for bedtime?" I say, hopefully.

"No, Daddy," says kid 2, and then togther: "Tell us a Space Knight story! Tell us a Space Knight story! Tell us..."

"OK," I say, and fall in a bit of a heap on the couch. The kids, 5 ("and a half!") and 4, clamber up onto the couch, and wait expectantly.

"Tell us the story that happens after the last story!" says kid 1.

"What happened in the last story?"

"Daddy, you remember -- when Space Knight won the race around the moon," says kid 2

"Right. And there he was with friend, Gronk."

"Gronk is really fat," says kid 1, puffing out his cheeks.

"Well, yes, he's a very big guy. And as you know, he's kind of a Space Mechanic. Anyway, Gronk says, 'Space Knight, I have a mission. You should come with me.' Space Knight says, 'Sure...what is the mission?' and Gronk says, "Well, I have to go to the planet Serracloob...'"

"Serracloob? That's an odd name," says kid 2.

"That's the name."

"OK."

"So, Gronk says, 'We have to get there fast. There's a space bus stuck in the swamps of Sierraclawb...'"

"Serracloob!"

"Right, '...in the swammps of Serracloob where some school kids were on a field trip.'"

"Why did they go there on a field trip?" says kid 2.

"Because there's lots of natural beauty there."

"I think there's lots of doody there!" says kid 1.

"I said 'beauty', not 'doody'!"

"Doody Doody Doody!" kid 1 says.

"He said, 'doody'...that's funny..." says kid 1. "The school bus should be stuck in doody!" says kid 1.

"Hey! Who's telling this story?" I say, and that quiets them down. "So...Space Knight says he's happy to go with Gronk, and they agree that they would go there in Space Knight's ship, Alice. 'Alice, we're going to planet Serracloob. How long will it take to get there?'

'It's pretty close, Space Knight,' the ship says in a soothing female voice. 'How fast do you want to go?'

'We have to rescue a bus full of kids...pretty fast!' says Space Knight.

'Then we'd better get moving...it will take us no more than a day,' says Alice.

'Then let's go. Are you ready, Gronk?'

'Ready, Space Knight!'

'Alice, get set for Super Duper Super Duper Super Extra Hyper Warp Speed...go!' says Space Knight and he punches a big red button and the ship shoots off into space. Shhhszzzzzzooooooooooom!'"

"Gronk is going to sit in the doody. Because he's so fat!" says kid 1.

"Hey! We don't talk like that. And Gronk is just big boned. And enough with the doody!" I say, exasperated. "So anyway, soon, Gronk and Space Knight arrive at the planet Sierra Club..."

"Serracloob!" shout kid 1 and kid 2 together.

"Whatever. And they land their ship just outside the creepy swamp. 'Better bring my crocodile repllent,' says Space Knight. 'And alligator repellent, too,' says Gronk, who is carrying a massive box of space bus fixit equipment.'"

"And Space Knight brings his stunner stick and his jet boots!" says kid 2. "But, what if they meet a bear?"

"Bears don't live in swamps," I say. "So they squish and squarsh through the swamp...squish squarch....squish squarch...when suddenly, crashing out of the swampy forest comes... a bear!"

"Hey! But... you said!"

"I changed my mind...there was a bear!"

"But ... well ... OK," said kid 2. "So Space Knight takes out his bear repellent...?"

"No! He didn't bring it! So Space Knight and Gronk run away as fast as they can through the swamp."

"But Space Knight can just use his stunner stick," says kid 2.

"But he doesn't! He and Gronk run and run!"

"But..."

"Who's telling this story? Anyway, Space Knight and Gronk come to this big tree. And they climb right up it because..."

"Gronk is too big boned to climb a tree!" says kid 1.

"He...umm... he's wearing jet boots. And that jets him up the tree."

"Scaaarrrrryyy," says kid 2.

"And the bear swipes at them with his big claws, but he can't reach them, so he trundles off..."

"He went away?" says kid 1.

"Yeah. The bear goes away. So after awhile Space Knight and Gronk climb down, and they find the bus full of children waiting for them. 'Hooray!" say all of the kids. 'Who are you guys?' And Gronk says, 'Hi! I'm Gronk. I'm here to fix the space bus.' And then Space Knight stands up extra tall, puffs out his chest and says, 'I...' and he takes a deep breath, 'I... am SPACE KNIGHT!' And all the kids look around as his voice echoes around the swamp."

"Then what happens?" says kid 2.

"Then they fix the space bus and fly home."

"What about the bear?" says kid 1.

"Umm, the bear found a big berry bush and is eating it."

"What's the part that happens next?" says kid 2.

"Then they all go out for pizza and milk and they go to bed."

"Yay!" they say together.

"Now go to bed!" I say.

"Boo! Now let's do an Awesome Eight Story!" says kid 2.

"Enough with the stories!" I say, and trundle them off to bed.

* * *

So, ends the first odd telling of a Space Knight Adventure. Need there be more?

Comments are welcome!

Democracy In America (or, "your tax dollars at work")

-- Or, What I Believe...a Liberal's Case for the Vision Thing

There are times when a state ought go back to the beginning. Remind ourselves of what we're here for. Why we live together like we do. Why we have Government, and why it's important for us.

I'm not going to go into a history lesson. I just think it's time we remember what we've all agreed on here in America, and why we really are all in this together.

I think we argue so much about things like "taxes" and "education" and "welfare" and "defense" that we forget what we're arguing about.

Look...

* We all agree that we need a government. It sets the rules of acceptable behavior. It makes sure that contracts are enforceable. It keeps us from killling each other. It gives us an outlet for our agression.

* Government does more than that. It's not this amorphous "thing" out there. It's people who we've elected to help us make a better life for each other and our communities. And it's more people -- our neighbors and friends and people sitting in the car next to us on the highway -- who've taken jobs to help get this work done.

We have government because we've come together as a communities -- and groups of communities -- to do things together that we couldn't do on our own. To pool our resources and our energy to get things done and maintain the lives we like to lead.

What have we come together to do? What would you pay for? What is it that we have come together to do that makes you proud? Where should our money go?

That's what we should talk about...

I live in a suburb of Minneapolis. I walk around our parks and lakes on a beautiful day, and I hope my tax dollars are supporting this. I see a sign saying that the lake has too much bacteria for swimming, and I'm glad I pay for someone to check this, and would be happy to invest tax dollars in clean up. I drive on smooth roads, and am pleased to have been a part of this; I see potholes and am willing to invest my tax dollars to have them fixed. I hear our schools are suffering because they need more help from the state -- run schools responsibly, but raise my taxes if you need to -- education is important! People can't break out of the cycle of poverty -- we can come together and help ... I'm good with that. Should people die because they can't afford medical care? I don't think so ... let's do this right.

The list goes on -- I bet you can find "your tax dollars at work" in a lot of ways -- good ways ... lots of frustrating, head-scratching, cockamamie ways, too, and we need to keep working to fix that...

But as a country, states, towns, and communities we've come together to make where we live a better place. That's your tax dollars at work. Be proud of it.

Ignorant Man Returns, Part 3 -- The Ignorant Have Inherited The Earth

A SuperGuy Story

The Thrilling-ish Conclusion!

International Falls, Minnesota

The border crossing wasn't one of the better protected entries to Canada. A determined malefactor in a powerful sport utility vehicle might rush across the American and Canadian checkpoints at either end of the bridge that straddled the Rainy River. But why? To violate the serenity of the fictional home of Rocky and Bullwinkle? To disrupt the work of the massive Boise Cascade plants that turned the mighty North American forests into pulp and paper? To wake up sleepy Fort Frances, where, on a quiet, summer Sunday evening, Ignorant Man drove in his 1982 Ford Escort from street to street, searching for a an open bar. One that might sell him a Molson beer.

You are supposed to drink a Molson upon arriving in Canada, he thought to himself.

But he saw no open bars before him.

Curious, he checked his rearview mirror. No bars either, but he noted that a man on a motorcycle followed him. And, he recalled, this man had been following him for some time.

Very curious, thought Ignorant Man, and nodded to himself. Idly, he scratched his belly.

He turned right, onto a residential street. The motorcycle followed. The man's helmet, he noted, covered his whole head. His leathers were black and red.

He took his car on a left turn, and checked the mirror the instant his turn was complete.

The motorcycle...and the man...followed. Ignorant Man smiled. He bounced like a four-year-old in his seat. He parked the car by the curb and checked to be sure his cape was secure, and then got out of the car...quickly and dramatically, with a swish of his cape, which then fell to the pavement in a heap. Tying it back on in a more secure fashion, Ignorant Man turned to face the man on the motorcycle, who had parked a good two car lengths behind him and was striding purposefully toward him. The man removed his helmet.

Ignorant Man tilted his head to the side, quizzically.

The man's face was clearly green and decidedly scaly. His nose was elongated -- more of a snout really -- and trailed wisps of smoke. His eyes were a deep, beyond-bloodshot red.

"You're Dragon Bob," Ignorant Man said, unnecessarily.

The man, Dragon Bob, nodded.

"You're supposed to be in Montreal."

Dragon Bob nodded again. Ignorant Man had now exhausted his knowledge of this situation.

"Why did you want me here? Why did you send Billy Joe Bob-san after me?"

"You forget the most crucial question," Dragon Bob said in a deep, throaty hiss.

"Ahh...How much cash do you need?"

"Exactly."

Ignorant Man was puzzled.

"I need $100,000. In cash. By tomorrow night."

"I don't have $100,000 in cash. Nor can I get that money by tomorrow night."

"That is unfortunate."

"Why?"

"Why?" asked Dragon Bob.

"Yes...why?"

"Because," said Dragon Bob, leaning closer, his voice almost a whisper, "if you do not, I will lay waste to this entire town and everyone in it. He took a deep breath, turned toward Ignorant Man's 1982 Ford Escort and breathed a blast of fire across the car. Ignorant Man could see the vinyl seats melting just before the engine exploded, popping off the hood and sending it clattering just behind him on the sidewalk.

Ignorant Man remained calm.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I can!" shouted Dragon Bob. "I am born of human woman and the last living dragon! I command fire and rule men's minds! I fly on reptile wings and rend with fang and claw! I am power!" And Dragon Bob ripped off his leather jacket and unfurled a pair of great, green, scaly wings. And he looked to the sky and roared, jets of fire spurting out of his mouth.

"Yes, okay," said Ignorant Man. "But...why?"

"Questions! I was warned about your questions. Your questions never have answers, do they? I...I have answers!"

"Oh, good!" Ignorant Man said.

"First," Dragon Bob began to tick off reasons on his scaly claws. "I am going to build a secret sanctuary, in the wilderness. Then, through means both scientific and...er... traditional...I will create an army of beings like myself. More advanced, more powerful than mere humans. Next, the army of my children will fan out across North America. They will take jobs from humans, they will gain seats in city councils, work their way up the political hierarchy and, perhaps winning a governorship or two, and the odd congressional seat until, inexorably, over time, we will take over the United States...and later, the world!"

"Hmm, yes, okay...but why?"

"Why? Why what?"

"Why take over the world?"

"Why not?"

"Yes, but why?"

"The world needs taking over. It's a mess. It's chaotic. We shall rule with an iron fist, under the appropriate constitutional guidelines, of course. There will be order. There will be sanity."

Ignorant Man nodded. Unknowingly. "I see that yes, but I have another question."

"Yes?"

"Why?" and Ignorant Man's power was such that Dragon Bob was compelled to answer.

"Well...you know, that is a good question." Dragon Bob began to pace across the sidewalk, back and forth, venturing now and again into the street. "It does seem like an awful lot of trouble, doesn't it? And it will take quite awhile. My children will seem quite freakish at first, and so our campaigns will require a great deal of cash. Which means we'll be fund raising all the time. I hate all that glad-handing and small-talk...that 'hi-howya-doin' and the speeches and the chicken dinners. And the taxes! You take over the world and they'll get you, won't they? Dang-it, they will!"

Foundering in the depths of despair, Dragon Bob stood in the middle of the street and roared, and as jets of fire lit up the night sky over Fort Frances, a horn blared and an engine rumbled, overpowering the dragon's roar.

* * *

"Eugene, did you see that?"

"Nah, George. I was sleeping. What was it, eh?"

"Funny looking guy in the street. All on fire. Looked like something out of a circus."

"No kiddin', eh?"

"I think we hit it. Should I stop, then?"

"Nah."

"Oh good."

"I did hear a bit of a bump though, eh?"

"You know, just because we're in Canada, doesn't mean you have to say 'eh' after every sentence..."

"Eh?"

The semi truck and trailer roared on toward the Minnesota border.

* * *

A bruised and battered Dragon Bob dragged himself onto the sidewalk.

"What are you going to do now?" Ignorant Man asked.

"I don't know," Dragon Bob said. "Maybe open up a little gift shop. Or a B&B. 'Dragon Bob's Inn' -- I like the sound of that."

Ignorant Man opened his mouth to ask a question, thought better of it, and wrote Dragon Bob a check for $5,000. "Good luck," he said.

Dragon Bob smiled his dragon smile. It looked evil without even trying. "Why, with this I could create a labora-...Thank you, Ignorant Man."

"No, thank you."

Dragon Bob whistled, and a furry, stripled creature with sharp claws and teeth ambled down the street. It stopped next to Ignorant Man, hissed and jabbed a bite at Ignorant Man's booth, sinking its teeth into the thick leather. Frustrated, it shook its head, and let go. Ignorant Man stuck out his tongue at it, and leaned closer...then stopped.

"Is this a badger?" he asked.

"Why yes."

"Thank you." Ignorant Man watched the badger and Dragon Bob walk off into the sunrise.

He sat down by his still burning car.

"I wonder how I'll get home," he said aloud, but like so many of his questions, it was left unanswered.

# # #

SO, HE DIDN'T LICK THE BADGER...OR GO TO MONTREAL.

DOES THE AUTHOR EVEN READ HIS STORIES FROM ONE EPISODE TO THE NEXT?

WILL HE EVER GET BACK TO WORK?

OH, AND I LIKE ERIC BURN'S IGNORANT MAN A LOT.

THAT'S ALL FOR NOW... HOPE YOU LIKED IT...

----------------------------------------------

Anger Management -- A One Minute Story

Author's note... So, I'm in the elevator the other day, and this weird little drama starts playing out in my head ... what if...?

I walk on the elevator on the 53rd floor, hit the "L" button, and take my usual spot, holding up the corner with my back, hands gripping the brass bar just above my ass.

The doors close. The descent begins.

Across the car, I catch my reflection in the red plastic panel.

I fix my hair.

The elevator slows to a stop. I roll my eyes. Sometimes, working on the 53rd floor, you just feel entitled to an uninterrupted trip to the lobby. Once in a while. Every so often. When you want it.

The doors slide back into the shaft. This guy walks on.

He's short, a little stocky, but not too stocky. Older, probably in his fifties. Thin hair that fills his forehead. He's wearing a light blue shirt and a navy blazer. And he's carrying this briefcase...that's more like a ... a... a minature piano. It's this giant rectangular cube with a little briefcase clasp on top, black, all beaten up. Must be a lawyer.

I look at him and then at the case. What the hell is he carrying in there?

I look at him again. I bet I could take him.

"Give me your briefcase," I say, without moving.

"What?"

"Give me your briefcase."

He laughs, nervously. I don't. I don't blink and I don't look away. "Why should I?" he says, and his voice breaks a little, but he clenches his fist, too. I've got him -- he's considering it...

"I want it," I say. "I'm going to take it." And lean over and reach for the weathered black leather handle.

A meaty hand shoves me back. So I stand up and punch the guy in the gut. As hard as I can.

But it doesn't feel very hard. I must have held back. So I hit him again and again until the air rushes out of my lungs like an old accordian and in my head I picture a mighty pendulum swinging into my own gut and smashing me against the wall.

The man picked up his giant briefcase and left the elevator.

"I will have that briefcase," I tried to shout, but it came out as more of croak.

The elevator door closed.

I go back to work.

#

Superheroes -- A One Minute Story

"Tell me a story! Tell me a story!"

"What kind of story?" I said, an errant drop of milk running from my spoon down my chin.

"Tell me a ... a Superhero story!"

"A superhero story? What kind of superhero story?"

"Tell me one about Captain Ethan!"

"Captain Ethan? What does he do?"

"Well," said the five-year-old and then tilted his head and looked down for a moment, "He can fly. And he's super strong. With a lot of great equipment. He's got a spaceship and a motorcycle and a jet car. And he's very acrobatic."

"He sounds just like me!"

"Daddy..." the boy said, taking the tone of a five-year-old school teacher. "You can't fly."

"Yeah," I agreed. "That's too bad."

"Can anyone fly?"

"Sure."

"Who?"

"Anyone...in an airplane or a helicopter or a rocket ship or a balloon or a hang glider..."

"Daddy!"

"What?"

"Can anyone fly without those things?"

"Sure...birds, flying squirrels, bats..."

"Squirrels can't fly!"

"Yeah, but they can jump really far..."

"Dumbo can fly, too."

"Yes, but he's a cartoon."

"But he's got these big huge floppy ears."

"Yes, but he's a cartoon."

"I know."

"You know you can't really fly, right?"

"I know..."

Me too, I thought, and took one last look over the tops of the trees and then finished my breakfast.

#

Grifters ... A One Minute Story

"I didn't take it. I really didn't."

John stared at his wife, and hoped he didn't blink. I'm being sincere. I'm being really really really really sincere.

I'm indignant. I'm very indignant. Obviously, anyone who was accused of taking it, and, of course, had not taken it, would be indignant. See how indignant I am?

I wouldn't act this way if I had done what you said. I wouldn't. No one would. This is how one would act if they were accused of doing something that they didn't. Clearly, I am acting that way, and not the other.

"You took it, didn't you?"

Jolene wanted to roll her eyes. John's eyes were shifty. The corners of his mouth were drifting up into that ... not really a smile ... sort of a twitch ...

I hate that look ... it's his worst look. It feels like he's laughing at me ... like he thinks I'm too stupid to understand ... like I'm an idiot and he's toying with me and he thinks he can get away with it...

"No!"

I could push this... I could crush him... But...no, I have to believe him... take him at his word... pretend to understand... it's all for the best...

"Fine."

"Fine."

"So what do we do now?"

"You'll have to tell me," she said.

# # #

Heaven in a Cup

Dunn Bros Coffee

I have tasted of the holy, and it is a Granita.

Not just any Granita, but a large Granita from Dunn Bros. Coffee.

And not just from any Dunn Bros. Coffee, but from the friendly folks in the shop by the historic Minnetonka Mills in Minnetonka, Minnesota. I can't speak for the other shops. I know you can't get this drink everywhere.

Let me just explain that a Granita is akin to the Starbucks Frappacino or Caribou Cooler. Sort of like a Morton's porterhouse is akin to Applebee's House Sirloin.

See, your typical Frappa-whatever is a mix of espresso and milk and water or something, poured over crushed ice and blended. The result is a decent, caffeine-filled, icy confection. Made poorly, you're left with icy chunks and chalky residue from the powdered espresso. Blended too fine, and you get a watery, chalky mush. Drunk with a straw, the liquid mix is typicallys sucked out, leaving you with half-a-cup of brown ice.

But the Granita...ahhh, the Granita. I don't know what they put into it: the usual espresso to be sure...sweet syrups are added... hazelnut? vanilla, to be sure... I don't know... I should ask, but I'm not sure I want to know...

They fill it right to the top, so you tilt it ever so slightly and allow the first taste flow into your mouth. Hold it there a moment. It's like tasting cloud. A cloud of deliciousness. Let the feeling run over you. It's stunning, really. Forgo the straw -- drink it right out of the cup -- it's more delicious that way, and remains delicous right down the bottom of the 20 ounce cup.

Other tips:
- Don't drink the Granita with sweet foods, like doughnuts. The sugar dilutes the tastes of the Granita. Do no dilute the taste of the Granita.
- Accept no substitutes. If your Dunn Bros. offers Frozen Lattes, they're not the same as the Granita. If you don't have a Dunn Bros., I'm sorry. Get thee to Minnetonka!

Maintenance - A One Minute Story

Another short work of fiction...for you, Aaron...

"I'm healthy as a horse! A cow, even!"

"A cow?"

"Yes. A cow. One who has been stuffed full of the most delicious nutritious, muscle-building ingredients. One ready for consumption in the finest of dining establishments."

"So, you're saying you're ready to be slaughtered and eaten, then?"

"What I'm saying is that you have nothing to worry about."

"Well, that's good, then. Was I worried?"

"I thought you were. You should be."

"Now you're just messing with me."

"Aren't I important to you?"

"Of course!"

"Then why aren't you worried?"

"Because you told me not to be! And what would I be worried about?"

"Anything. I could be run over by a bus. Stung by a scorpion. Murdered by a late-night prowler. I could be struck down by an aneurysm. I could have a heart attack."

"Probably from eating all that cow."

"You ought to watch yourself, you know."

"I'm doing just fine, thanks."

"Everyone could use a little maintenance."

"And what, pray tell, do you prescribe for me?"

"You are getting a little heavy. And your diet. I'd be concerned about that."

"I had a salad."

"Yesterday. What nutritional delights did you foist upon yourself today?"

"That'd be a Bacon Double Cheeseburger, Bob."

"That would be lunch...and for dinner?"

"That'd be a Quarter Pounder with Cheese."

"And?"

"And...and I go sit in box and I feel shame."

Silence...

"And then what?"

"And then I get back to work, that's what. How do you feel about that?"

"I feel healthy as a horse!"

# # #

Another Day in Paradise - A One Minute Story

A One-Minute Story(tm)

Johnny sat on the beach, staring at the sunset, bathing suit nestled in the sand and arms wrapped around his knees, which were folded under his chin. He was sitting the way you were supposed to, when you were staring at the sunset, on a beach. He'd been there for two hours. Just like that.

The air had cooled and Johnny held is breath for a moment. It was time. Still he didn't move.

The waves grew larger and more violent for a moment, and then crashed, foaming. The thin vanguard sheet of water slid up the beach, farther than it had before, and, not surprisingly, to Johnny at least, deposited an object at Johnny's feet.

He picked it up. It was a letter-sized resealable plastic bag, with a letter inside.

Johnny unsealed the bag and pulled out the letter, taking care to keep it dry.

He read the letter, crumpled it up, and threw it in the ocean. It dissolved quickly, and disappeared. He laughed, loudly, and if anyone else were around, they'd feel embarrased for him, even if he didn't.

And he didn't stop laughing, even as the bombs began to fall, and the slick, black suited men emerged from the waves with their guns, and swept past him, as if he weren't there.

It was just another day.

* * *

The Return of Ignorant Man, Part 2 - Ignorance Is Indeed Bliss

The Return of Ignorant Man, Part 2 of 3

Much later, when the ambulence had gone, Ignorant Man turned on the television. "C-SPAN" was superimposed on the lower right corner.

The man on TV wore a blue suit, red tie and a vague smirk, and he spoke with a distinct Texas drawl. "I think younger workers—first of all, younger workers have been promised benefits the government—promises that have been promised, benefits that we can't keep. That's just the way it is."

Ignorant Man's eyes widened and he leaned back. 'The power is strong in this one,' he thought, and, taking no more than a nanosecond to clear his mind completely, turned off the television.

He then allowed himself to think, as he rarely did. He thought about his encounter with the man who'd been reduced to squirming mass of unanswerable questions just hours earlier. The encounter was unsettling at best, befuddling perhaps, and, at worst, would require Ignorant Man to seek answers, an activity he tended to actively avoid. He preferred his mind uncluttered, and was particularly adept at keeping it that way.

But he allowed himself to think about when he looked down at the man, who had worn a mask that covered his head down to his nose with half-moon openings that revealed coal-black eyes.

And, almost without thinking...no, entirely without thinking...Ignorant Man removed the man's mask and gasped with surprise. And, as one unaccustomed to feeling any sort of surprise, he ruminated for a moment on the uncomfortable fact that the man now unmasked was none other than Billy Joe Bob-san, his teacher, his guru, the one who, for a discounted rate of no less than tens of thousands of dollars, revealed to Ignorant Man the power of naievete, and set him on the path to...being Ignorant Man, which as Ignorant Man thought about it, raised a great number of questions. As always, however, he was wary of turning his power upon himself.

"Billy Joe Bob-san!" he cried. "Where have you been? What are you doing here?"

"No more questions!"

"How can you say that?"

"Stop it! Send more cash! Here!" And his guru handed Ignorant Man a card, on which was printed the name "Dragon Bob: Equatorial Adventures" with a phone number and an address in Montreal. Curious, Ignorant Man turned the card over, and there was handwritten in tiny script the words: "He must not know. Cash only! Do not lick the badger!"

Ignorant Man turned back to his former mentor and opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to ask a question, but was silenced.

"Stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop..." Billy Joe Bob screamed at the top of his lungs, over and over and over again until the young couple with the 2-year-old living just above Billy Joe Bob's basement apartment could no longer stand the noise and called an ambulance, which arrived to take Billy Joe Bob away and leaving Ignorant Man with nothing to do but watch TV and ponder what do do with this newfound mystery and how to make it go away.

Finally, after sitting for four-and-a-half hours with his chin resting firmly and resolutely against his fist, Ignorant Man arose.

"If ignorance is indeed bliss," he said aloud, puffing out his chest, "and, it is, then I must seek knowledge to once again attain that blessed state." He paused, and nodded his head to himself. "Yes. That's right. And so, I will call this 'Dragon Bob', I will bring cash, and, I will lick this badger. Or not. Depending."

Suddenly, the ceiling shook with a loud stomp. "Dammit, shut up down there. The kid is napping!"

Smiling, Ignorant Man made for the door.

WHO IS DRAGON BOB?

WILL IGNORANT MAN BRING CASH? OR LICK THE BADGER?

WHAT IS THE BADGER? A METAPHOR FOR OUR DEEPEST FEARS? OR A SHARP-TOOTH CREATURE OF THE CANADIAN WILDERNESS?

EITHER WAY, STAY TUNED FOR THE THRILLING CONCLUSION OF THE RETURN OF IGNORANT MAN, NEXT WEEK. OR SO. WHEN I WRITE IT...

-------------------------

The Return of Ignorant Man, Part 1

((Note: Ignorant Man is a character I created for a shared superhero universe thingie called "Superguy" back in 1989 ... enjoy the glory that was SuperGuy here. Also: this is a work of fiction.))

A man awoke in a dark, silent place.

"'Where am I?" he said aloud. His voice echoed. He looked around and saw only darkness. He was sitting upon what he thought was a hard floor -- concrete, perhaps -- but could see nothing, as if he was floating in space.

'Nowhere,' he thought.

"Who am I?" he said aloud again, and smiled slightly as his voice echoed as it did before.

'I am Bart," he thought. 'An ignorant man.' He mustered his courage and thought again. He thought *hard*.

'No! Wait!" he thought. 'I am THE Ignorant Man!"

This notion pleased him greatly. The knowledge only increased his naivete. He put his fist under his chin and spoke in a low clear voice.

"I am Bart, the Ignorant Man, and I am nowhere." 'Now,' he thought, 'we're getting somewhere.'

"Goonie!" he shouted and giggled helplessly for a good 10 seconds as his voice reverberated around him. "Goonie goonie goonie!"

After awhile, the man calmed, and placed his hand back under his chin.

"I must ponder this. How does a man get to be nowhere? How can there be a nowhere? Nowhere means not anywhere, and where anywhere is there cannot be nowhere because it is where it is. But if it is what it is, and it is where it is, then where was it when it was there if not somewhere that is now nowhere? And if nowhere is what was once anywhere then why..."

"Shut up shut up shut up!" A voice cried out in the darkness.

"Was that my voice?" The man, Ignorant Man, asked.

"No, goddam it. It was no one!" Deep in our evolutionary past, the human brain was wired for language. Soon after, humans learned a communication mode wherin a person makes a statement, but speaks in such a way that it is apparent to the listener that he means exactly the opposite of the literal meaning of the statement. In English, we call this sarcasm. But through years of training with a dubious guru deep in the heart of one of the Dakotas, Bart cleared away his ability to recognize or even define sarcasm, and thus remained...unaware...of what the voice was trying to tell him. It went part and parcel with the power of naivete...the power of Ignorant Man.

"No one?" Ignorant Man asked, quizzically. "Can there be no one, when one speaks? Can there be a voice, without one to speak it? If there was, say, a voice without a mouth, would that mouth be able to eat? And if it could eat, would it not have to have a body? Or if not, what then of the food..."

There was a terrible scream. It echoed all around Ignorant Man. A light came on, and he was awash in white. He blinked. And then blinked again.

When his eyesight returned, he discovered that he was...someplace! Someplace cold and drafty. He was in a large room, with wood paneled walls, a concrete floor ('aha!' he thought), and cheap wood framed furniture covered in tough, rough, mossy colored cloth. Two chairs, and a couch.

Across the room was a wooden door with a rusty brassy knob. On the floor, in front of the door, was a man, curled up in the fetal position, muttering to himself.

"Stop, just stop, you goddam, ignorant, stupid, stooge. You just can be that unbelievable unconscioubulously stupid and ignorant..."

"Are you okay?" Ignorant Man asked.

"Stop...just stop!"

"What should I stop?"

"Ahhhhhhhhgggggggghhhhh!"

IGNORANT MAN HAS CLEARLY TURNED THE TABLES ON A DASTARDLY VILLAIN.

WHO IS HE?

WHAT DOES HE WANT?

CAN THERE BE A MORE DEVASTATING POWER THAN THE POWER OF NAIVETE?

GOTTA GO NOW!

Things to Do When You're In Philadelphia

Just got back last week from a trade show in downtown Philadelphia. I'd lived in a Philly suburb when I was a kid, and had some fond memories, none of which were jogged on this visit to the Wyndham Hotel and Pennsylvania Convention Center. But... a couple sights seen and commented upon:

- The Phillies Game: A few of us stole away to see a perfectly dull contest between the Phillies and the St. Louis Cardinals. My takeaways: If you forgive the fact that they built it in an industrial park across the street from a Toyota plant, it's a really nice place to see a ball game. Brick and old-timey, without being fakey like Camden Yards. Downside: Waiting in line way too long for a Geno's cheesesteak that tasted vaguely of gasoline. A hot dog and much gastrointestinal distress ensued.

- The Franklin Institute: When I was 12 years old or so, the highlight of any weekend was a trip to the Franklin Institute -- a huge, gorgeous science museum. Giant Ben Franklin stature. Lots of buttons to push, balls sliding this way and that, titan-scaled human organs to clamber about and a 707 jet sitting right out front. So I had an hour, and there it was down the street, so off I trudged.

Let's just say this: If I was still 12, I would have loved it. I think. Too much space taken up by an IMAX theater, not nearly enough physics demonstrations (I know, I'm a geek), and for a giant building, it was just small. The giant heart was still there, but otherwise, too little 'wow' to make my heart leap as it did back then.

- Gastrointestinal Distress: After the show ended, I decided I couldn't wait in line at Rick's for a cheesteak at the Reading Terminal Market, which looked like the Minnesota State Fair dropped into the middle of the urban core, so I enjoyed a delicious gyro and Coke. But I was still disappointed in the Geno's cheesesteak experience from the ballgame the night before, so I stopped at a little deli/market near the hotel. Provolone cheesesteak with onions and another Coke served by a friendly Asian couple. Delicious. More gastrointestinal distress ensued, but I flew home happy.

- Philadelphia International Airport: The Northwest gate was easily the worst airport experience I've had in a long time. One bar, utterly packed, understandably. A fast-food court with dirty and extremely limited seating. Only one small magazine stand in the gate area. And an hour-long wait at the gate for my plane to arrive once it landed, and then another hour on the plane once I boarded.

- Cheesesteaks: On the plus side, lack of decent food at the airport ensured that I didn't stuff down another cheesesteak. Let me just note that I love cheesesteaks. One of my best college memories was a cheesesteak tour of Philadelphia with my friend The Cruiser ... we hit Jim's ... walked South Street ... and then finished at Pat's for the express purpose of dripping Cheez-Whiz on Passyunk Avenue. They were all very delicious.

But where I was stuck, cheesesteak culture was a little out of whack. How long is it acceptable to wait in line for a cheesesteak? If you're not at an original location (i.e., the ballpark), can the Geno's or Tony Luke's cheesesteak be delicious enough to be worth it (in my experience, I'd say no to Geno's -- as the Cruiser would as well, if I could find him)? Was it only tourists and convention-goers who wait 30 minutes or more for a bite of a Rick's steak? Questions to ponder another time, I suppose.

I'm feeling gastrointestinal distress just thinking about it.

My Literary Pedigree

I read The Atlantic pretty religiously each month (in other words, mostly on the toilet) and it always leaves me feeling both edified and inadequate. It's the book reviews. The depth of knowledge required to write -- let alone read -- a book review for The Atlantic is unnerving, even frightening.

This month, Christopher Hitchens takes on the novel A Hero of Our Time, by Mikhail Lermentov.

Who?

In his review of this newly translated book, Hitchens expresses a passing -- even deep -- knowledge of early-to-mid 19th Centrury Russian literature and culture, and strong enough familiarity with the author to write as if many Atlantic readers may well have picked up on Lermontov, who died in the 1840s. Maybe he's right. And should I now feel shame for choosing (and mostly ignoring) "Irish Lit" over "19th Century Russian Lit" back in college?

Now, Hitchens is a confirmed, and possibly reformed, leftist. So his Russophilia can be excused... but the man -- and most of his fellow Atlantic writers -- are a damn sight better read than I am. I'm learning to accept that. Frankly, I spent most of my high school years studying Marvel Comics circa 1977-1984 and -- through college -- Classic Science Fiction of the 1940s-1980s (Asimov, Heinlein and Pohl).

And perhaps if it came to that, I could write rings around Hitchens and his ilk if there were a call to review Heinlein's Job: A Comedy of Justice , the Dark Phoenix Saga or "Herbie the Robot".

You have to have something to hang your hat on... You can run from it, or you can embrace it... But...but... is there any money in it?