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?

Anxiety Attack

It starts with feeling in the pit of your stomach, like you want to throw up but you know it's just not going to happen. But it lingers, and you just wish you could, or you would... you know...vomit...just to get it over with. But you don't because you're not supposed to do that, right? Unless you have to. Vomiting should not be a choice.

So you go on, paralyzed. You know your job, you know what you're doing. You could kick ass and take care of everything on your work plate in two hours. If you could just start. That's all. Just start.

But you can't start. You only can stare. You can't relax and do something else, because then you wouldn't be doing your job. But you can't do your job either, so you just sit...and stare. And click and click and click.

So you update the blog that no one reads. To get yourself typing, to get y0urself thinking. To limber the fingers and give the brain somewhere to spill its excess...brain stuff. And you wonder why your doing this? Why you're pretending to write for the public, when a private journal would do just fine? You wonder if anyone, besides the three people who you've told about the blog will ever read this? You strategize about how to draw readers to you ... should you tell more friends? Post the blog in the online forums that might as well be a row of shot glasses filled with Grey Goose? Why?

You hope, perhaps, that someone will read this...that someone will understand. That someone will say it's OK and rescue you from this trap. That someone will say, "follow me -- this is where we're going to go...and we'll do great things there."

But there are no rescuers. You know you can only rely on yourself, and if it's not your own decision, your own idea, then, really, it has no meaning for you.

That would be just like you, right?

---------------------------------------------------
And now, back to our regularly scheduled humor ...

One Minute Story #4 - The Damage is Done

"I'm late I'm late I'm late!"

"What's late?"

"Everything is late. Articles. My period. Mr. Chow's Chinese Delivery. Reports. Invoices. Everything!"

"Have the clients noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

"The late stuff."

"They'll notice soon enough. I'm just that far behind."

"Here's what I do: I make a list. You can tackle each item on the list, one at a time. Cross off each item as you finish it. Put appointments on a calendar. Put it all on the computer. It'll help keep you on track. It helps me a lot."

"Shut up."

"Why?"

"Because I know how to keep organized. I could teach you how to keep organized. I could create a school dedicated to nothing but helping people keep organized. I've got enough lists to fill a shopping cart. A shopping cart full of things...on lists. Shut up about lists."

"Okay. So I'll get back to work again.

"Good."

A long pause.

"So your period is late?"

# # #

Very Funny...Somewhat Disturbing

We've recently had our third known reader (after my wife and friend Steve) ... since this blog was founded with guiding principles that emphasize highly personalized customer service, we just wanted to say: Hi, Brian! Thanks for Visiting!

Even better, Brian offers the first known review of what we at headquarters like to call MCID... without his permission, I will repeat it here... "Very funny! Extremely. Somewhat disturbing on occasion, but extremely funny."

That about covers it!

Let the integrated multi-channel cross-media marketing campaign commence.

Gloom and Despair: One Minute Story #3

The man in the overalls leaned back against the rotting wood fence. The cross bar slipped out of the hole that once held it so snug and secure, and the man in the overalls stumbled and fell, his straw hat rolling like a tumbleweed till it disappeared into the tall grass.

"If it weren't for bad luck," the man spat, "I'd have no luck at all."

The man crawled into the tall grass. Later, when the police arrived, witnesses were said to have heard a creative string of curses, then nothing at all. All they found was an old pair of overalls and a bloodied straw hat.

# # #

One Minute Story

((I have about 2 minutes until a conference call begins...This story thus shall be written in one minute))

Rapel, he thought. I'm rapelling.

"Rapell-ent," called a voice from above. "The word is rapellent. Actually, the word is 're-pellent'. And so are you." The voice was clear, strong, rich and female, one that brought up unwanted memories of his mother's nagging and great-aunt's psychological manipulation.

"Get out of my head!" Brian shouted.

"Why? It's so comfy in here," she said sweetly. And she began to gnaw upon the rope.

"Goddammit. How dare you?" Brian was feeling rudely violated, and in more than a little physical danger. "Where are your manners?"

"You stink," she said, sweetly again.

Brian bounced faster. His hands burned despite the thick gloves he wore.

"I can change," he cried.

"I'd rather you not," she called. "Or, rather, I'd rather you not knot."

"What?" Brian said, not hearing the silent 'k'.

"No knots!" she called, laughing.

Brian hit the ground with a stomp as the full length of rope came tumbling down the cliff like an attacking anaconda.

The laughing from above...stopped.

Brian squinted up.

"You've been repelled."

Drat.

It Takes a Tough Man to Make a Tender Chicken

The New York Times > AP > Business > Frank Perdue, Chicken Magnate, Dies at 84

Frank Purdue, Dead. Probably my favorite advertising icon back when I lived in Rhode Island. Or was it New Jersey? There was his bust, on the TV screen -- this little bald beady-eyed fellow who did goofy stuff with chickens.

According to this obituary, he was tougher than he let on:

"In 1986, Perdue told to a presidential commission that he had twice unsuccessfully sought help from a reputed New York crime boss to put down union activities, actions he later said he regretted deeply."

Does that mean that the "reputed" crime boss refused to help, or was ineffective? We'll never know.

The other question Mr. Purdue always raised for me was whether it indeed took a tough man to raise a tender chicken. I mean, don't the chickens have it rough enough already, what with the cramped quarters, wallowing in their own chicken feces, the pecking and the incessent clucking and then the decapitation and the plucking and the rendering and the chopping and the quartering and the nuggeting and the deep frying?

I'm gonna go have me some chicken right now!

Requiem: Terri Schiavo

Terri Schiavo Died This Morning

What else is there to say? It's over, and you feel relief for the media circus has ended. That Jesse Jackson can go home.

But in the end, there is this poor family. Let's see them at their best. Parents who never lost hope. A husband struggling to honor his wife and live his life. A young woman struck down, never to return.

You always hold out hope. You always want to fight for another day of life. But when the river is rushing you toward the waterfall, at some point, when the body can no longer struggle against the current, you must confront the new reality that lies yet unseen, over the edge, and embrace it, imbue it with all of the new hope and new possibilities of an undiscovered country...and dive.

If you like to believe that the soul lives on when the body fails, let her revel in the wonder...

Synchronicity

Today I had a frozen lunch. It was bland and depressing. There was a review of frozen meals published in Slate today...the very same day I ate a frozen meal!

(apparently, most frozen meals are bland and depressing).

I also thought about exercising this morning. I really should exercise again...and restart my morning journal. And, there was an article in my morning paper about how exercising eases depression. I'm depressed. And I thought about exercising this very same day!

Yes, my friends, there are days when all the stars line up. When coincidence becomes incidence and when you must take heed of the signs all around you. How a radio snippet about Iraq connects to the holes in my sock and to the girl in the pretty frock who's always listening to Bach and when she takes her boat away from the dock and across the water and into the rocks where...crash...and I realize that it's not funny to mock ... synchronicity.

There are signs and omens everywhere.

It's really spooky, you know.

"Strange Things are A-Foot at the Circle K"

A Short Tale of A Man, A Dinosaur and His Foot

Today I took a walk around downtown with a dinosaur attached to my foot. It was, you may have already guessed, one of those really small dinosaurs. The ones they never talk about.

Anyway, he bit my shoe. It hurt a lot, like a small animal was sinking razor sharp teeth into my foot. Exactly like that, actually. I howled. I kicked. The really small dinosaur wouldn't let go at first, so I went to the drugstore, all calm-like, and purchased a bottle of Vaseline. I rubbed it all over the dinosaur's mouth and head. I heard a little avian-reptillian coo, which I think meant he liked it. Glad your so HAPPY! I thought. Then I gave another kick and slammed him against the cornerstone of a skyscraper. The Dino fell to the ground, and so did I, and then I swiped at him with my foot one more time, just because I could, because I'm big and he was small and dammit isn't that the way it's supposed to be in the world, when natural selection takes over and big people with hands and feet and the ability to purchase Vaseline encounter smaller, weaker species?

The feisty little beast came to quickly and scampered off... I threw a rock at it. It stopped, turned around and I could swear that evil lizard mouth curved into a smile. Because in its little, not-quite-atrophied hand was my shoe. And in my shoe was a single, bloody foot in a black argyle dress sock.

Ouch! I said, and hobbled back to work, rethinking my feelings on natural selection.




-------------------------------------------------
where did that come from?

Stuart Smalley Saves ... Me

I'm reading The Artist's Way, by Julia Cameron, a how-to guide for unlocking your creative soul, or some such nonsense.

Oh, right. I'm not supposed to engage in such negative "blurtings."

On this continuing journey to find my muse that will enable me to produce creative works that nourish my soul and bring in piles of cash so I can quit my job, I have discovered that what I like to call "considering every last barrier to success to fully understand the problem" is actually "finding endless reasons not to start or finish everything so I can sit on my ass and surf the Internet all day."

The Artists Way recommends starting each day writing three pages in a journal (to save time on this, my first day, I have chosen a half-size steno pad). Cameron recommends beginning with affirmations that really boil down to Stuart Smalley's famous "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggonit, people like me!"

Okay, I'm blurting again.

Irony is overrated, and as Al Gore once said, "a cynic is just a disappointed idealist in disguise, a dreamer yearning to dream again." (I actually remembered that one).

And, as I'm about to say: every journey begins. Or it's not really a journey, is it?

There. I said it.

The Rules

My wife has some specific rules about our household. After seven years of marriage, I've finally figured them out.

When your husband is at home:

1) Never enter the garage. The garage is a cold, dark and scary place at night. Not to be entered lightly by the fairer sex, it is best to send your man, shoeless, to the minivan for the forgotten cell phone phone, PDA, kids' art projects, soiled toddler underwear and the like.

2) Never lift a laundry basket. The laundry basket, while of reasonable weight during the day, increases in weight tenfold in the evenings, requiring the better-developed musculaculture of an American male transport it from bedroom to washer.

3) Never fill an ice tray. Filling an ice tray, requiring addition of water to a small plastic receptical with multiple trapezoids that allow ice blocks to form, is an unendurable duty, yet vital to the maintenance of the household. Best to let your husband do it.

4) Never go up or down stairs. While in daylight, stairclimbing is, again, a routine task. In the evenings, gravity exacts a heavier toll. When sweatshirts are required from the closet, toys from the basement or frozen meats from the freezer, it takes a man to traverse the mighty pathways of our house....both up...and down.

6) Change a diaper, say, if you can avoid it. Well, who would, really?