Highs and Lows

There are lots of different varieties of librarian in the wild. Mostly, they are suited to their surroundings, like most creatures in the animal kingdom. Ones who work in corporate oil company libraries most likely field questions about oil and companies. Ones who work in old South American country archives most likely field questions about politics and militaries and spanish (or something). I work in a university library, where any question is valid. This is because people study or research any kind of topic, and legitimize them by attaching them to very vague aspects of culture or language or society or some other kind of ridiculous means that enables a grown person to spend countless hours looking up information on the colors in children's books. I'm not laying a judgement here, at all. I think that's great.

So, one of the perks of my job is entertaining these people in their efforts to find obscure and random information. We could spend hours on something, unless is gets boring, and then the patron is screwed. The problem is, when do you say when? It's really a personal choice. I suppose the professional stance is after a reasonable amount of sources have been checked and you leave them with at least one follow-up lead. But c'mon.

Today I helped another librarian, because the place was dead, search for an obscure Muppet character. The lady insisted she had seen an early 1960's character on a Late Night-type talk show named "Fundinella Grindersnatch." Well, after a few mintues of solid searching, nothing came up. We found some history of Jim Henson and his first short program called "Sam and Friends" which aired before one of those late night shows. We also found a character named "Taminella Grinderfall." That sounds like the reasonable answer. Right?

Nope. Our patron was sure that she had the name right. Hmmm. Well, let's keep going, I guess. It turns out the character was a witch. So was Taminella. She had a "political pot" which she stirred. So did Taminella. When to say when? The lady had to leave to catch a ride, so I was spared. We tried to find a good biography or history of the muppets for this lady, but it turns out she was just curious, and it didn't really matter. That might have upset a lesser librarian. But I got paid to spend a lot of time researching the Muppets, so what kind of jerk would I be to complain?

You can never prove a negative. We couldn't prove that Fundinella didn't exist. But we had reasonable evidence that this other character was what she wanted. Sometimes our persuasive powers aren't too great. But that's not our job.

If that was a perk, here is a downer. Sometimes, during a lull in desk action, we librarians get to talk to one another. And sometimes I lay down the funny like no one's business. I get a good phrase in my head and I'm racing to deliver it in just the right way. Oh man, I'm a freakin' genius and my colleagues are going to keel over when the find out. They are rapt with attention. Hanging on each delicate word. [Sound of needle scratching a record.] Suddenly a patron comes out of nowhere looking suspiciously like he has a question. Sigh.

By the time we are done professionally servicing this dude, the moment is passed and we are all onto other things. My almost-genius is exactly that. Almost. But do I harbor any ill will towards that random, innocent person?

You bet I do.

If I Were Rich

In these lean times, when the economy isn't feeling so good, I tend to dream a little more often of good times with money that I'll never have. Why now? You'll have to ask a therapist, because I can't break into that vault upstairs and ask around; I'm not allowed anymore.

So, what would I do with tons of money, literally? Suppose I had enough to go a restaurant without prices on the menus? Or maybe enough to spit in people's faces? I wouldn't do that, even if I could. Some strange man did that to me in Spain once, and I didn't care for it. I took a little solace knowing he was crazy and did it to as many people he could.

OK, for starters, I would buy a country mansion, Count of Monte Cristo-style. Just walk right up with a wagon load of gold and force someone to move. But I would need to make it my own. Since I'm rich, I wouldn't care what anyone thought, so I would put in an ornate and extensive library. That would satisfy my need to have many useless and fancy things along with an endless supply of reading material just in case I have to board myself up after the zombie apocalypse.

But this house would need other stuff, too. Lots of underground tunnels. If you ever wonder if you have enough, just remember - you can never have enough. I'm sure there's a formula that civil engineers use to determine the maximum area before the surface starts to cave in. But I'm not an engineer, so that doesn't apply to me. These tunnels will need to go to all kinds of out buildings and caves.

So I would need some out buildings and caves. These could be used for storage of dangerous things, like dynamite. I would need that for all of the old barns I would move onto my property and blow-up. Why do this? Isn't that unnecessary and dangerous and destructive and juvenile? Well, yes. But I'm rich, remember? And if I don't do it, then who will?

A few other things I would add are some ponds with row-boats and pavilions, groves with an array of tree houses, and a gymnasium. The gym is just to have safe place to practice all of the dangerous and ill-advised parkour I would perform over the grounds. I'm sure there are many other things that a well-appointed country estate should have and any real gentleman would not be caught dead without. And of course I would have those too, naturally. I'm not an ogre.

Well, now I'm back to reality. Back to my dingy apartment with that leak in the shower and only condiments in the fridge. I suppose I could make a goal of earning lots of money over many years and making these day dreams come true. I could, but I would probably just spend it on plane tickets and film scores, which is fine by me.

The Thin Man

Several years ago I stumbled across an old movie, The Thin Man, during an extended bout of thirties film watching. The fantastic thing about that decade is the abundance of wit. Dialogue cracks like a dried forest floor under foot. Characters are sharp and it's fun to try and keep up. Many of the screwball comedies of that day are still funnier than anything you are likely to see today. The Thin Man is a comedy, but of the more urbane kind. It is also a classy murder mystery.

But it has something else going for it - chemistry. The two leads, William Powell and Myrna Loy, were born into this earth to play those characters together. I haven't seen any other incarnations of Nick and Nora, but I can be almost positive that comparatively they are like oil and water. Powell and Loy, as Nick and Nora, are one of cinema's dearest treasures. Not like a baby your grandma coos after, but more like a big bucket full of diamonds and bars of gold.

This brings me to my other discovery, which is that a lot of people don't know about this movie, or the many that followed. They produced five sequels, in rapid succession, over a period of eleven years, all almost as good as the one before. I haven't done the research, but I wager they were pretty popular at the time. But now they are largely forgotten.

I say largely, because I'm comparing this stuff to It's a Wonderful Life, Gone With The Wind, or Casablanca. Sure, these are all different kinds of movies, but I believe they all belong in the same category of "well worth your time, anytime." But I'm not concerned with why they fell out of the limelight.

What impresses me is the few who have heard about them and love them to pieces. I find more and more people all the time. Like any unpopular but totally awesome thing, it's like you belong to a secret society. Sure, mostly it is older people, but sometimes it's people my age. Usually we are all surprised about the discovery. Like we all went to the same out of the way bar that only sells Orange Whips three at a time.

Anyway, if you haven't seen this movie, do your self a favor and check it out.

And wear formal attire when you do.


Nora Charles: You know, that sounds like an interesting case. Why don't you take it?
Nick Charles: I haven't the time. I'm much too busy seeing that you don't lose any of the money I married you for.

Quantum of Awesome

How to make money: sell something that people desperately want, but have no idea how to do or make themselves.

I would like to have an adventure. But I have no idea how to do that. Let's define what an adventure is. I think of it as a progression of time in which an individual or individuals are put to a stressful test of which they do not know the outcome or steps, but know they must move forward.

Perhaps there are people out there who know how to do this for me. Perhaps they are called spies. This is such a profession, at least perpetuated in movies and books, where the spy has to know all kinds of things I wish I knew in order to have adventures. Like speaking many languages, practicing dangerous martial arts, getting girls in the sack, ordering the right drink at the right time, knowing who to punch in the face, flying planes, riding motorcycles, driving British and European cars, parachuting, looking good without your shirt, wearing nice suits, communicating with absolute security, and last but not least - doing it all without getting any kind of sick.

What's the price to pay for this kind of awesome post-graduate fellowship? Moral ambiguity. Loneliness. Accepting death at any time. Not being as cool as everyone thinks you are. No one you can care about. Contempt for almost everyone.

That sounds like quite a bargain, to me.

Two thoughts on the new James Bond movie:
1. Casino Royale was better.
2. So what, it was still cool as hell.

I Was Not Prepared

Yesterday I ran in a half-marathon race, like I have many times before. Unlike previous visits to this runners' moderate consolation of the great marathon prize, I was ill-prepared to run. And now I sit here paying the price with doses of pain to which I am unaccustomed. On many accounts I did not think of the consequences of my inactions.

I did not apply sunblock, and was seriously sunburned while wandering around post-race for a couple of hours in the blinding, yellow sunshine. It was only sixty degrees outside, so I guess I felt safe from those rays.

Also, I hadn't run in almost four weeks prior to this massive contest. It is pretty obvious to anyone, let alone someone who has exerted himself thus previously, that you might want to simulate, through gradual increases, the type of punishment striding over thirteen miles will deliver to your muslces, joints and bones. But not me. I thought, what the hell, I'm young and can do anything I want. I was wrong. I won't get into the chafing problem, but let's just say that it was the first and last time I wore those shorts. That, in some respects, is the most painful lesson of all, even if I couldn't have predicted it.

Preparation for events in life, although very unexciting and unglamorous, is pretty essential. This isn't news to anyone, but it doesn't stop a lot of us from being unprepared many times. Ask a musician or a student, they will tell you that they have a much better time in life when they have practiced or studied.

But when I need to practice or study or whathaveyuou, I'd rather do something that is passively entertaining - where I don't have to do anything to enjoy myself. This is my lazy man's burden. Procrastination is my rationale. I fully intended to prepare for that race, but things just kept coming up, by which I mean opportunities to goof off and watch a movie.

The easiest course of action would have been to not run at all. I would have saved myself the pain and frustration and embarassment of running a bad time, suffering days long soreness and tenderness of muscles and skin, and knowing that it was pretty much my fault for not preparing properly. But I didn't, and I'm glad. I experienced a small wake-up call that says you are procrastinating too much.

Would I like to keep running races? Yes, I think I would. So, if that is important to me, then I should learn from my mistakes and sally boldly forth with a plan to avoid them in the future. I feel like I've stumbled upon an important life lesson, but any eight year old could have wisely predicted my fate. Stupid little kids.

This is approximately what I felt like.

Quality Matters

I go to the movies a lot, and I'm disappointed by them a lot. Sure, I rarely say really nasty things about them, but I usually have some great expectations for a movie (otherwise I wouldn't go) and usually they are not met. I try to empathize with a movie and how it is made, arguing in my head that the things that went wrong did so the way we all go wrong in life, and not because of a certain callous lack of creativity or horrible stupidity.

But one thing that I will not abide or make excuses for is the exhibition of a movie. We live in an age of amazing advances in technology. Most of the stuff we hear about is about digital technology in computers and their programs. They make such cool stuff. But we've also advanced with mechanical and optical technology, too. There should be no excuse to sit in a movie theater and not be awed by the show. I don't care if the movie stinks like yesterday's garbage, it should be shown with amazing regard for the exhibition.

What do I mean by this? Sight and Sound. Can you see it clearly and well? Can you hear and feel the sound it makes? Do both of them excite you? If not, then the theater is not doing it's job. Given the right equipment, I'm sure you could make even the HUAC hearings exciting to watch, if only for five minutes. Movies today are made with huge levels of difference in budget and skill. But so many are made with so many skillful people. The sound design team of even a mid-level budgeted movie consists of a dozen people or more. What about the camera? The post-production work? The visual intent of the director? These are all important things to be mindful of when showing a film. If I made a movie and I was attending the screening of it, I would be damn sure to talk to the projectionist and go over the equipment in the theater first, just to make sure it looked and sounded like I originally made it.

So, what's my beef? It's these poor-quality theaters. They are run like businesses, like candy stores. I understand they need to make profits to stay innovative and successful, but they aren't doing that. They are maintaining a stranglehold, and nothing else. They like the lack of competition in their markets. They don't innovate unless they think it will sell more sodas or popcorn. They think that their product is given to them and so the only thing they can focus on is the ancillaries. That is wrong.

Almost every theater I go to is staffed with teenagers who want a fun job, but who then realize that working at a movie theater is depressing and the equivalent of working at a swimming pool. I haven't met or seen any evidence of an employee who is enamored with the cinema, who loves the history of movies, who finds it a duty to make sure that people have a great experience to go with their memories of a movie. What if the projection is poorly lit? What if the some of the speakers don't work? What if the chairs are broken and the floor is sticky? Oh well, if enough people complain, then we might go in and fix it.

I'm not just harping about customer service, either. I'm pissed that the quality of the exhibition experience is so lacking. I live in one of the ten-biggest cities in the country. I haven't been to a theater here yet that has satisfied my desire to have a clean, classy, artistic, loud, capable experience designed to do the one thing we purchase tickets for - see a movie on the big screen. The owners and management need to focus on the main things, and then tighten the experience up with some well designed supplements. Did you know that selling popcorn and candy was just an enticement to get people to go during the depression? They had to do something because people were so poor that the prospect of seeing a film just wasn't enough. They needed cheap popcorn and cheap soda to liven it up. Now those things aren't cheap (to us, anyway).

Why do we put up with this? I'm, by far, the worst of anyone I know. I'll repeatedly grumble but still plunk down my debit card and be charged outrageous ticket prices for a mediocre experience. I have no other choice. I can't switch to a competitor, because they are all C-students. I could complain, but I don't have the heart. I need that heart. I need the muse to send letters telling them that I want, desperately, to pay them money for a wonderful experience. But I don't have the wherewithall to withhold my money when they don't measure up. What's to become of us when we don't get what we want in the marketplace? It's like the big companies keep buying up the little companies and get together to cooperate in giving us lousy service. Some industries aren't a monopoly, but they are close. For example, I have three choices for an internet provider. All three are lousy with service. What to do?

This just points out that we are ripe for wanting excellence. If someone would just give it to us, then we would eat it up like the Japanese at a hot dog-eating contest. Could that someone be me? No, I don't think so. I'm too busy complaining.

This is some guy's home theater based on the Nautilus in Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. C'mon!

Waiting for the inevitable

In the second of a stunning series of posts that include the word waiting in the title, this time I'm talking about Death (not the election). My job as a librarian forces me to help people with their information problems. A strategy we have to combat these problems is to use communication techniques, like asking questions and giving fact-based answers. One of our tactics involved in this strategy is to approach people whose body language appears to be saying, I don't know what I'm doing and I need help or I'll start crying. Since they are too proud to come to us, we'll magnanimously go to them and ask, "Is there anything I can help you with?" Aside from ending a sentence in a preposition, which never starts off a conversation well, we are assuming they have a problem. I know I hate it when salespeople do this to me in a store. It's like they want me to have a quick, hassle-free experience with personalized attention. Don't they know I'm just wasting time looking at khakis I'm not going to buy while my girlfriend/sister/mom looks at purses or shoes for what seems like forever? [To be fair, they have to do the same thing when I'm looking at books or movie scores.]

Well, despite my internal conflict with roaming the library asking people if they are OK, I do get to observe people who don't normally approach me at the reference desk. When we roam around, trying to see if someone has a problem with printing, a computer, finding a book in the stacks, or where their classroom is(n't), sometimes we see things we aren't supposed to. Contraband prevails in the upper floors. Drinks, chips, cookies, people talking on their cellphones, fun of any kind. Cellphone conversations aren't banned outright, but only when they are the inane ones where someone is bored and can't stand the thought of passing the next ten minutes without talking to someone, anyone, who cares to listen about why they're pissed at their boyfriend/girlfriend.

Aside from the naughty things people do in the library, which I mostly let ride cause I'm cool like that, I get to see how people spend their hours in the library. Many of them study dilligently, many sleep dilligently. Many stare at their book or laptop, hoping and praying that a light will come on. It's sort of like looking at your refrigerator and expecting it to stop that horrible humming sound all by itself. You might have to do something or call someone. Desire won't get it done by itself - I've tried that. Besides all of the typical students sitting in our nooks and crannies, I saw an older woman who I recognized as an employee from downstairs in one of the university admin offices. What was she doing?

Waiting for death, it would seem. She goes upstairs in the library everyday for, let's say, probably 4 to 6 hours, hoping he will come by. There are several reasons I suspect this: she sits alone at an empty table, never a carrel; she always has a magazine open in front of her, but never looks at it; she doesn't write or talk or draw or do anything but sit; her glasses are usually off and laying on the table. It's possible that she could be really bored with her job and uses many excuses to say she is doing work that no one will ever check on and instead wastes her day in the library. But the way she does it is so heartbreakingly sad.

It's one thing to play hookey and do something fun, like get some Starbucks, buy and axe from the hardware store, and see what happens. But it's another to sit all alone with nothing to do but wait out this life, hoping for the end. Some compassionate person might think it prudent for me to carefully approach her and ask if she needs some help - of the emotional kind. Librarians have learned from painful experience not to get involved in that arena. When someone wants to talk it over, and they find a unsuspecting dogooder who has no escape, then they will latch on like a tick on a dog. So, I'm not about to say mum to this lady.

I could, however, find some books on the topic of "what to do with your boring life when all you have left to do is think about why you have arrived at your current situation and aren't having fun like those other people on TV" and lay them ever so casually on her table and then forget to pick them up again. She usually has that thousand-yard stare, so I might have to cough or trip or something to break her laser-like gaze into the fourth dimension. It's like she can see her future where she is sitting in the same seat at the same table and finally has that coronary her doctor has been promising for a while now.

I realize this seems very sarcastic and negative, which it is, but I do want to end on a positive note. If you ever find yourself in this situation, please try to break out of it. Life is for living, because we don't really know what else to do on the planet while we're here. Libraries aren't a bad place to be in a glum situation. They have vessels of knowledge from all parts of human discovery. Many times, if you can still use your imagination, a person can derive ideas and thoughts that could turn into fun and productive ways to spend your precious little time on earth. If you sit there waiting for something to happen in a library, it probably won't. They're really boring and will just make it worse. And death isn't allowed in - we have a permanent tresspass warning because he is always talking loudly on his cellpone to his broker.

Waiting is the hardest part

This election season is killing me. All the time I hear this and that about him or her or him or him. The news is full of one party saying one thing, the other party calling them out on it, and people only agreeing with who they want to instead of who they should. Ultimately, though, we are all responsible for our individual decisions and must take account for them. If I made a bad choice, even if I was misled, on purpose, to believe something false, I still made that choice with my own reasonable brain capable of independent and analytical thought.

So with that happy news, please know that when you cast your vote, you don't have to do it while waiting in line! I hate waiting. I can't stand the act of standing still. Rock concerts kill me if I'm just standing there squeezed in amongst other people. It's only fun if you are moving around, trying not to get crushed by the dance-crazed drunk teenagers surrounding you. Even then... According to IMDB, the plot of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie was concocted in the writer/director's brain while he was waiting in line at a Sears. Lines can cause some pretty scary emotions, even in supposedly normal people.

So, check out this site (if you live in Kansas). It gives you all the information you need to vote early. Thankfully, it is one of those states that allows anyone to vote early if they want to. Texas, for some reason, still has excuses that you must have if you need to vote early, and hating lines is not one of them. But I can still walk my happy self to any precinct within 17-4 days prior to the election and mark my ballot, just the same. I'm only not allowed to do it by mail.

When it comes time to vote, which is very important in our free country, don't forget your right to do it early. That way you won't forget, or turn around when you see a big line, or be bullied into not voting by some jerk who thinks you are homeless or not a citizen. (Yes, I'm unkempt and I didn't take a shower today or I only want to speak Spanish for some reason today, is that against the law? Oh, it is...I guess I didn't know. Sorry.) The more I can do to be lazy, and yet still be responsible, the better. Check out this website if you don't live in Kansas; it will give you the straight dope on what your state's laws are and how much they like/dislike you.

If I have to wait in line again like I did in the primary, where I had to talk to strange old people standing next to me, I'll probably get arrested for doing something saucy and make national headlines and ruin our election. Don't let this happen to you.

This is a breadline from the 1930s during the depression. I'm in no way making a political point here, other than that waiting in line sucks balls. Especially if you are hungry and out of work. And are being discriminated against.

Foliage

My apartment is on the ground floor; actually it is five feet below the parking lot adjacent, but a retaining wall means I'm not subterranean. I have a small patio which is basically an 8'x4' concrete slab that is surrounded by a 5' tall privacy fence. It's covered by the floor of the balcony above, and therefore doesn't let in much light, either to my patio or into my sliding doors. Since it is so small and bare, I don't spend much time out there. Plus, I would only get to look at the fence and a parking lot of cars.

There is one thing out there on the patio that I do have though: plants. The fence extends about 18" beyond the concrete to allow for a small trough of dirt. It is there that I have many green, tall, leafy plants that thrive. They are of various shapes and sizes, shades of green, and character. But they weren't there when I moved in. And I literally haven't spent more than a few minutes time out there since I've lived here. I have not planted anything, nor do I water anything.

I assume they are just weeds, but they look so good. Many of them are a type of ivy, or so the Internet tells me. Some of them are really tall plants with a strong stem, or trunk, or something. Anyway, at this point, I'm very suspicious. I'm positive they are kept alive by a malfunctioning sprinkler not far away. It is supposed to water the grass surrounding the parking lot on the ground many feet vertical. However, it has a clog and sprays a jet of water about ten feet into the air which lands on the balcony above and trickles down to mine every night at 12:30 a.m. I've reported this, but the maintenance crew seem to be befuddled.

Since my patio is overgrown with strange plants that came from nowhere and grew out of accident, then I have no other option but to think that their intentions are malicious. Most likely they are poisonous, and if I opened my sliding glass door and stepped out onto the patio to enjoy an evening breeze, they would pounce upon my unsuspecting body, choke me with their tentacular vines, and rub that poisonous oil into my pale, white skin. I would die of anaphylactic shock in seconds.

So, I'm keeping that door shut for the time being. I'll enjoy their beauty from behind glass, and whenever I go outside again, I'll be ready with a chemical suit and forty gallons of Round-up. Either that, or I'll buy a book on common plants and weeds and see if I should cut them out or leave them be.

How to live life, in three easy steps.

Jack LaLanne gives us the tools to be happy. I thought about this and wondered whether or not someone could say this on TV today. I bet not. People are too cynical to believe in something so simple.

I think the reason why more people don't heed this advice is that because it takes patience. I know that's why I don't go to the store every other day to buy fresh fruits and vegetables. Exercising is something you have to do for a while before you see results, even if you feel them sooner. But smiling is easy.

The simple, free, easy life is anathema to society today. I think back to my childhood with fond memories of this kind of living. Does every generation do that? The innocence of being a kid is so simple and wonderful and good for us. Too bad we have to grow up and pretend to be busy and frown when things go wrong.

Although I still think people who burst out in song are crazy. Straightjacket crazy.

Is health a part of the equation?

Has anyone heard about the Michael Phelps diet? It sounds like one of the better fads going.

I've always wanted to go to the Olympics and be famous. So, tonight I'm going to start on my road to London, 2012. I ate a plate of boneless barbeque chicken wings, half a bag of cool ranch doritos, four donuts, and a big healthy glass of orange juice. If you think I'm kidding, those of you who really know me can attest that I'm not.

My stomach hurts.

The Sickness

For the past few days I've had a bit of a headache. Normally, these aren't a big deal, just a nuisance. I take a few Advil and I'm good for a bit. But sometimes it just keeps coming back. Then last night when it was bed time, it came back with a vengeance.

For some reason my body reacted violently to something. Perhaps it was because I (finally) finished the last Harry Potter book and it was mad that it was over. That's a little dramatic, I suppose. Anyway, I started to sweat a lot, my headache roared back into action, I began sneezing like crazy (which made my headache infinitely worse). My sinuses were draining fast, and I felt a little vomitty. I was hot then cold. So, I took a shower and tried to go to sleep, to relax. But no, my legs were twitchy and restless. Basically I felt like a helpless little kid. Eventually I passed out, and when I woke up this morning I was much better.

I was trying to find a visual approximation of how I felt, and I came up with the perfect example. It is the scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, after he is forced to drink the blood out of a skull, Indiana Jones is laying in some dark chamber, lit only by candles, and is writhing about on a stone slab in pretty awful agony, undergoing some kind of occultish transformation. It was pretty much like that.

I tried to find a clip of that on YouTube, but I failed. I did find one with it buried in six minutes of other stuff, but that wouldn't get to my point easily. Searching for it, however, made me realize how violent and weird that movie is. If you haven't seen it and don't know what I'm talking about, then you should definitely stop everything you are doing and find a copy right now. And if you want to know why guys like Indiana Jones so much, here it is.

Rachel, KS

Simpler times. This is a fictional town emanating from The Andy Griffith Show, The Ghost and Mr. Chicken, and a few other plots. It is described as the "homeplate of wheat and democracy." This is a small town from the middle of the twentieth century that embodies the ideals of Midwestern life, albeit shown in a comical fashion, not unlike River City, Iowa.

This is something my friends and I used to describe as our ideal fantasy town, where we all could live and perform an essential civic function, according to our talents and degrees. The idea of moving away after college and finding our lives separate from one another, while inevitable, is sort of depressing, and this way we could have some kind of hope in our minds.

I was reminded of this glorious Shangri-la whilst reunited recently with a group of friends for the wedding of one of our own. Someone older and wiser remarked during the proceedings that weddings and funerals tend to bring people together like no other time. They are such major life events, that people are moved to travel long distances and be together. It was such a joy to see Mark off into wedded bliss. It was made much sweeter to do so with many of our cadre enjoying each other's company like the days of yore.

This is why Rachel, Kansas is so popular with my day dreams. It boils down society into such a small, circumferenced idea, where we all can be together with an important role to play. Unfortunately, this only exists in plays and stories. Real life is uncompromising.

While we all sometimes live and work far from such good friends and family whom we bonded with during earlier times, it is nice to know that time doesn't diminish our care for one another. Conversations that were interrupted by months or years are picked up with the casual ease as if it was only a few hours absence. This is where humanity's seasoned veterans can say that life leads us all in unexpected directions, and that we should enjoy each stage in which we find ourselves. However, for my part, I won't forget Rachel, Kansas and the measure of its appeal.

Lose a day, gain a day.

I went to bed on Saturday night, and I woke up on Monday morning.

Somehow, after doing nothing out of the ordinary on Saturday, I slept for almost thirty-two hours straight. I did wake up once to go to the bathroom and I checked the time. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. I marveled at my sleeping endurance, especially at how tired I was still. I noticed the light coming in through the shades was faint, so I suspected that the rainy day was causing my extended drowsiness. I fell back into bed.

For a minute I worried about this prolonged rest: Didn't I need food? What if I woke up at two in the morning and couldn't get back to sleep? I quickly rationalized both, somehow, and fell back into a peaceful slumber.

Monday morning I awoke with a start after unconsciously hitting the snooze ten times. It was seven-thirty and I was late for work. I panicked and realized I would have to call in and tell them I'd be late. I checked my wondrous iPhone and looked up my calendar for work to see if I needed to get someone to cover a desk shift. Despite the adrenaline, my grogginess lingered. How could I have slept so much and was still that tired?

Well, the iPhone gave me the answer. It was actually Sunday morning. I had dreamt the entire sleeping through Sunday bit. Waking up at four-thirty in the afternoon was really the morning. No light came in through the windows because there wasn't any, save for that incessant street lamp. Phew! What a relief.

I now had a free day. It was like finding twenty bucks in your pants that you didn't know was there. Good thing I didn't have any plans, so I could spend it however I wanted. What do you do with a free day?

Well, for starters, I went back to sleep.

Eighteen Wheels of Justice!

Time to go to sleep or time not to go to sleep? That is the question.

They (scientists) say that if you fall asleep in less than five minutes, then you are too tired. On the flip side, however, if it takes more than fifteen minutes to visit the sandman, then you aren't tired enough. So, I guess there is a magic window of ten minutes when you should be falling off to dreamland. I get stage fright, and if I think about it, then it takes me a long time to process all of the nervous energy left in my brain.

When my head hits the pillow, my brain is busy with thoughts surging through my synapses. Maybe I need to meditate, or do yoga, or eat more fruit. Maybe all three. Whatever is happening, though, most nights I'm tossing and turning thinking about recent events in my life, my future self the way I would want if I could control events, and movie stunts. Occasionally, a good idea for a blog post will rear its elusive head and I then dictate it in my mind.

I keep a sharpie and a box of index cards on my night stand for just such an instance. Take last night for example. I'm sifting through my myriad thoughts and dreams when a perfect little idea pops into my mind. I start dictating, brilliant word for brilliant word. I get up to write it down. My hand squeezes the lamp on, and I squint at the bright light; it burns my eyes which are now accustomed to the dark. I can't see a thing without my glasses, so I fumble for those, too.

Great, now I'm awake and must continue my genius train of thought. Fortunately, I'm on it at the moment, so I keep going. Oh, man, this is so good. And funny! Maybe a little thought provoking? I can't believe my luck. Rarely do I have the presence of mind to capture these thoughts when I'm halfway into the sleepy times.

But as I'm finishing my thoughts, I look at the wall of books just to the side of my bed. It seems a little odd. The books are flying by in a blur, like a forest of trees as you whiz past them in a car. I'm no longer writing down words with my sharpie. I look at my hands and they are clutching the grated walkway on top of a tanker being hauled at seventy miles per hour by a semi truck.

Wind is whipping my bed head hair and as I look back, I see two sinister looking European gangsters in bad suits charging after me with tire irons. I know now what I need to do, and that is jump through the windshield of the cab, knock out the driver, shake the goons up top loose, and drive to Puerto Vallarta before the generalissimo invades the Mazatlan.

My index cards only contained my brilliant essay in my dream. When I awoke in the a.m., it was too late. Only the title remained.

Spectre Analysis

Just outside of the small Kansas town where I grew up lies a bridge that has a mysterious haunted legend. It is called Theorosa's Bridge. It belongs to a pioneer woman who perished near it during the founding of our proud hamlet. The story has grown to many over the years, with different explanations of her unfortunate demise or even who she was. I alone, however, know the truth.

It was told to me by a wise old man who worked behind the counter at the Napa Auto Parts store when it was still around. He must have been close to ninety years old when I met him, but he still had his wits about him. Some said that living in the same small town his entire life made him crazy, and not the good kind. He knew the hell out of auto parts, though, so I had no reason to suspect any skuldrudgery.

His uncle had been the town minister during the 1880s when it formed. He was unmarried and prospects were bleak. Men and women during those pioneering days weren't afforded lots of romantic options. If they didn't find love in their town, they couldn't exactly move to Boulder, get a masters in sociology and troll the coffee shops. So, they mostly settled for what made sense at the time. Private love affairs didn't exist. It was all out in the open, just like seventh grade.

So the minister, young and brimming with hope, crossed paths with a Ms. Theorosa Stewart. She was new to Kansas, having arrived by coach from St. Louis, Mo, where she was raised as the daughter of a shipping tycoon. Wealth afforded her many delicacies in life, and thus she was quite unprepared for living on the harsh frontier. Her new home was an oil town, with most men making their way by drilling for that bubbling crude, which was not the life to which she was accustomed.

She didn't make a lot of friends, even amongst the women, feeling as if she didn't belong in this foriegn land. Theorosa arrived under mysterious circumstances; many speculated that she was disgraced by a love affair in St. Louis and this was her exile. She knew one person in town, the grocer, who was a distant cousin, but they hardly said more than greetings and went about their ways. Despite the scandalous rumors, the truth, which she kept well concealed, was a diagnosis of consumption and orders to see if the dryer country air would sustain her. If Kansas wouldn't work, then it was to be on to points further south by southwest.

The minister took to her immediately, as he understood her loneliness. The rough oil workers and other settlers didn't make for easy converts. The town started out as rather uncivilized and he wasn't the most welcome person in many establishments. He wasn't judgmental, but people felt a lot of guilt when he walked into a room, and they didn't like that too much.

Theorosa liked the lonely minister, but her consumption wasn't getting any better and her affection for him didn't move past pleasantries. However, her money wasn't lasting, as she spent a lot of it on comforts to keep her mind off of the miserable summer winds. The minister and her decided to marry; after all, this wasn't a time to be waiting for something that would never come along. He provided support and she provided companionship.

It wasn't until after they wed that he found out about the coughing fits. He heard the sounds of her hacking in the garden (she never wanted to be in the house during a fit) and noticed her scarlet handkerchiefs that she was careful to wash separately when he was away. He confronted her about it, and she was saddened by his disappointment - his new wife wouldn't last long enough to raise a family. He felt genuine sorrow for her discomfort and was proud of her bravery. She never let on in town and no one ever found out about it.

She did live long enough to bear a child. It was born about one year after she came to town. Her illness wasn't getting any better, but the birth of a beautiful and healthy daughter made her sufferings easier. She loved her baby with all of her heart. Although she didn't know how to raise a child like she was raised in such an unforgiving environment, she and the minister did their best. With all of the starts and stops and joys and sorrows of pioneer life, they did better than most.

The town was growing larger, which was a good sign of prosperity and permanence. They were building bridges up the river that went along the edge of town. The bridge construction employed many new men. It was paid for by the county, mainly for use by farmers. The government wanted the farms and settlers to prosper to make certain that the settlement would sustain itself. Taxes from the first successful oil wells provided money for workers who came from all parts, some of which were less than civilized.

The work outside of town went quickly, and three bridges were erected in record time, according to the engineer supervising them. The sites were each a mile apart, according to the grid of roads they connected. Plans for a fourth bridge were already on the engineer's desk, but they didn't materialize until many years later.

One afternoon, the minister and Theorosa were invited for a Sunday lunch at one of the farmer's houses. The road to their host's spread took them across the third bridge. The minister was nervous for his first meeting with a parishioner outside of church and he didn't notice Theorosa's cold and uneasy manner as they crossed the fateful, eponymous bridge that afternoon. The river was pulsing with a fine current, and the tree's green leaves blew in a gentle breeze, nothing which should give pause to anyone in particular. However, as the carriage clacked over the new wood, Theorosa felt a shudder go up her spine and squeezed her baby a little tighter.

After the meal, the families enjoyed an brief bit of conversation. The farmer mentioned a well that needed digging, and the minister offered his help eagerly. His nervousness at befriending someone belied his duty to care for his wife and child. The two men went outside to spend an afternoon digging in the dirt. The farmer's wife would normally have talked to Theorosa about their settling and how life was going. However, she was not a social person. Years of itinerant farming across the prairies, encounters with hostile natives, and losing two children to disease left this farmer's wife a cold and unfeeling woman. She was content to clean up after dinner and play somber tunes on the piano.

Theorosa understood the predicament and became content to sit and listen. Her baby became fussy soon, though, probably from the sullen funk that filled the air in that house, and Theorosa excused herself to the porch to comfort her daughter; the farmer's wife glowered at them to make certain of her disapproval towards infants crying. They reminded her of her own long dead children, and it was too much to bear.

Once outside, Theorosa caught a fit of coughing that intensified quickly. The shame of her disease was never known to anyone in town. It must have originated before she left St. Louis, but whatever caused it, she made absolutely certain that no one would see her suffering. One of her stronger coughs led to an expulsion of blood on her white shirt sleeve. Mortified by the evidence, Theorosa clutched her baby and climbed aboard their carriage. She left quickly and quietly down the road to home. The farmer's wife didn't notice that she never came back in. She continued to play her piano.

When the minister and the farmer finished with the first part of the well, they came in for a drink of water. The minister noticed the music and complimented the farmer on his wife's playing, albeit a bit depressing for a summer's day. The farmer looked back at him with a gracious smile, but shrinking eyes. He knew how inhospitable his wife could be. They walked into the parlor to see how the women were doing, and noticed quickly that one was absent.

The farmer was startled. He inquired of his wife to where Theorosa had gone. She looked up from her music, as if coming out of a trance. The farmer knew that face all too well. He rushed the minister outside to look for Theorosa and her baby. They found the carriage missing and came back in to question his wife once again. She was just as surprised as they were; she hadn't noticed her absence at all and she felt very sorry and ashamed.

They left the farmer's wife at home and raced back along the route to town. A few miles down the road was the third bridge. It wasn't quite dusk and they could see columns of smoke rising from the trees in that direction. When they came within sight of the bridge, it was consumed in flames, with the minister's carriage stopped at the edge of the fire. It was close enough to start blackening from the heat. In minutes it would be on fire, as well.

They ran to the carriage, but no one was in or around it. They searched the riverbanks, calling out Theorosa's name in panic. No answer. The bridge soon collapsed into burnt timbers. The minister and the farmer spent hours running around the land along the river and into town frantically searching for a woman they were afraid to be dead. And she was.

The bridge burned itself out and other townspeople came to search for bodies. They did find two bodies washed up on the banks a few miles down river, just next to the town proper. One was a baby girl. The other was a man, one of the construction workers, dead from enormous gashes in his stomach, leg, and neck. The remains of Theorosa were never found.

The minister mourned for a long time, not knowing what to make of his tragedy. The mystery of the dead man haunted him even more. Months later, a local boy came and knocked on his door. He said he wanted to confess what he was witness to on that fateful day.

The boy was nine years old and from a nearby town about seven miles to the northwest. He walked along the river to fish and found a good spot near Theorosa's bridge. He fished and napped all afternoon, and was startled when he heard a woman scream loudly. He rushed around a bend in the river to see the commotion and spied the unfortunate occurrence.

A man, one of the construction workers who built the bridge, was drunk and angry. He stopped Theorosa's carriage and carried her off of it. He dragged her across the bridge, somewhere upon which she lost hold of her daughter who fell on the bridge. Amidst the terrible screaming, the boy came closer and saw the man slide the baby off of the bridge with his foot into the current below. The boy stopped, terrified at the inhumanity. The violent screaming from Theorosa was frightening.

She kicked and clawed and screamed and then exhausted. Her energy waned for a moment as a coughing attack demanded it more. This time more blood spat across the the wooden planks. The man let go of her and stumbled back on his heels, falling down and breaking his bottle of liquor. He awoke from his drunken carnage and momentarily examined what had just transpired. His stupor just became a nightmare. Forgetting about Theorosa, who was heaving silently in tears a few feet away, he pulled out a cigar and lit a match. His mouth was dry for the taste of tobacco in that dark moment when guilt befell him.

Before he could get the match to the cigar, Theorosa had regained her strength, and her sorrow and tears turned into rage. During her struggle, she had pulled out a knife from the man's boot. She lunged for him as he sat in a quiet daze. The blade caught him in the neck first. She thrashed about trying to get it out, causing him to throw his match down. His wound enlarged and she flailed about him, the knife raining down on his leg and then in his belly, where she drug it and him to the side of the bridge. He was still, silent and paralyzed by shock.

The match lit the vapors of the spilled alcohol, which was dissipating in the hot summer sun. The flame caught on the dry wood and tar that helped to preserve the timber. It caught quickly and soon consumed the top boards.

Theorosa managed to shove the man off of the bridge, her tears falling in afterward. She sat on the edge of the bridge sobbing and howling after her baby, long since taken by the current to its death. The fire from the bridge caught Theorosa's body and she tried to slide off into the water, but snagged fragments of her dress on the beams. She hung from the bridge beneath surface alight as the fire consumed her and the bridge in a flash. Soon the minister and the farmer arrived, just in time to see the largest of the flames and the structure collapse.

The boy shivered as he told his story. The minister wept. No public story was told for any records. The minister didn't want anyone to know of the misery of his wife's end. He figured it would be best left obscured by time. The town records claimed it an unsolved accident, although they didn't account for the stabbed body. And no one spoke of it again for sometime.

When the minister was near the end of his life, his inquisitive nephew was in school and wanted to know more about his family history. Although it was a painful subject, he told his relative the story as he knew it, with great sadness and compassion for the deceased. The story haunted that boy and he would sometimes go to where the bridge was rebuilt and think about it.

One day he was sitting by the bank on a quiet and peaceful day. He looked across the still waters where cotton from the cottonwood trees flitted along in the smallest of breezes. Time was getting on and he stood up to head home. Turning around to the bridge he saw an ethereal shape - the shape of a woman, translucent and foggy, hovering slowly towards him. Time stood still. The air seemed to thicken. The shape approached him silently and stopped within inches of his face. Then is wailed loudly, in a screeching, hoarse voice - Where's my child?! His stomach dropped to his knees and his heart sent one quick large pulse before stopping momentarily.

My storyteller turned and ran home as fast as his blood would allow. He heart beat in a panic, propelling his limbs faster and faster over logs and rocks and up the bank, across fields and back into town. When he arrived to his house he stopped amidst other people. Safe, real people. He quivered. His breath was gone and sweat flooded out of his skin. He was home and swore he would never go near Theorosa's Bridge again.

Incidents such as his were reported in the years since, but no one really wanted to talk about it. The mystery surrounding people's frightening confessions became legend. Very little truth was known about the bridge or the figure, except the accidental tragedy that was recorded in the town's records. It simply listed the names and date of death for those involved. The public since has treated it to countless versions. In some Theorosa's vengeance is murderous. In some she is a sad figure forever looking for her daughter.

There was even a book written about local ghost stories called Haunted Kansas. It has a chapter on this legendary bridge. But only the old Napa Auto Parts guy knows the truth. And me, too.

And now you.

Twelve Minutes to Vanishing Point

I have twelve minutes to do something. I could:

• fold my laundry
• fix something to eat
• do a satisfying work out with push-ups
• read a chapter in a good book
• sketch a clown and a lion at the circus
• write a haiku
• drive to the pharmacy and buy some gum
• file the bills piled up on my desk
• trim my beard with precise detail
• learn fifteen words in a foreign language
• day dream about running in some sleet and ice and snow
• unload the dishwasher and load it back up again
• play one side of an LP (most likely Herb Alpert)
• write an email to an old friend
• surf the web for some old scores I don't have
• write an episode of Count of Monte Cristo fan fiction
• contemplate the mysteries of love

But instead of any of these, I'll write a blog post about all of the things I could be doing in the twelve minutes while I wait for Netflix to adjust my playback in order to watch Vanishing Point on my computer. By the way, I'm into the last third and it's pretty freaking sweet.

Update: This only took six minutes. Oh no! What could I do for six more minutes??...

Biomechatronic Exoskeletons

That's what they are calling it, these days. Remember that contraption that Sigourney Weaver had on in the end of Aliens when she was kicking that creature's ass? That's what these things are. And they aren't science fiction, anymore. Engineers are designing and building exoskeletons for humans that are part robot. The uses explained thus far are for commercial manufacturing and for the army. This way ordinary people could lift and move giant pieces of equipment with relative precision that we couldn't dream of with our mortal bodies.

They could also help the elderly, whose bodies become too infirm to operate normally. It's tough to imagine some old codger shuffling along in a RoboCop outfit. But I bet kids would stay the hell of his lawn!

However, what is the real benefit of these sci-fi super suits? I'll tell you: furniture moving. Is there a bigger pain in the ass than moving furniture? When you vacuum. When you rearrange. When you move all of your belongings to another domicile. They all suck. So here comes my hydraulic wonder, the mechatux. Now look at me, vacuuming all over the place, and not just where you can see. Need to move fifty boxes of books? No problemo.

Now when your grandma wants to get that old washer out of the basement, you won't have to pretend you don't speak English. Ah, the miracles of science.

Jinkies!

I realize I'm basing two successive posts on another friend's blog, but what's a guy to do? They were good and provocative.

Swearing, cussing, or being profane, to me, are tools of communication. Each of those words have different literal connotations, just like most curse words. They have evolved over time. Curse words are no longer used to put a curse upon someone, but they have a lingering attitude towards malice or insult. But that depends on context and intent.

I enjoy swearing when appropriate. It's hard to judge and that is why they are an interesting and complex set of linguistics. I think that is also why kids are routinely and (almost) universally told that they are bad to use. Just as children are not considered mature enough to drive, have sex, drink, smoke, gamble or be left to their own devices during school hours, we don't consider them developed enough to understand the linguistic complexities of swearing throughout the various strata of society. [An aside: I once posited that we become adults when we start telling children not to do the things we sometimes do.]

Heck, even adults don't get it a lot of the time. But I'll defend those words as legitimate parts of human language. We use these words for lots of purposes, such as emphasis, frustration, anger, love, amazement, or most any emotion. They are very flexible and malleable, which are actually useful traits when used by the right tongues. Just as anything that is useful in society, it can be used for good or bad, which is where the rub lies.

How many times do we use swear words to describe events or actions negatively? Or perhaps make our anger and spite known? Are those constructive uses of language? Perhaps if they are done to make a point or to get attention. However, lots of other words can do this, as well. I've often thought that swearing simply shows a poor vocabulary, as they are used as crutch words to describe situations or emotions when suitable words aren't known. Their use can be lazy, too.

But the idea that they are only words is true. It is how we use them that matters. Is condescension or sarcasm any less insulting to someone than cussing if the person who utters them is trying to show contempt? How do we use these words? What are our intentions? They are tools of language that evolve over time, and they are the construction and presentation of our thoughts. If we sin and abuse other people with them, then it isn't the word that is to blame but rather ourselves.

The trouble is that society is complex. Many people who overhear a conversation have no context for some of the inflammatory or radical things we sometimes say, which can turn an innocent phrase into something very bad, even criminal. Thus, we must be more aware of ourselves in our environment than with just the people to whom we are speaking. That is hard to do, and not everyone is perfect.

I think swearing, cussing or profanity, however we describe it, is something that can be treated with intelligent analysis, rather than prohibition. It is good to have freedom with the development of our language. It is a representation of how we usefully communicate. If something isn't working, then another word will come along and take its place. This annoys a lot of people, especially purists who like the status quo. But because of the 4th dimension and the interaction of billions of people on this planet, we cannot help but change. It is our responsibility to make sure that change is more good than bad.

And we all have a say, so to speak.

The Good, the Tolerable, and the Worst

My astute friend Clay recently wrote about bad movies and their stranglehold on people who don't want to waste their money by sleeping through them. He rightly pointed out that sleeping through one will provide you with more benefit than submitting yourself to many minutes of torturous tedium. Judging movies good or bad is certainly subjective, and even Clay and I don't agree on which movies are okay to sleep through, cough*Robots*cough. (I'm an unabashed lover of any and all animated movies.) This idea of sleeping through bad movies made me think of two things: how I hate sleeping through movies and how many people I know complain about bad movies.

I'm the type of chap who can't do anything else while watching a movie. Ask anyone who has tried to say something to me when I'm in front of the television. It has a mystical hold over me like one of those spinning hypnosis swirls. I can't look away, and I can't pay attention to anything else in the vicinity. Remember that if you ever need to share an embarrassing tidbit and my ears are not the intended landing zone; just turn on a movie. So, to me, sleeping through a movie is the antithesis of having it on. I could no more sleep through a movie than I could listen to the Beach Boys when I'm really in the mood for the Beatles.

Actually, I did sleep through a part of a movie once. It was Return of the Jedi, and circumstances will exonerate me! It was during the series re-release in 1997. It was on a Friday and I had woken up at 6 a.m. for school, suffered through an entire day of public education and social ridicule, rode the bus to a foreign city, participated in a track meet where I raced in the mile and two-mile races, rode the bus back, then caught the midnight showing of RotJ. At about the last third of the movie, I started to nod off. I caught the very end when all hell breaks loose on Endor and Lando busts ass out of the Death Star 2.0 before it goes up in flames. I was so tired! It wasn't my fault! Okay. It was my fault. On some level, I still feel guilty about that one.

The other idea is about how many people I know who seem to only watch bad movies. Granted, I'm much different about my movie going than almost everyone else. I'll see just about anything. I have my standards, but they are much lower than most. Like Blade II; I actually liked it okay when I saw it. Keep in mind, though, that I judge movies that aren't really that good by their parts rather than their whole. Blade II had a great score by Marco Beltrami, and some good martial arts action, which I always enjoy. Despite my leniency on mediocre movies, it seems that many people are much harder on them and then judge all movies on this.

Now, these people aren't friends of mine, because my friends aren't judgmental. But when I casually talk movies with people at work, acquaintences at school, or strangers on the corner, many times I can tell that they aren't at all into movies. This is obvious because they will say that the only movie they saw in the last year was License to Wed, which they hated, of course. I ask how come they didn't see something better, and their response is usually dismissive, as if there aren't any better movies out there. Or worse yet, the "I'm just not a movie goer normally."

Far be it for me to push my values on other people, but c'mon! If you go to see just one movie per year, then like Clay said, by all means go see The Visitor. It is good. All around. Not only is it interesting throughout and never boring, it is also good for the old synapses up there and makes us think about how we touch people with the littlest of efforts, which can cause the biggest of reactions. It also had a powerful line ("We are not helpless children!") that I won't soon forget. This is a good example of a literate movie that uplifts and entertains, but also stays true to a grounded reality to which we can relate.

Of course other good movies can be fantastical or whimsical or scary or tragic or hilarious. The Fall, a recent opener, is all of these and more. These examples are so-called independent films, but that doesn't mean that all indepenent films are good or that blockbusters can't be just as good. But it pains me to hear people explain that they only watch a movie every few years or so because the last one they saw was so bad. There are many good ones out there they should be watching. Is it right for me to make such a judgemental statement? You bet! How can someone go through life thinking that Catwoman is their fate when it comes to watching movies?

I'm deluding myself in thinking that is their only reason. Sure, these people just don't like movies as much as me. They aren't as important or don't hold as much meaning and power in their lives. Therefore, when they watch something as wonderful as the movies I mentioned, they won't be blown away by the craftsmanship, the quality with all aspects of the assembly and artistry. Instead, they will walk out and say, "I'm glad I spent two hours in air conditioning and I don't regret it." That's better than saying, "There went 100 minutes of my life that I won't get back."

Come in from the cold

I'm sorry! If you can, please forgive me. I have a problem and I don't know what the answer is.

I'm really lazy.

Instead of sitting down, thinking clearly, and writing my thoughts into a coherent, entertaining, and semi-literate post every night, I watch TV episodes or read chapters from awesome books. Sometimes I go to the movies. But a lot of the time I'm actually sitting on my couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking about this and that as thoughts flit through my brain.

It would require some modicum of discipline to get control of one of those thoughts and fill it out, shape it, round it, and smooth it for publication. I admire people who can do this routinely. I thought I had it figured out, with the help of my friend Mark, when I decided to have daily themed posts. This way I already had a perch on which to sit my brain when it came time for the keyboard.

However, this turned out to be another in a line of weak-willed failures. But, as Winston Churchill said, "Never give up. Never surrender." Or was that Sean Connery? I'll try harder. Nothing is more helpful than the motivation of others, especially when they are awesome, too. This post really has nothing to do with anything, other than for me to say, I'm sorry, and will you welcome me back?

This also has nothing to do with anything. It just looks really cool. And makes me proud to be an American.

Afternoon musings

To me, crazy ideas are great ideas. It doesn't matter if they come to fruition or not, just that they're born. Sometimes they are best left unuttered. Sometimes the world desperately needs them. Sometimes they are stupid, and that's just life.

One time at work, in the Golden Age of Spahr, I was talking with Chin and Mark, my two employees at the time, and we were discussing the hot dog stand in downtown L-town. Apparently, there was a go-getter with an awesome idea to sell hot dogs on the street like he was in New York or something. Unfortunately, for him, he wasn't there every day. So I told Chin that he should get a stand and put that guy out of business. That'll show him for not being around all of the time.

Well, like a good employee, Chin was all ears, with a little bit of the exciting loud talking. He waxed enthusiastic about how he could make it swell. One of the magical Chin-isms was the secret Kung-fu sauce. Also, he needed to open the stand at night, after the bars close and drunk people are super hungry for something, anything, even hot dogs at 2:00 a.m. Chin is enthusiastic and friendly, so I couldn't imagine it going awry. I told him that he might need a bodyguard waiting in the shadows, just in case. Chin came up with a name so awesome that I can't repeat it here. It might break your fragile little mind, and I don't want to be responsible for that.

We were all ready for writing up a business plan, detailing the capital to start it up, and spit-balling a list of possible investors. The excitement was building, so I asked, what happens when you put that other dude out of business? Do you keep a stand open during the day? You don't want to get stagnant. You need competition to maintain your stronghold on the downtown hot dog trade. So, I gleefully volunteered to run my own stand. I would directly oppose Chin's tactics. I would offer different exotic sauces, have a snappier catch phrase, and put up my own alliterative stand name. All the while, however, I would be under Chin's employ.

We would get the business from people who want to support the underdog, not the greedy corporate giant that is Chin's hot dog stand. Soon, he would have one on every corner, just like Starbucks. But I would be there, too, to happily serve those who opposed his brutal rock-bottom wages and lack of health insurance. I would be the Target to his Wal-Mart. But the genius would be that we would both be thumbing through the Benjamin's together at Spahr.

Ultimately, we decided to scrap our plans because they were becoming too evil, even though they would most certainly have worked. That hot dog guy, on which ever days he is downtown still, should give thanks for the triumph of good over evil that day. Otherwise his kids would be eating old packets of mustard with their saltines, with college but a distant fantasy and their only consolation being the quiet dignity of their father's silence at the dinner table.

Thus ended our quest for hot dog stand monopoly. I'm sure we went directly to another topic as Mark and I played an important work game of paper football. When I said Golden Age, I meant every damn word.

Delicious!

Fill 'er up!

Forgive me, but my mind turned to dark things just now. I was thinking about a recent shopping experience I had, and I wondered what it would have been like if the store was robbed while I was there. My unfortunate fantasy didn't make it far, because when the would-be thief demanded the money from the drawer, the shop keep had very little. Why not?

So I began to wonder, how much cash is bandied about these days? Personally, I rarely carry cash, and if I do it is less than twenty dollars. Usually less than five, because if I had at least five then you'd better believe I would be on my way to a delicious Pizza Shuttle pizza and a large Cherry Coke. Aside from their pizza, which is easily the best way to spend five bucks, I can't think of anything else for which I would routinely need cash. Most places take a debit card, which is easier than writing a check, and you don't have to feel guilty about only spending 58 cents on a pack of gum and using your card. It eliminates lots of loose change and is easier to keep account of online, rather than writing it all down. Before I sound like a spokesperson, I'd like to say that sometimes I would rather have cash money, because then I wouldn't feel so poor.

I do know people regularly make purchases with cash, but the debit card is becoming more and more common. I don't have any hard evidence, but I'm willing to bet that a majority of people make a majority of their purchases, even trifling amounts, with a little piece of plastic in which is embedded a magnetic strip that holds the numbers to their little fortunes. Therefore, my conclusion would be that the number of robberies must be down because of the lack of a substantial take.

This is a perfect time to show why I will never be an investigative reporter. I'm curious and all, and I do have easy access to lots of probing minds and authoritative reporting sources at work, but I do not have the attentive endurance for such endeavors. The moment something else took my fancy, I would drop this quest like a hot potato. Yet, even without definitive proof, I'm gonna go ahead and rest easy the next time I'm in line at a Macy's.

Give me yer money!

Bibliodilemma

Over the years I have acquired a lot of media. A lot. Books, DVDs, CDs, LPs, and a few cassette tapes. It's like my own version of a public library, admittedly from which I purchased a good many of the books. I mentioned once that my intention in surrounding myself with all of these things was just in case I was ever stranded on a deserted island or in some kind of jungle prison. Well, if one takes that reasoning to its logical conclusion, then under what fantastical circumstances would I be set adrift with all of my belongings, or at least allowed use of them during my incarceration? I'll tell you, I haven't thought of it, yet.

So, in the meantime, I enjoy these things as much as I probably should. Not too much. However, living the life of a bachelor who hasn't put any roots down in a special place, I live with the ever-present possibility of moving to some place new. Maybe not a new city or state, but perhaps just around the corner, in the never-ending chase for the perfect domicile that provides security, comfort, and not too far of a commute. So what? you might wonder. Well, this rootless existence is anathema to someone who has to move all of these items on the occasion.

I am constantly on alert for a new, more efficient means of storing, retrieving and moving my library. Ideally, I wouldn't have to pack them up; I would simply pick up pieces and go. Each medium requires different space concerns, except for books, which are every which way but the same (and that's cool). Anytime I see a bookshelf that has a unique design, my brain begins to glow. How could that work for me? Could I adapt it for my room? On multiple occasions I have drawn up plans for shelves that I would fashion myself. The only problem with that is that I'm not a carpenter, not even with amateur status. I bought some tools when I moved to Texas, but I realized that building furniture might require more than a drill and a saw. Sure, old-timers made do with hand tools - a hammer, saw, and a planer - but I'm way too inept to try and mimic those hard-asses.

My main concern is how to store them with as little open space surrounding the tops of the items, and then how to move these shelves when the horrible time comes to give them the old heave-ho. I've thought about hinges, aluminum, handles, crates, bamboo poles...you name it. I still don't have the perfect solution, all the while time is ticking away. My next move is planned for September. I feel the urgency creeping up behind me whenever I lay eyes upon my wall of books. Maybe I should drape a sheet over them. You know, pretend like the problem doesn't exist.

Or maybe I could read all of them and then donate them to the library, thereby relieving my load. But who has time to read with these looming moves? P.S. If you have a swell idea, then please don't be shy!

Elemental Developmental

Stunts. Fighting. Falling. Deserts. Forests. Snow. Waterfalls. Saloons. Dames. Kissing. Guns. Tanks. Biplanes. Napoleon. George Washington. The Spanish Armada. Radioactivity. Monkeys. Torches. Underground dungeons. Mad scientists. Beautiful lab assistants. Vampires. The Brooklyn Bridge. Punching. Orson Welles. Icebergs. Fencing. 18-year old Scotch. Fires. Duels. Aristocracy. Cotton plantations. Machetes. Sideways glances. Smirking.

What do all of these things have in common? They all comprise elements of the single greatest movie ever made (as soon as someone makes it). Will someone out there make it? Please? I would but I'm busy with a thing...you know. Start by coming up with a title.

For example: 10 Days to Ticino

Oh, and put this guy somewhere in it! He looks about to cause some trouble, with a capital T!

It's a dollar twenty-five.

Vending machine meals. I've had plenty of these over the years. Sometimes you aren't in the mood to walk to a restaurant, or get out in traffic and find something, but you don't know what. It is easier to go down the hall, gaze into a glass and metal box at a small - but diverse - selection of prepackaged foods that are meant to be tasty. I fully understand that they are not "good for you." There are probably lots of scientific reasons that they will actively kill you, but just not right now. It's not like they are a poisoned apple from which you will fall into a coma and never awake. They'll just destroy your body a day at a time, which is why I try not to make that a daily routine.

I might be the only person in the world who suffers from this, but I doubt it: a lot of times when it is necessary to put food stuffs into my body to sustain my existence, I have no clear idea of what I want to shove in my mouth. I'm at a loss. It's like my mind becomes blank and I can't remember my address or the abc's. At these times I would be a horrible $25,000 Pyramid contestant. It's on a bun! You put cheese on it sometimes! You grill it! You eat it with french fries! Uh, I dunno. A pickle? I swear it's like horrible disease of the brain. Which is why vending machines are such a nice backup. I don't have to think; I just peer through a pane of glass and see what is most appealing according to my baser instincts. If the swiss cake rolls had a picture of a busty woman on them, you'd better believe I get them over the animal crackers.

I do have a semblance of rationality when I make a selection. It might only make sense to the most childish part of my brain, but it's something. If this is replacing a meal, then I must have the requisite amount of calories to sustain my active lifestyle. Fortunately, my metabolism is still high enough to keep me from gaining lots of pounds as I consume way more than my healthy share of calories, according to the FDA. So, I get whatever I can, depending on how much money I'm willing to spend, which is usually as much as I have on me - I can't resist the lure of certain things, like gummy bears or Mrs. Freshley's Creamy Curls. And of course, I always feel physically sick afterwards. It's just not good for your body to consume a thousand calories of prepackaged sugary treats. But I don't regret it at all. It's quite a thing to sit in your chair at work with an upset stomach, knowing full well you did it to yourself, yet also knowing full well that you'll do it again with glee. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week.

I will say that I wish they put more healthy options in those things. I mean, the point of the vending machine for me isn't that it's junk food, but rather that it's there food. It's convenience and selection without having to think. It's glorious instant gratification. It's push a button, get a prize. So it wouldn't matter to me if it was a Snickers or a fresh giant apple. But I guess the candy bars last longer. However, for all of the healthy posturing I put forth, no amount of preservative-free, nutritious foods will take the place of a Big Texas Cinnamon Roll or any kind of iced honey bun. Those things have my vote any day! In fact, from now on, in any election in which I don't like either candidate, I'm gonna write in "Mrs. Freshley."

VRONK!*

I like watching action movies. I like watching martial-arts movies, which could be a subset of the former or its own unique genre, depending on how you look at it. I think about fighting all of the time when I daydream. However, I have the ability to realize the difference between real life and make believe. I would like to say I learned this the hard way, but I didn't. I've never really been in a fight. Not really.

During the summer between 8th and 9th grade, I was welcomed into the unjust world of mistaken identity. I was walking along the sidewalk across from our small town's Junior High during the long, arduous trek of less than one mile from my mom's house to my dad's house. Actually, it was the middle of the day so I was going over to my friend's house who lived across the street from my dad. But there I was, without a care in the world, yet with my wits about me.

I sensed an unease as I heard a vehicle pull up behind me. To be honest, it wasn't really my powerful sensing ability, but rather the fact that the pickup truck screeched to a halt as its driver belatedly realized that his unsuspecting victim was ripe for an engagement with the bully fairy. Can a high school-aged boy be called a bully? Or is he simply a dick-face? What happened next is clear in my mind, even now, sixteen years later. But it probably only lasted about sixteen seconds.

The compact pickup truck screeched to a halt. Two youths popped out of the bed onto the sidewalk behind me. The driver and a passenger also exited with haste and came up on my side. At this point I was still walking, but turning to my left to face the road and gather my situation. When the girl who was riding in the middle seat screamed, "No, [someone's name I couldn't make out], NO!" I began to realize the gravity of this little scenario. They weren't poor, lost travelers looking for directions. They were ruffians looking for someone to rough up. The fact that three out of the four were shirtless nailed the case shut. [Shirtless guys in trucks=bad news.]

When I halted and tried my best to act like, Hey guys, what's up? You need something?, the leader of the pack actually looked kind of nice. He said in a charming, but rushed, tone, "Yo Tim, we need to talk with you." Before I could protest that I wasn't this Tim fellow, one of the guys from behind let fly one of his fists, which, due to its position at my six, connected on the back side of my right jaw. I felt it coming even though I couldn't see it.

Immediately, I fell to the ground and curled up like a roly poly. I was sure they were going to kick the shit out of me, so I used my two arms to protect my head and my belly. As clear as this all is in my head, I can't remember if they did any kicking or not. If they did, it was quick and half-hearted. Because a second or two after I hit the deck they were jumping for their truck and took off with a screeching of tires. As soon as that happened, I popped up and hauled ass back to my mom's house, which was only two blocks away. I smoked down that street. I'm not sure I've ran as hard in my life, and I wasn't winded at all.

From the moment I sensed something amiss to the moment I hit my mom's front porch, I felt very little. The punch, the ground, the running; they were all far in the background, as my adrenaline was thickly coursing through my veins. It is here that my memory stops. I can't remember if I made it to my friend's house later that day. I'm sure that I regaled him and my mom the story. I'm sure my mom was super hot and wanted to hire a bodyguard for me. But I was fine. Nothing had actually happened.

This was the smallest scuff with a rough crowd that anyone encountered as a child. It wasn't a fight. It wasn't an attack. It was just some hooligans who wanted to scare a smaller kid. I still think that they mistook me for another kid in my class named Tim Cox. I mentioned it to him when school started up. He laughed and said, "Sorry about that." He wasn't surprised that such kids might want to visit harm upon him, but he certainly wasn't worried about it. Maybe they just saw an opportunity to bully and Tim was the first name that popped into the driver's head.

Because I don't really count that as a fight, I don't really know what a real scrape feels like. I've been to parties, heard some stories, and they all sound like scary messes that I would just as likely avoid. Most people end up unnecessarily hurt. I've done some thinking over the years as to the honor of the situation. Should I have stood and fought back? Should I not have run home but continued on my way? I really can't answer those questions because I wasn't thinking about it at the time. My reactions were completely involuntary. Maybe my mind consciously acted, but if so, it was instinct.

I've heard some stories about trained fighters who have been in a situation or two. They talk about instinct and training, too. They mention that all of these things escalate and happen so quickly that a person doesn't have time to think it through. It usually just happens, and then you are left with the consequences. One person told me that in his mind a fight is to the death, that he must be prepared to defend his life up to and including taking someone else's, because you never know what someone else knows or can do or is willing to do. Which is why he said he has never gotten in a fight. He has always walked away before something could happen.

Having described my little incident during my youth, I don't want anyone to think that my town was a hot bed of lawless thugs. That's just the west side.

* For more onomatopeyas