caveat emptor

free dumb

We spend our entire lives tossed about and affected bye forces larger than us. Oui cannot S cape it. Mite as well enjoy the ride and exert you're will ware ewe will. Wear theirs uh will they'res a weigh. Everthemore, I just remembered that last knight I invisibled myself and broke N 2 the local bank and stole all the finger prince. It was the perfect crime. Eye even stole a glance at the vault, and I'm never giving it back. If there's a river N Crimea, I don't feel won bit sorry four it. Life stuff all over, like an elephant. I no only two well that their R people, and moor people, who learn language primarily from making talk talk and knot from reading. These are the people that right "better then" and "could of" and talk about what it all "balls down" to. People like this are wonderful, inn they're own whey. I'm afraid of sum things, but I'm not a homophone.

Hell, oh friends. Howard ewe too dei?

Later. Love.

Out of the Blue, Into the Mystic and Off of the Charts

I know. I know. Nothing is more mundane than talking about the weather. Here's the thing though: The weather here yesterday was remarkable. Literally. I heard at least ten people make remarks about it. Even I found myself muttering, "Damn, it's nice out here" a few times. And it was. Nice weather here is rare, especially in August. It was remarkable and blogworthy. Just barely.

I'm listening to Willie Nelson sing You Were Always on my Mind over the coffee shop music system, and it reminds me of something I dislike. Don't get me wrong: I love Willie Nelson, a fact that is not altogether uncontroversial. People either love Willie Nelson or they hate Willie Nelson. That's okay. People can't be right about everything.

I'm interrupting the previous thought. I will get back to it in a moment. My "people either love or hate" comment above reminded me of Mitch Hedberg, one of the funniest comedians I've seen in quite a while. He had this great joke about a band in which he was a member. He says, "People either loved us or they hated us..." And then, after a perfectly subtle pause, he adds, "...or they thought we were okay." His sense of humor was so dry, and I loved his mumbling, chuckling, indirect delivery, like his jokes were really just for him. I was sad when he died. You should look into him, if you're not familiar with him. He's not for everyone, I guess. You'll either love him or... well, you know.

About being annoyed with Willie Nelson. Here's the deal: Willie is one of those guys who believes he should never sing a song the same way twice. Whenever he does a live performance, he feels like he has to mix up the tempo and all the notes of the melody almost beyond the point of recognition. I once went to see a Squirrel Nut Zippers concert in which the lead singer practiced this principle to the total detriment of the show. Just sing the song, bozo. Not you, Willie. You've earned the right to sing the songs however you want to sing them. Would it kill you, though, to go back and listen to the album and at least stay somewhere in the vicinity of that melody and tempo? It would? Oh, okay.

That's all I've got today. Tell me what's happening with you, friends.

Later. Love.

Newton, Bunyan, Bell and Svengali

In order to walk up the trunk of a tree you have to make some gravity adjustments. You cannot adjust your center of gravity enough to accomplish this, so you have to adjust the position of the surrounding center of gravity relative to both yourself and the tree. Somehow, you have to get gravity to pull you toward the trunk of the tree, which requires adjusting the center of gravity so that the trunk of the tree is between you and it. I've been working on this problem for some time, and the only solution I have found is to adjust the position of the tree so that it is between you and the center of the earth, which is the center of gravity around here. This will kill the tree, unfortunately, so you have to really ask whether it's worth it to you. While you're evaluating this, honesty requires that you include consideration of the following fact: You really aren't walking "up" the trunk of a tree in this case, just along it.

I was going to phone in my blog post this morning, but I don't know the number. I called the operator and asked her for the number of my blog, but she couldn't help me. "Is it a real place?" she asked. That's a complicated question, but she refused to engage in a conversation on the more delicate nuances of the implications thereof. So, I'm typing this in, as usual.

I'm going to count to three and snap my fingers. When you hear my fingers snap, you'll wake up. You won't remember any of this. Okay?

One... Two... Three... <snap>

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Cloud Animaling

It's been cloudy around here lately, cloudy and stormy. I love this, I think I've mentioned that fact before. I'm not focusing on my love of stormy, grey weather this morning, however. Cloudy weather means many things to me, but, primarily, it means I've got work to do. I am, you see, the cloud animaler for my county.

I first got into cloud animaling when I was in high school and needed a little extra spending money. It pays pretty well because it's a difficult and dangerous job. You have to fly the invisible helicopter, with the black-ops rotor-silencer, and operate the cloud trimmer at the same time. It takes concentration and skill just to handle the technical aspect of the job. What differentiates one cloud animaler from another, however, is the quality of the cloud animal they sculpt. This is the art of the craft. I hate to brag, but I'm pretty good at this part.

A good cloud animal has to be clear enough to suggest the intended animal to an onlooker, but vague enough that his friends can't really see it. A novice cloud animaler struggles to find this balance. Too much realism and people start voluntarily checking in to the loony bin. A really good cloud animaler, like me for example, can actually shape clouds so that one person sees them as a sheep while another person - standing right beside the first person - sees an elephant. Once I had five people swearing that the other four must be blind if they can't see the gorilla/bat/cow/kangaroo/cobra. It was a day I'll never forget.

It always makes me sad, though, when my clouds blow into Dallas County and Shirley, that no-talent hack, mutilates them. One thing you learn as a cloud animaler, though, is that you can't hold on to the clouds. You can't fight the prevailing winds. You have to take joy in the next job, and the memories of the last one. It's a little like painting masterpieces on a roll of paper as it's being fed into the shredder. Can this be discouraging? Yes, but it also teaches you to appreciate a thing while it's there. There are, after all, lots of Shirleys in the world.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Divine Humiliation, Mineral Hydration and Foolish Innovation

Don't you know that Pluto, Roman god of the underworld, is really pissed right now? You know that the other gods, Jupiter and Mars and so forth, are totally hassling him. This would not be a good day to be in the Roman underworld.

I'm not having the best day either. I didn't realize this section of the sidewalk on this busy street corner in this large, bustling, metropolitan city was newly poured concrete. So I stood here in my stylish, grey suit with my black briefcase in one hand and my newspaper folded under the other arm and the concrete hydrated and hardened around my perfectly polished Wingtips. Now I'm buried up to my ankles, halfway up my thin, black, Italian, silk dress socks. I'm trying my best to look nonchalant and confident, but I'm beginning to wonder how I'll get out of this situation with my dignity intact and my clean-cut hair untousled. I'm sure everything will turn out fine, but one question keeps running through my mind: I wonder what time the Morlocks come up out of the sewers and start eating decent, hard-working, American people? I hope I'm not still here when that happens. But mostly I hope no one from the office sees me like this.

That previous paragraph was entirely fabricated. (Except for the part about the Morlocks.)

I've mounted the driver's seat of my car on the roof and extended the accelerator and break pedals up here as well. I didn't move the steering wheel, however, because there was no room for it once I installed the computer table for my laptop. To steer I'm just leaning one way or the other. So far so good, though I keep getting pelted with little pebbles and bugs, and the wind really becomes a factor at about 75 miles per hour. (I'm guessing at the speed, since I can't see the speedometer from up here.) I hope nothing hits my laptop. I have to tell the truth, I think, in hindsight, that this was a terrible idea.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

On the Superiority of Imagination and also Eggs

I've posted another installment of my impromptu "I - have - no - idea - where - it's - going - and - I - should - never - have - started - it - because - I - don't - have - the - stamina - or - attention - span - to - finish - things - that - take - more - than - one - paragraph" story. I hope you enjoy it, though it may disappear mysteriously and hang out with Chuck in the Green Room wondering whether it gets to be in the show today.

In an email, a friend asked why I don't describe how the characters look. I just hate doing that, you know? They look however you imagine them. If you must know, the king is really fat with a huge wart on his cheek and rotten teeth and a giant, grey afro. See? Don't you like the way you pictured him much better? I know I do. He's a good, old king. That's what he looks like.

But, enough of that. I wanted to say something else.

I've decided to host one of those wild and crazy blogger get-togethers that you read about here and there (mostly on blogs). My schedule is pretty tight, though, so it's going to start in about an hour at the little diner across the street. They don't serve alcohol or anything, so, we'll just go for a different theme. Eggs, for example. EggFestTexas09 (09 for nine o'clock). Be there. And hurry.

I might be late. Just order without me. Someone should take pictures and post them on their blog. I didn't bring my camera today, so I can't do it. See you there!

Hello, friends. How are you today? (Actually, just tell me at EggFestTexas09).

Later. Love.

The Captain

"We'll stop here, captain. I'll walk on alone," said the king, reining his horse to a stop about a hundred yards from the small fire. The evening was starting to deepen, and the fire cast strange, dancing flickers on the trees around it. The wild man was seated on the far side, leaning against a tree trunk, just a faint shadow in the darkness behind the fire.

"Your majesty, please, do not do this. The man is dangerous. We should accompany you," the captain pleaded.

The king was unmoved. "Your concern is appreciated, captain, but I do not fear this man." 'I do not fear for my life, anyway,' the king thought to himself. "Besides," he added, "if this man wanted my life I'd give it to him willingly. I owe it to him many times over." Out of old habit, the king started to dismount, sending a sharp pain coursing up his back. He winced and drew an audible breath through his clenched teeth, and the captain and two nearby guards leapt from their mounts and rushed to help him. "Thank you," he said, panting deeply, as they guided his leg over the old stallion's backside and lowered him gently down to the soft grass of the orchard. Winded, he leaned against the captain's shoulder for a moment.

"So, you know this man, your majesty," the captain said after a moment of silence. "I suspected as much."

"He is one of my oldest friends, and a friend to this kingdom, captain," the king answered, his breath beginning to calm.

"Strange friendship," the captain snapped with disdain, forgetting himself. He immediately felt his error as hot blood rushed to his cheeks.

"If I told you his name, captain, you'd think again. It is a name known to you, though you're too young to remember him yourself. His name is known to all of you," the king said, releasing the captain's shoulder and turning to address the group. "He deserves your kindness."

"Yes, your majesty," the captain was flustered. "If he'd only told us he was a friend, or come to the gate like a proper visitor, majesty. I'd never have been so forceful with him if... Forgive me, sir," he said. "He was just so... well... so coarse when he spoke of you. It angered me and..." his voice trailed off.

"Eustin can be coarse, it's true," the king began. At the mention of the name, an audible gasp went up from the party, and they began to chatter.

"This wild man is Eustin, your majesty?" came the voice of a young guard. "Is he the Eustin who slew ten thousand men with his bare hands in the war?" came another voice. The captain tried to shush them, but they were too excited.

The king laughed. "There's more than a bit of exaggeration in that number, my friend," he said. "But yes, he is the same man." The king turned to the captain, but the captain, unable to hold the king's gaze, cast his eyes to the ground.

"Forgive me, sir," he said, softly.

"Captain, you did nothing wrong," the king reassured him, placing a hand on the captain's back. "You've done your duty well, today, though I daresay you and your men didn't stand much of a chance. Eustin is, what did you say, formidable?" The king smiled, and the captain seemed to feel a little relief. "You're a good man, captain," the king said, and the words stuck like a lump in his throat, reminding him of the man, and the eyes, waiting across the orchard. Not wanting to wait any longer, the king began abruptly to walk toward the little fire. "Wait here," he said, not turning around.

The captain felt helpless and frustrated, but he knew the king would brook no objection. When he was sure the old man was out of earshot, the captain turned to the group. "Be on your guard, men," he said. "I don't care who this man is. At the first sign of trouble, we move. Keep your wits. This Eustin may be a great hero, but remember that we serve the greater of the two. We may not stand a chance, but we stand nevertheless. Be alert."

knuJ modnaR

Do you know the dread of seeing the little footprints, picking up on the clues? They leave evidence of their passing, and you can hear the scratching of their tiny claws. What worries you most is the thought of what they may have carried off and hidden. You'll never get it back. Do you know the dread of certainty, of seeing the hole for yourself? You're not just imagining it, although it IS all in your head. I've suspected it for some time now, and today I know for sure. I found the opening they use to come and go, to carry away things I needed to keep. I've got mice in my brain, and I can't remember how to get rid of them. They always take that bit first.

The cobbler lives at the top of the mountain, but no one buys his shoes, because the rocks of the mountain are too jagged and painful for their bare feet. Location, location, location.

I was picked up by a freak thermal wind this morning, and I'm swirling away high up in the clouds. I hope I don't come down in the water, because my pants are made entirely of cotton candy. They tried to tell me not to buy them, but how was I supposed to know this would happen?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

It's Beeping

I don't want to alarm anyone. I mean, I'm sure everything's fine. It's just that, well, it's beeping. It's beeping and this little light is flashing. It's probably nothing to be concerned about, you know, but, I don't know, it just makes me a little nervous for some reason.

When the little purple man came out of the ship a few months ago and asked me to hold it for him until he came back, I thought, "Sure. No big deal. It's small. I'll just keep it in my pocket." And I did. And everything was cool.

But now it's beeping. And this little light is flashing. I looked for a button to push or something (not that I'd be brave/stupid enough to push it, mind you), but there's nothing. It's just smooth with this one little light on it. And now it's flashing. And beeping.

Again, I'm sure it's fine. Still, I was wondering: Could you hold it for a while?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Eustin

The king insisted on riding, though the carriage would have been easier on his old bones and his old ego. It embarrassed him to be hoisted by three of his guards up onto the back of this strange horse. "He's a good horse, majesty," the stable master had said. 'He's not a good horse,' the cranky king had thought, 'he's an old horse and a calm horse. He's a horse that won't hurt the old king.' The king felt a pang of sorrow, not for the first time, that he'd never again experience the familiar rapport and the nuance of control he'd had with Tremen, his old mare. 'THAT was a good horse,' the king had thought.

Now, riding out from the side gate of the city toward the apple orchard, the cool air of the autumn evening helped to calm the king's nerves, and he tried to think clearly about how he felt. Why should the arrival of an old friend bring this clinging dread to his chest and stick like dry fear in the back of his throat? Old words echoed in his head as his fragile joints ached at the jostling of even an old, gentle horse like this. He could remember the voice, one of his favorites, a voice he missed often, saying, "Eustin is special. Eustin can see the hearts of men."

Every memory the king had of Eustin was a fond memory. He could remember when they had stumbled upon him one night, on the border of the northern plains and the great wood, cooking a stew in a small metal pot over an open fire. Eustin had stood silently and watched them approach from far off. When they'd stopped, and before they could greet him, he'd said, "Give me a moment to hunt, and you can all eat with me. All of you except that man," he'd said, nodding at the old Marshal, Turek. "He is a scoundrel among good men, and he is untrue." The king chuckled as he remembered the red-faced outrage of the Marshal, and his angry charge at the wild, bare-chested stranger that had nearly cost him his life. "Say the word," Eustin had said, the Marshal's neck in his powerful arm, "and I'll rid you of this trouble right here." How many times later, as the treachery of the Marshal unfolded, had the king wished he could have gone back to that little camp fire and given that word.

"Your majesty, you honor us," came the voice of an old shepherd, snapping the king back to this pleasant evening. The king looked over to see the man kneeling as he passed.

"Your flock looks well fed and well led," said the king, and they did. "You're doing good work, my friend. Please, rise." The old shepherd rose, smiling, but would not look the king in the eye. They rode on, and the man continued home to pen his flock and tell everyone he knew of the kindness of our king.

Evening was deepening and shadows were lengthening when the king first spotted the orchard in the distance. It had been too long since he had come down to this, one of his favorite places. His heart jumped, however, when he saw the flicker of a small camp fire in the orchard and knew to whom it belonged. "Eustin can see the hearts of men," the memory said, and it sounded to the king like an accusation. 'Why do I fear my friend?' he wondered, almost aloud.

His mind went back to another familiar place, to a scene he had replayed so many, many times. After the battle, after months of hardship and struggle, when victory was secure and the king had taken his throne, Eustin had come to him to tell him goodbye.

"I cannot ask you to stay, my friend," the king had said to him. "Already we can never repay the debt we owe to you, Eustin. Mightily you fought in this battle that wasn't even yours to fight. We would not be here today if not for your help, Eustin. Everyone knows this."

"The battles of my friends are my battles, Artess," he had said. "I could not stand here true had I not stood with you in your time of need. Besides," he'd smiled that wild grin of his, "it was fun."

The king had laughed at his friend's spirit. Then he'd said, "I could use you, Eustin. You could lead my army."

"I could no more lead those men than I could be led by you, Artess. Good men need not be ruled. Good men rule themselves, as you do."

"You think it is shameful for me, then, to be called king?"

"Shameful? No. Never shameful, not you," Eustin had said. And then he'd said the words that had kept the king sane through the darkest of hours since. "Men want to be led, Artess. They think they need it. If men would follow another, I tell you truly, I'd rather it be you than any other I've known. You are the most good and the most noble man I've met, and I never expect to meet your equal." Many times the memory of those words had brought the king courage and comfort. Why? Because Eustin cannot lie, and Eustin can see the hearts of men.

Suddenly the king understood why he was afraid.

not quite right

Someone recently suggested that I should switch from my usual avatar to my real face. I don't know. It just doesn't look quite right to me. Later. Love.

The King's Apples

People still remember and talk about the glory of the king, about how he took his throne, about how he crushed the enemies of the kingdom so many years ago. The king grows old, but people still love and honor the king.

"Your majesty, there is a... um... situation, sir," the captain says, sheepishly.

The king is seated at a large wooden table covered in old scrolls and parchments, peering intently into one pressed almost to his face so that his failing eyes can see the print. He looks up from the paper at the captain, who looks winded and disheveled. Placing the paper on the table, he says "Tell me, captain."

The captain clears his throat. "Well, your majesty, a scoundrel has camped in your apple orchard, sir. He's eating your apples without your leave, sir."

The king looks puzzled. "Well, captain, send some guards and ask the man to leave. No great harm to lose a few apples."

"Yes," the captain chooses his words carefully, "we've... uh... tried that, sire. We sent two guards to chase him away and... uh... he thrashed them soundly, your majesty." The captain fidgeted nervously. "He's a scrappy one, this fellow. So, we... uh... sent an armed unit of twenty guards to arrest the man. He's unarmed, mind you. To be honest, your majesty, they were lucky to escape with their lives. He's really quite a formidable opponent, sir. Like none I've ever seen."

"How strange," said the king. An idea flickered in his mind briefly, but he couldn't hold on to it. "Who is the man, captain?"

"A stranger, majesty, a wild looking fellow. Bare feet, bare chest, crude, leather breeches. There is another thing, sir."

"Well, what is it, man?" A name flashed in the king's mind, but, again, he couldn't hold it. He cursed his aged body, not for the first time.

"Well, he... uh... insists that he want to see the king, sire. He says... uh... I hate to say it, sire."

"Say it, man. Come on."

"He says, forgive me, sir, 'Tell that old ruffian that these are not his apples but mine and that I expect him to come here and beg my forgiveness for eating them.' He's insufferable, your majesty."

The king bolted to his feet, his heart pounding. "Take me to him!" he ordered, a bewildered look on his face.

"No, sir, please. I cannot allow that. We'll send soldiers. He's too dangerous a man, sire. You must not go."

"Captain, if you value the time you have left you will take me to him now," the king ordered again, heading for the door as quickly as he could manage.

"Majesty, I beg you to reconsider this."

But the king was not listening. His mind was racing. 'It cannot be him,' he thought. 'It's been too many years. It cannot be possible.' Still, his heart hammered in his chest, and some part of him knew already. He had to see him.

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Frequent Flyers

I was thinking about you this morning, about how you're powerful, about how sad you must be. The secret to your power is that you're bald on purpose. Your shades cost $450, a thing I cannot imagine. I like the color of real things. Whenever I wear shades I have this fitful habit of lifting them up every couple of minutes to make sure the world hasn't been permanently dimmed. But not you. You wear them everywhere. You push them up on your shiny head when you talk to people. You always get the free first class upgrade. Your frequent flyer miles overflow the digital buffer designed to store them. The baristas know your face and your drink, but, even though they smile at you and call you by name, they don't like you. None of us do. You're impressive, and you can be intimidating, but no one likes you. Do you know that? Do you care? Does it make you sad to be a closer and a frequent flyer?

When I stopped thinking about him, I found myself overcome with the idea that, somewhere in the world, the bones of Amelia Earhart are moldering in secret. They're out there somewhere, one of the few true mysteries.

Whenever I hear John Denver sing I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane, it makes me think someone might actually be in charge, a real smart ass.

Do you get a lot of advertising circulars for frequent flyer programs? I do. Does this strike you as funny? Frequent flyers.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Roots, Rock, Reggae

Whenever I see a tree planted in a flower bed that's covered in wood chip mulch, I always feel a little sorry for that tree. How's it supposed to feel, standing all day in a massacre of chopped up trees? How completely awful. I know. I know. Trees can't see. I'm not so lucky, however. I see it and it haunts me.

Enough of that.

I love the way reggae songwriters feel absolutely no pressure to be clever or unique or creative. Reggae songwriters just say, in the very simplest terms, whatever's on their minds. They can just repeat the same three words over and over again. Every reggae song in the world has fewer lyrics than every other song in the world (with the obvious exception of George Harrison songs).

That's the reason Bobby McFerrin's song Don't Worry, Be Happy doesn't really qualify as a reggae song. The chorus sounds right, but he explains the concept too much in the verses. Examples aren't required, Bobby. We get it. Don't worry about writing verses. Be happy with the chorus. This morning I heard a reggae cover of the song. Do you know what it said? It said, "don't worry, be happy" over and over and over and then there was a bridge that was the chorus of the Three Dog Night song Joy to the World, and then it said "don't worry, be happy." some more. It was great, and it illustrates the other great thing about reggae songwriters: they often don't even bother to write new songs. They just mix up existing songs. These guys are great.

In spite of all of this, however, I could never be a reggae songwriter. Reggae is all about mastering the aesthetic, and I'm just too white and nerdy. I'll never be rasta. I know that now. So, I'm cutting off my dreadlocks. I'm tired of being called "Sideshow Bob". Four feet is long enough. I'm going to the barber right now.

I wonder if afros are in style? Hmmm...

Hello, friends. Irie. Irie.

Later. Love.

Shutter Bugs

I keep telling myself to start carrying a camera. Often there is something I see that I would love to share with you guys, and I could save a thousand words describing it to you if I just had a camera. Not that I mind, mind you, typing out a thousand words. I mean, I've typed a thousand words three times in this post already.

You know how the sky looks when the sun is just peeking over the horizon and the sky is like molten gold? You know when there are those wispy, white clouds high in the sky but something about the light of the rising sun makes them look dark? You know how, if there's a thin, sparse, gnarly sapling between you and the golden sky it looks black and superimposed like a silhouette cutout of a thin, sparse, gnarly sapling? Do you? Yes? Good. That's what I see through the window of the coffee shop this morning.

Here's what I really want to say today.

Legends have persisted for centuries in earthworm folklore of UFO abductions. "I swear to you guys," says Bill, "we surfaced for just a minute to look at the sunrise and Lenny's telling me about this hot date he had the night before. Then, all of a sudden, there's this high pitched screech and something plummets out of the sky and, when I look over, Lenny's gone!" Officials claim there are rational explanations for the disappearances, but most earthworms believe in visitors from the sky. "I'm telling you," says Bill, "we are not alone."

The insect world is so much more mysterious than ours, you know? It's why their communities are so much more tightly knit. Fear brings communities together. There's nothing within the realm of good ethics that you can do with that fact, but it's true nonetheless.

"They really don't work together very well at all," says the ant narrator of the ant documentary about humans showing on the Ant Discovery Channel. "Still," he says, the camera zooming out and out and out and out until you see the huge New York skyline, "I'd say they're doing okay."

Hello, friends. ¿Mbaechapa?

Later. Love.

P.S. - For those of you who don't speak Guaraní, mbaechapa means, roughly, "How are you?" The common response is "yporá" which means, roughly, "I'm well".

A Sign, An Omen

This weekend I found a necklace in my car. The pendant is a small, dark, steel cross, slightly crooked, with the bottom sharpened like a nail or a spike. It's hanging on a thin, black, leather cord. I asked everyone in my family, but it doesn't belong to any of them. This can only mean one thing.

My first dealings with the Knights Templar (this is all very secret, so please don't tell anyone or post it on the Internet) was more than eight years ago. They kidnapped me and forced me to help them decipher some ancient Etruscan stone tablets. They claimed to have found the tablets buried beneath the altar in an ancient church somewhere in the Fertile Crescent. I tried to explain to them that I was a computer programmer and couldn't really help them, but they insisted. So, I made something up about a chalice and holy blood or something and, satisfied, they let me go.

This necklace can mean only one of two things: 1) They figured out that I lied to them and they're pissed. (Not very likely, though. These guys believe anything and everything.) 2) They need my help again. Crap. These guys are a real pain in the ass, you know? I mean, it would be one thing if they were good company, but they're really not fun guys. They're so earnest and dedicated to their ridiculous missions which, if you ask me, they just make up to fill their otherwise meaningless lives. They should all just get a hobby or something. A hobby that doesn't involve kidnapping people would be a good choice.

Well, there's not much I can do but wait, I guess. If I disappear for a while, don't get too worried. I'm sure it won't take me long to send these bozos off chasing their shadows into the night. I know exactly the kind of crap they love to hear.

Hello, friends. What's new in your world?

Later. Love.

Breezy Rider

Hey, what about the Isle of Man? It is, in fact, a Man and an island, isn't it? Hmmm...

Yesterday a man on a motorcycle passed me on the highway. This is not unusual, as I am not really what you might call a fast driver. If I drive fast I have trouble typing, so I always drive slow. But, I digress. Allow me to begin again.

Yesterday a man on a motorcycle passed me on the highway. I was in the slow lane and he was in the middle lane, the "neither slow nor fast lane." We'll call it the baby bear lane (you know, like from Goldilocks and the Three Bears). Once again, I digress. Indulge me.

Yesterday a man on a motorcycle passed me on the highway. I was in the slow lane and he was in the middle lane. He was riding one of those classic-looking Harleys, not the chopper-style, just the regular motorcycle style (can you tell I'm not really a motorcycle guy? "Chopper" is pretty much the only motorcycle lingo I know. Well, that and "bitch seat". I don't condone the use of that term, It's just the only other term I know.) Oh dear. Last time, I swear.

Yesterday a man on a motorcycle passed me on the highway. I was in the slow lane and he was in the middle lane. He was riding one of those classic-looking Harleys and he was wearing a mandanna, flip flops, khaki shorts and a black and red, short-sleeved, silk shirt with a radical flame pattern. His shirt was completely unbuttoned.

There are several problems with this outfit when it is combined with motorcycle riding, but I'll not go into those. I want to focus on the shirt. I can picture in my mind's eye, just as he undoubtedly did, the vision of the cool guy on the motorcycle with his short hair blowing in the wind and his shirt flying behind him like some sort of easy rider freedom flag. In reality, however, his shirt did not do the really cool backward-flowing thing that you might picture, as I'm sure he pictured it. Instead, it blew straight up into the air and flapped all around his head. He looked like his head was on fire. It had to be terribly uncomfortably and inconvenient, not to mention dangerous. Nevertheless, he wouldn't stop to button it. He was holding on to the vision of coolness in his mind. Maybe he still imagined that it looked like that. It would be hard to tell from his perspective, I guess. It most assuredly did not look like that. Trust me.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Rusty Thinking

The real thing about being a cowboy, besides all those things you hear about all the time, is the time you have to just think. It's mostly a solitary job, and mostly a physical job. The mental faculties can, most of the time, be otherwise engaged. This it the reason so many of the great thoughts of the last two hundred years have come from the cowboy sector.

"My ass hurts," thinks Rusty.

Rusty likes to remember the little creek that ran beside the house where he grew up. There was a thicket of trees behind the house, and the creek took a sudden turn there around the thicket, cutting a high bank into the crumbly, black, clay soil of the Texas hill country. Through a miracle of trees and water and sun, the spot was always shaded. At one point in the afternoon, you had to pull your toes in close to keep them in the shade, but the rest of you was always shaded. If there was rain, you could hang your feet in the water off the edge of the big, flat, limestone rock that served as a perfect bench. Rusty can imagine no better place on earth. He used to sit out there and dream about being a cowboy. At the time, he could imagine no better life.

"No man is an island," Rusty says to himself. He read it from a sermon book that his father had borrowed from a neighbor in order to teach his son to read. Rusty never read much after those lessons, but he struggled through words that sermon probably twenty times. He didn't understand all the words, but he liked the sound of it, so it stayed in his head. Rusty wasn't one to talk much but, when he did, he often would reply to various questions with, "Well, you know, no man is an island." This seemed smart to him, and others didn't seem to mind it.

A whistle from the boss caught his attention, and Rusty turned to see him pointing back to the left at a couple of stragglers. He reined the horse around and went to herd them back in. "Never send to know for whom the bell tolls," he thought. "It tolls for thee."

Yep, there's lots of time to think out on the trail. Many great thoughts were born, lived out their days and died out there under those wide skies.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Personification

Personification thumbed slowly through the postcards on the rack, imagining what each of them would say at a cocktail party if they were talking to an ancient Redwood tree. She did this sort of thing a lot, but then, who doesn't?

Not many people get along well with Personification. She's tall, thin - too thin - and fair, pale even. She wears straight, black, ankle-length skirts with silky, white shell tops and thin sweaters, also black, that hide her palms and almost reach her knees. All of her clothes hang on her, loose and flowing. Her long, stringy, dark hair falls a little too much in her face, and she's always talking softly, under her breath, at all the wrong times and to all the wrong things. She's always laughing at some joke the wine glass made or softly chastising the centerpiece for vanity. Her fingers peek from her sleeves and wander lightly over everything in her reach as she greets the world around her.

Personification is a little quirky, it's true, but I like her. She always livens things up a little. I know she's not always the best company, having little interest in anything that interacts in too conventional a manner, but she's fun to watch.

The interesting ones are the ones that teach you things. The interesting ones are the good ones. Almost everyone can be most people, but hardly anyone at all can be a few people, you know? She's one of those. That's what I like about her.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Last Throes or Catharsis?

Sometimes, when I try to picture David Byrne singing Once in a Lifetime, I can only picture Bill Nye the Science Guy dancing around in his white lab coat. He's such a happy science guy, in spite of the burden of knowing what must happen. "There is water at the bottom of the ocean," he says, his coat flaring behind him like the cape of a superhero as he jumps and kicks like David Lee Roth in slow motion. "Under the water. Carry the water."

Would it surprise you at all if, when you got to the end, and the person behind it all walked out, like Oz the Great and Powerful, to reveal himself or herself, it turned out to be David Bowie? To me that would just make so many things make sense. I'd have this feeling like, "I knew it!"

Post-modernism is waving goodbye, they say. Some are crying for an encore. "Just one more, for the road," they cry. "One more! For old times!" A tear comes to her eye, but post-modernism takes her bow and exits stage left, accompanied by Cake's version of I Will Survive. Why? Exactly!

Hello, friends. How are you today.

Later. Love.