caveat emptor

Limitations. Music News.

I can't walk on water. I've tried many times. I just can't do it. I find it difficult even to walk IN water, much less ON it. I think the problem might be buoyancy, or possibly viscosity. I don't know. I'm not really much of a botanist or biologist or whatever kind of scientist or wizard studies such things. If I were to walk on water, however, I would drop a line to the band Counting Crows, because they asked so nicely.

They should make a reality television show where rock bands wrestle each other, tag-team style. I'd like to see Counting Crows fight Barenaked Ladies (the band, though I wouldn't mind seeing the other). I have this feeling that Counting Crows would whip Barenaked Ladies's collective ass. I don't know, though. Sometimes a band will surprise you with its skill in the wrestling ring. Remember when Sixpence None The Richer totally annihilated System of a Down at Rock Wrestle Mania last year? Who saw that coming? Not me.

Speaking of music news, did you hear that several top groups from the past thirty years are putting together an album that spoofs "Weird Al" Yankovic's music? Is that awesome or what? Why didn't anyone think of this sooner?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Nineteen. Thanks for stopping by.

Clichés Wanted. Will Pay Top Dollar.

It was an iconic sort of day at the craggy sea cliffs. The water was pounding the rocks below making all the sounds that you dream it will makes. The clouds rolled and boiled in stormy unrest, and wisps of low grey and fog swirled here and there. It was cool, but not terribly cold, and the wind was just right to blow your hair to the left if you had your back to the ocean. It would have been paradise for me, a world of perfect wonder, had there not been thirty five different camera crews shooting rock album covers and music videos for post-grunge bands.

An albatross rode the wind up over the cliffs and hung there majestically over the rough sea. Dozens of cameras whirled around to capture it.

"Dude, if you look really closely at this picture of Incubus in Rolling Stone, there's some guy's head sticking over the rock in the left corner."

"Where?"

"There. See it?"

"Dude, isn't that the lead singer of Nickelback?"

"Dude! It is! Quick, get the issue of Spin with the Nickelback on the cover."

"Okay. Let's see... DUDE! Check it out! The guitar player from Incubus! On the right!"

"AWESOME!"

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Eighteen. Thanks for stopping by.

Pneumatics, Green Tea

"It's possibly the single most important event in the last five years, and I think the lack of media coverage of it demonstrates the bias of the American media against anything even remotely outside of the realm of experience for middle-class suburbia," he said, flipping his three I Ching coins around in his fingers nervously like a poker player.

"What exactly is it again?" I asked.

"There will be five hundred highly adept, cosmically conscious transcendentalists gathering in a gymnasium in a small town that is, geographically, in the exact center of the circle of the nation if you include Hawai'i and Alaska. They will meditate for forty-eight hours, nonstop, on the peace and civil evolution of the nation specifically and of the world in general," he stared at me intently as he said it, watching like a hawk for any sign of skepticism on my part. "I really wish I could be there," he said. "I can't even imagine the energy that will be experienced by the town. It may never be the same."

"Wow," I said. "I certainly hope some good comes from it."

"Why do you think the media refuses to cover an event so obviously significant?" He always drank green tea from a little ceramic cup without a handle. He would hold it to his face, closing his eyes, and let the steam and aroma rise around him, fogging his glasses.

"I don't know. It's probably that suburbia thing you said," I smiled.

"Don't make fun." He frowned and looked out the window. "It's not good for you."

"You know," I said, "yesterday I heard a man say that thanksgiving is an essential spiritual principle. He went on to say that we should be thankful for what we have in the U.S. because we are in the top ten in history for enjoying creature comforts."

"That's probably true," he said.

"But, if thanksgiving is a spiritual principle," I continued, "it can't just be thanksgiving for what you have, right? I mean, if it's a principle, wouldn't it apply to the homeless and the starving and oppressed, also? Should they be thankful too?"

"It could only benefit them," he said. "Homelessness, starvation and oppression are not meaningful. They are illusions."

"No," I said. "That's not it either, I think. They're very real, undeniably real. They have a reality that cannot be denied. If you ignore them, they will kill you."

He sighed. "But death is an illusion too," he said. "It is the only illusion that reveals itself."

"It's a sad thing," I said, "when human mortality is a comfort for you, when your list of things for which you're grateful includes death."

"I wish I could be there," he said. "It's going to change everything."

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Seventeen. Back to Al Hall. Thanks for stopping by.

You Can't Get There From Here

I'm not a terribly driven man. I have only a few modest goals in life. One of them is enlightenment. Another is spontaneous human combustion. The goal about which I've been thinking lately, however, is my desire to create the world's first Outside Joke. I want to create a joke that you would only get if you DIDN'T know me. Then, once I've rehearsed it sufficiently and gotten the timing just right, I want to find a small group consisting of some friends and some strangers. If all goes according to plan, the strangers should get the joke and laugh and the friends should just look puzzled. "I don't get it," one friend would say. "Well," I would reply, "I guess you had to NOT be there."

Here's how it would progress: One of the strangers would think to himself, "Man, that's a funny joke. This is a funny guy." He'd start finding reasons to be where I was, thinking always back to that first joke that made him like me. We'd start hanging out together and develop some common interests. We'd be pals. Slowly, though, he'd try to remember what he ever saw in me. He'd go over the original joke in his head, but it wouldn't seem funny any more. "I don't get it," he'd think, and it would put a seed of self-doubt in his heart, souring our relationship. We'd never really have a falling out, but the friendship would fade away.

Then, one day, years later, he'd spot me through the window of a coffee shop. I'd be inside typing away at my laptop and he'd be outside with some new friends on his way to see a movie. There would be a spark of recognition, but he wouldn't be able to remember my name. He'd rack his brain trying to remember, and the joke would pop into his head. He'd laugh and laugh. "What's so funny?" his friends would ask. "Oh, I just remembered this joke." He'd tell them, and they'd all laugh and laugh. Then, as they were sitting in the movie, he'd think to himself, "That dude was a funny guy." When the movie was over, he'd say to his friends, "Hey, let's stop by the coffee shop."

THE END (?)

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Sixteen. Thanks for stopping by.

Where Credit is Due

It doesn't take a lot to do the right thing if you're committed to it. I'm proud to announce that, even though I've written 695 blog posts in my short career as a blogger (not including this one), I've never killed a person or animal in the course of blogging. "How do you do it?" you ask. We'll, I'm careful. Never kill when maiming is enough, that is my motto.

I know. I know. Some of you are thinking, "Hey, wait a minute. What about that one guy?" Let me remind you that there is a vast difference between the epididymis and the ejaculatory ducts. No wait. That's a vas deferens, not a vast difference. I always get those confused. There is, however, a vast difference between being dead and being in a persistent vegetative state (like Florida). [THE PARENTHETICAL PHRASE AT THE END OF THE LAST SENTENCE WINS THE AWARD FOR "MOST ANACHRONISTIC NEWS HEADLINE JOKE."] My point is this: that dude is technically still alive.

And I know some of you are thinking, "Hey, wait a minute. Didn't you used to write all the first drafts of your posts on polar bear skins with penguin blood?" Yes. I cannot lie. I did do that, but I would point out to you the following:

1. Those polar bear skins were still attached to living polar bears. (How's that for commitment to a death-free blog?)
2. I never bled a penguin to the point of death. When they started to get light-headed, I gave them two soda crackers and sent them on their way.

In case you're wondering why I've stopped doing my first drafts in this manner, it's because the penguins have all become celebrities now and they don't need the $.50/pint I paid them for the blood.

Also, that manatee was already dead when I used it for that one post.

So, I just wanted to give all of you this opportunity to thank me for doing my part to make sure that there are still animals (and people) in the world. You're welcome. Go and do likewise.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Fifteen. Thanks for stopping by.

Proposal and Reversal

"It's funny," he said, looking down at the floor to hide his shy smile and the hint of a blush, "how, just in the course of everyday life — you doing your thing and me doing mine — a connection can grow. It's like my heart picks up, in its peripheral vision, all the little things you do. You always play with your hair when you talk. You tilt your head to the right when you're about to make a point. You bite your bottom lip before you laugh. After you've laughed really hard, when that rush is fading, you have the most beautiful sleepy smile and the softest look in your eyes."

He glanced nervously up at her. She didn't say anything, but he could see her shivering, looking down at his feet.

"You're shaking," he said. He smiled. "Hey, it's okay. I'm scared too. Do you know how long I've thought about saying this to you?"

"Are you going to hurt me?" she asked, her voice cracking like she would cry.

"Hey," he said, reaching up toward her cheek with his hand. "I would never hurt you." He brushed her cheek lightly.

"No!" she screamed, throwing her books at him and stumbling backwards a step or two before turning to run away.

"Shit," he muttered, seeing her head for the school office. "Unemployment, here I come." He grabbed his mop from where it was leaning against the lockers and, glancing around to see several students looking at him with faces that ranged from surprise to disgust, he slumped off toward the basement.

[SCENE]

Have you noticed that some plurals actually sound like less than their singulars? Take hair, for example. "The wind was blowing through his hair" sounds like more hair than "The wind was blowing through his hairs." Funny, isn't it? No? Oh. Sorry.

[RANDOM FACT]

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Fourteen. Back to Simon. Thanks for stopping by.

EPR Paradox

Will rocks fall from the sky? Will it roll up like paper? Will it burn out, or fade away? Which is better? Small talk, then.

The crisp, cool, winter air makes me feel like the whole universe is better, a ridiculous notion, I know. We are molded and shaped, pushed and herded by pressure, all the time. It is good and it is hell.

If I open my mouth, what will I say? If I open my eyes, what will I see? Here's what's real.

It's a problem with relationships built on the foundation of this verbal medium that it is hard to touch you when I have nothing to say. You cannot see me smile, nor hear me sigh, and I cannot see that look on your face, that look that I would grow to love, I know, if only I could see it. There is a communion of silence that is good for the soul, but you can't read it, and you can't write it. Physical silence is tangible and sweet. Written silence is empty, nothing. It's the principle of locality, if Einstein was correct, and we are distant objects. I have to put these words into your immediate surrounding, and I need you to put yours here. It's the uncertainty principle or, more precisely, the observer effect, and I am gripped with fear that in knowing you, I will destroy you. I don't want to destroy you, but I want to know you.

What makes me sad is not that I will not be able to forget you after you've gone. What makes me sad is that I will. Eventually, I won't care at all, and I'll be completely happy. Isn't that awful? It is.

Don't worry, though. I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Thirteen. Thanks for stopping by.

The Predator, the Prey and the People of the Plains

I hunt the big game, I know no fear. The report of my rifle is like the thunder. My laughter rolls like a warning over the savanna and the elephants and lions stand alert, trying to judge the direction and distance, readying the group to move. Rhinos see my boot prints in the dust and their hearts skip a beat. They sniff the air and the thick hairs of their necks stand on end. But not they hyenas. They laugh, too foolish to know their place. Today my grace rests on the hot dry plains. Today I fire into the air to remind them all, but I'll claim no trophies this day. Today I merely survey my kingdom and fill my heart with the joy of dominion.

There are probably actual people in the world who feel that way, whether literally or metaphorically. I do not. I am just another caribou in the herd, trying not to look too appetizing, trying to stay in the center. Today I hope the hunter doesn't come. Today I hope he doesn't see me.

Meanwhile the people of the plains walk in shadow, taking only what they need, leaving some for later. The people of the plains let the hunter live. The people of the plains cannot be seen unless they so choose. The people of the plains know the joy of being. They pass like ghosts in the night, carrying their world in their hands.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Twelve. Thanks for stopping by.

Marley and Manly

One thing I love about wearing my Bob Marley T-shirt is when the guy I always see around the coffee pot in the kitchen at work says, "Dude, I love Hendrix. He was a GOD!" "He was pretty good," I say. Maybe I should tell him. I just think it's funny. Is that mean? I mean, it's not like I make fun of him to anyone who knows him. Today, if he says anything, I'll say, "You know who else was good? Bob Marley. He was really good," and I'll leave it at that.

I'm feeling pretty manly today. Why? Because I stopped menstruating. No, that's a joke. I've never menstruated. (Man, I hope I'm not pregnant!) Seriously, though, yesterday I did some mechanical work on my own car. I was good, getting out there, working with my hands, making the machine go. There's a manly exhilaration to it, I think. Here, I'll tell you about it. It might be educational for you.

Some of you may not be mechanically inclined, so you may not understand some of the following jargon, but try to keep up and I'll try to keep it simple. My car uses an internal combustion engine, channeling the force of tiny electrically-ignited explosions of gasoline into power to move the car. In order for these explosions to work, however, the car has to have a continuous supply of gasoline. Cars with internal combustion engines, therefore, have a tank that stores and carries gasoline. My little car has a tank that holds 10 gallons (37.854 liters) of gasoline. As the combustion process is carried out this supply of gasoline is consumed. The tanks that hold the gasoline, however, are equipped with a refill tube that can usually be reached though a sealed lid under a small compartment door somewhere on the outer body of the car. Open the compartment door, remove the sealed lid, and dispense gasoline into the tank to refill it. I did this yesterday. All by myself. Today, I am a man.

Does anyone know how you get the smell of gasoline off of your hands? I've tried various lotions and creams, but I can still smell it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - For you Aphter readers (both of you), I have a lunch meeting today, so I won't be able to work on it today. More on Monday. Thanks for stopping by.

P. P. S. - This article by Todd Levin in The Morning News is absolutely hilarious. Thanks again.

Questy McNerdlison

"If I have within my spirit the strength and virtue to see this quest through, I promise you this: I will not rest. I will not sleep. I will not falter. I will spend every drop of blood and expend every life breath to bring about the end to which fate has set my course. I will make these changes to the software, AS GOD IS MY WITNESS!" I dropped to my knees before him and bowed my head.

My boss sighed. "Uh... okay. Whatever. Just, you know, make the changes and check them in to source control for the build tonight," he said, walking around me where I knelt in the hallway outside his office. "I hate programmers," he muttered as he entered his office, closing the door firmly behind him.

[SCENE]

So, I have this idea for a movie: It's the story of a guy who writes stories every morning at a coffee shop before he goes to work. Then he drives to work for an hour and a half. Then he writes programs for a couple of hours. Then he goes to lunch at another coffee shop and writes stories for another hour. Then he goes back to work and programs for a few more hours. Then he gets off work and drives for an hour and a half back to the coffee shop he goes to in the morning and programs for a few hours on a different computer program as a side job. Then he drives home and goes to bed. Then he does it again the next day. And the next day. And the next day.

What do you think? You're thinking it sounds boring, aren't you? You're thinking it wouldn't make a good movie. That's because I haven't told you the cool part. Ready? Here goes: He's also growing his hair out long! BAM! That's GOLD, baby! I was thinking that...

What? It still sounds boring? Hmmm...

Okay, what if he was also a spy or a super hero? That might be cool. He does all those things, but he's also a spy or a super hero. Here's the problem with that: If a guy was a spy or a super hero, why would he do all of those other things? Obviously, he wouldn't. Trust me on this, he definitely wouldn't.

Well, the plot needs a little more work. Nevertheless, I promise you this: I will not rest. I will not sleep. I will not falter. I will spend every drop of blood and expend every life breath to bring about the end to which fate has set my course. I will make this movie, AS GOD IS MY...

Hey? Where are you going? What are you muttering?

[SCENE]

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Eleven. A change of perspective. Thanks for stopping by.

Above and Again

Everyone is afraid that the answers are obvious. No one likes the obvious answers. Everyone's in the market for alternatives.

Once I saw an angel drawing a picture on the sidewalk in chalk. I tried to get over there in time to see the picture, but there were too many people coming the other way. I'd take a step forward and be pushed two steps backwards. "Excuse me," I said, and people would smile at me and nod, but no one would let me pass. I found myself forced onto a city bus, wheeled away to the other side of town. By the time I got back, the angel was gone, and rain had smeared the chalk into a colorful pool, indiscernible. I feel like I missed a real opportunity to know something I needed to know.

"How do you know it was an angel?" they asked. "It's the only explanation that works," I said. "I just feel it in my heart." "It was probably just a person," they said. "No. No," I said, my cheeks beginning to flush red. "You had to be there."

Once an old black man asked me for money for coffee. I had the strangest feeling I'd seen him before. "Do I know you?" I asked him. "No, I don't think so," he said. The voice was familiar, like a sound from the past, from that place I always try to remember. "I think I've met you before," I said. "I get that a lot," he said, his hand held out. I handed him two bucks and he nodded and walked away, just like he always had before.

In Greek class we were discussing the preposition transliterated "anothen", as in "gennethe anothen," which is usually translated "born again." "It can also be translated as 'born from above,'" said Professor Balch. "How can one word mean both 'again' and 'from above?'" asked one student. "How could you ever communicate clearly in such a language? Shouldn't a word have a clear meaning." "We have words like that in English," replied the professor. "What about 'over?'" I asked. "Isn't that similar?" Over. Again. Above. Over.

I want to tell you about déjà vu, about how it works, but I keep getting this feeling that I've said it all before. Do you ever feel that way?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Ten. Man, I was looking back over those Aphter posts and DAMN are they rough. So many typos and missing words and bad wording. I'll go back at some point and rework a little quality into them. For now, the name of the game is to keep writing. If I start reworking, I'll despair and quit. Such is my nature. Thanks for stopping by.

Her

She draws me in when she is around. If she's across the room, my mind wanders from the task at hand. If she's within reach, my hands wander too. She's usually somewhere in between, slipping just out of my grasp, darting in and out of range, tension building. I can still push her too far, play too much. She expects me to be better, wants me to be more. We have this in common, this surprise at how far I still need to go, this wondering when I'll grow. I have only the best of intentions. She wishes I would cut my hair and shave, and I will, eventually. I want her to come over here and play with me, and she will, eventually. I like her in jeans with a sweater, or without. I like to put my hand on the small of her back and pull her in. I like to lift her from the ground. She likes that too. I like every part of her. If I could change anything at all, I would be a better man. I would learn more grace for this delicate dance we share. I would bend and kiss the ground where we have walked and know that I am a fortunate man.

Hello friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Nine. Thanks for stopping by.

The Cavernous Ache of Contentment

I know I'd be famous now if I had just taken off my top for Howard Stern. I know that it would have been a rocket ride to fame and fortune after that. Do I regret turning him down? Do I regret turning and walking out to the jeers and taunts of his on-air buddies? Yes, a little, but mostly no. I know I wasn't cut out to be famous. Famous people can't do the simple things I enjoy. Famous people are never left in peace.

Which reminds me of a question: If Star Wars was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, are those people related to us? Did some of them come here and colonize this planet? Some of them sure do look a lot like us, you know? We have much better music than they did, though. Remember that band? They sucked. But hey, you know, it was a long time ago. Music has come a long way since then. My point is this: What are the chances that I'm a distant relative of Han Solo? That would be cool.

If you're ever going to fight the power, if you're ever going to try to overthrow the man, don't let John "Cougar" Mellencamp help. He'll want to, because he thinks it's fun to do that sort of thing. Reject him and send him away, though, because he's no good at it. He always loses. Authority always wins. He said so himself. Plus also the members of the Clash fought the law once and lost. That was just once though, as far as I know. It's your call with the Clash. Mellencamp, though, always loses. Send him packing.

Sometimes I call the Howard Stern Show and try to get back in there. I try to get a second chance. I never get past the call screeners though. I think I'm on some sort of list. That's cool. I never really wanted to be famous. Plus, you know, there are other ways. I can't think of any right now that are within my range of talent or skill, but I've not given up yet. I've still got my dreams. I'll see my name in lights.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - This following just happened to me about fifteen minutes ago. Thanks for stopping by.

He had been sitting alone behind me at the coffee shop, watching me. On his way out, he stopped and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was writing software, and he started telling me about some postcards he sent out almost thirty years ago.

"I sent out some three hundred postcards," he said, "and I never got back one letter." He was so old that his skin around his eyes and neck looked like rice paper. His eyes were red and watery. His cheeks were splotchy red and pulled tightly over the sinewy muscle and bone.

"Really?" I asked, smiling.

"Does that seem right to you? Send out three hundred postcards and not one letter back from a single person?"

"Well, I guess I'm not sure," I said. I wished he'd just move on, but I couldn't bring myself to brush him off.

"The cards all said, 'WHERE THERE IS LOVE, THERE IS NO SIN' in big, bold letters. Now, that's a pretty titillating message, you know?" he pointed at bony finger at the ceiling in some strange gesture of illustration.

"I guess so," I said. "Not one response, eh?"

"No, not one." He shook his head. "What do you think about that?"

"Well, I don't know," I smiled.

"It's impossible," he said. "There's no way. I think the government must have blocked my mail. They do that, don't they?"

"Do they?"

"Sure they do. If they think you're doing mail fraud, they'll block all your mail and not even tell you. That's how the government is today."

"Man," I said.

"I went down there, back in eighty-four, and told them I wasn't committing mail fraud. I talked to the local postmaster and asked them if they were blocking me. He said they weren't, but I'm not sure he would know."

"Hmmm," I said, nodding.

"Right. But, I ask you, could a guy send out three hundred cards and not get a single response? I don't think so. I sent them in seventy-eight, and still nothing. That's just too long. So, now what do I do?"

"I don't know," a looked away a little, glancing at my computer, hoping he'd get the hint.

"Do you think a guy could make a website that said, 'WHERE THERE IS LOVE, THERE IS NO SIN' and maybe put some definitions out there and people would come to hear that guy speak at a school gym or something?"

"Well," I sighed, "the Internet is a big place. You'd have to figure out a way to get people to notice the site and then people would need some reason to take it seriously."

"Could you charge people to see the site? Would you get money if they looked at it?"

"No, not really," I smiled. "It's tough to make money on the Internet unless you're selling something people want."

"People might pay to see those definitions, though. What do you think?"

"It would be tough," I said.

He paused, clearing his throat. "Well, would you be interested in helping me do something like that? I could pay you some small percentage of the money," he asked. He stopped staring down at me and looked away out the window as soon as he asked it, knowing already that I was going to say no. He was moving on.

"I'm afraid I have too many irons in the fire already."

But he was walking away slowly, without looking back.

Crosswired

It's a tragic instinct that makes a dog loyal to the hand that beats it. There's a kind of rain in Texas that only leaves everything covered in dirt and drier than ever, a tease of moisture that just doesn't do the trick. Some fires are exacerbated by water. Sometimes the truth isn't true.

I was thinking last night about the Alanis Morissette song Ironic. Much has been made by comedians and such about the song's complete lack of anything that resembles irony. Rain on your wedding day is not ironic, just unfortunate. A traffic jam when you're late, a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break, a free ride when you've already paid, these are not ironic, just crappy and miserable. This has been observed. I was thinking, though. At this point, after so much discussion on the matter, what if it rains on Alanis Morissette's wedding day? What if Alanis Morissette sees a no-smoking sign on her cigarette break? What if Alanis Morissette got stuck in a traffic jam when she was already late? Wouldn't that, at this point, be a little ironic? Has all the complaint about the lack of irony in the events of the song actually injected irony into those events? Isn't that ironic?

No? Oh, okay.

I keep trying to work these things out, but I end up getting confused. I think I might be misunderstanding something.

Hello, friends. What do you think?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I have a lunch meeting today, so I'll not be adding to my little Aphter tale today. I'll get back to it Monday, if I still have the will to do so. Thanks for stopping by.

Tackling Block

Some day I'm going to buy a little house on Writer's Block. We'll have highly literary block parties, playing proverbial games in the storied street. We'll toast our muses and muse on our idyllic days and daze and confuse each other with beautiful lines and pericopes. We'll laze in the sun to the buzz of spelling bees, amazing Grace with grace and confessing sins to cardinals in their nests. Good neighbors sharing neighborly goodies and re-imagining every slight detail, detailing every imagined slight, documenting all the while, whiling away the time, timing every line, lining up to be the first to last, the last to die, the one who lives to tell the tale. Some day I'll write of Writer's Block, the place that I called home.

It brings to mind, all this talk, the days I spent in discipline strict, learning to be still. Stillness is the key to smooth movement, and smooth movement, perfectly in control, is the key to prowess in the martial arts. In a vaguely Asian world my masters taught me the secrets, the muscles and moves, the ancient truths of mêlée. The greatest strength is the power to stand against the blow, to block the foe's worst strike. The greatest block of all, the culmination of years of unlearning and learning and coming to know, is the Writer's Block. "The pen is mightier than the sword," he said. "We know these truths, because they were written."

They say a picture's worth a thousand words. I've got the negatives of more than twenty five birthday parties, at least thirty pictures each, in this envelope. Let's make a deal.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Seven. Sorry it's so short. I was a little distracted at lunch. Thanks for stopping by.

Coming Soon!

Big news! You're not going to believe this (if you're smart), but Caveat Emptor is switching to a 100% VIDEO FORMAT. Streaming video content, 24 hours of it a day, beaming from this humble blog to your homes and hearts all over the world. The Caveat Emptor Executive Management Steering Strategy Committee Board (affectionately referred to around CE HQ as the CavEmExMaSteeStraComBo) has determined that the time is ripe to sweep the Vid-Blog market and be the new Vid-Dooce.

I have to be honest, I wasn't thrilled with the idea at first. "I'm not good in front of the camera," I told the CavEmExMaSteeStraComBo when they called me in* last week to inform me of the decision.

"Oh, god no!" said the chairman. "We did focus groups and have come to the conclusion that you are not the right person to play the Scott character in the vids."

"Really?" I asked. "You did focus groups already? Wow."

"Well, to be honest, we just voted on it. But it was a unanimous vote."

"Oh, I see," I said.

So, they're holding auditions. I'm hoping they pick the dude who played Gandalf. They're leaning toward either George Clooney or some young dude who played Superman on some TV show. I don't know. I don't know that I can write convincing content for a sexy guy.

"Oh, don't worry," I was reassured. "We've hired some writers from MTV's reality TV division."

"They have writers?" I asked.

"Hey, listen, don't worry your head about it, Scott-man," said Todd, the asshole who runs Caveat Emptor marketing. "We were thinking you'd be perfect for adding color to the comment section. It's really your strength."

So, you know, it sounds pretty good. I'm trying to be excited about it. CE-TV starts soon! See you in the comment section!

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love. (I wonder if they'll still say that? Hmmm...)

* I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Hey, Scott, isn't this your blog? Shouldn't you be ON the CavEmExMaSteeStraComBo?" Well, I used to be. I actually formed the CavEmExMaSteeStraComBo and was the original chairman. Our first order of business was to vote me off of the CavEmExMaSteeStraComBo. It was a unanimous vote. Even I voted for it. What can I say? They made a good case, and their PowerPoint presentation had actual rock music in it. I was powerless to resist.)

P. S. - Aphter: ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE. SIX will be up after lunch, if all goes according to plan. Thanks for stopping by.

P. P. S. - SIX.

Same Letters. Two Spaces.

Some people are quick to embrace friends long lost, quick to learn and use the names of new friends. I've never been that way. I'm one who stands back and waits for some sign of where we stand. I'm one who has to be approached first. I don't like to impose. I have this assumption that people don't want to meet me, that I'll be able to see the irritation on their faces, that I'll be rejected but tolerated. I don't like to feel tolerated. No one does, but some people believe the benefits outweigh the risks, some people leap. Not me. Standoffish, that's me.

This job is cold and it stinks. They fill me with ice and throw dead trout and catfish and hunks of salmon and tuna and shark steaks into me. I'm always disgusting at the end of the day when they mercifully rinse me out. The water feels warm after all that damned ice all day. At night they pull the plastic cover over me and lock me down against thieves and vandals. I can hear the waves lapping at the shore not far away, and feel the warm and cool breezes at night on this abandoned boardwalk. Nights are nice. Stand of fish, that's me.

Just playing around. That's me.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I know I just sent you there the other day, but this one by Todd Levin also cracked me up. Thanks for stopping by.

P. P. S. - Aphter: Five is up at my cogito site. Thanks again.

Code Front

There's a different kind of cold in the air today, a new high pressure mass moving anticyclonically in from the North. There is something special about it, something secret. Meteorologists all know the truth, but they are sworn to secrecy. I can feel it coming together like crystals in the water of my flesh, laughing like a word hidden on the tip of my tongue, darting in and out of obscurity.

Lately all the world is a conspiracy for me but not against me. I can sense the mystery of a bird flying overhead, knowing his errands are more clandestine and important than everyone suspects. I can clearly see the darting movements in the corners of my eyes, plots unfolding like origami undone. If you know the code, you can tell the animal by the creases in the paper. You can tell a crane from a turtle. You can read between the lines.

And still the voices overlay everything I hear. Mundane chatter encodes a message that rings a bell, cryptographic correspondence whose cipher I have lost, patterns recognized but never resolved. I know that when I crack this code it will all make sense again, this bird and this front, these shifting shadows, this muttering mumble. I know it will snap into place so naturally that I will know, like primal sound, that I have known it all along.

Until then, I can only imagine. Until then, I guess and posit, pretending to see. In either case, truth or lies, I'll keep you in the loop.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I'm going to keep adding to my little Aphter story during my lunch breaks. I'm making it up as I go along, so I have no idea where it's going. I'll move it to my cogito writing blog and let you know when (and if) I add more. Don't hold your breath. Those of you who have been around here a while might have noticed that I often start stories and don't finish them (or vice versa). Thanks for stopping by.

P. P. S. - I've moved the Aphter story to my cogito site. You can see it here. I've also added a new section, FOUR. Thanks again.

Aphter

ONE

"Where are we going?" she asked, out of breath from trying to keep up with my quick, long strides. I didn't answer her. "Why can't we take the car?" she added after a few minutes.

"Just watch and learn, kid," I said. She'd never pick it up, though. She didn't pay close enough attention to pick it up. She fell silent.

We had parked the car just inside the city limits at a gas station. You had to leave town on foot. That was the first step. Luckily it was a lovely fall afternoon, good weather for a walk. I'd picked this direction out of town because there wasn't a lot of sprawl to the west. Once you got outside of the city limits it was all scattered houses, trees and rolling hills.

Much to my relief, we hadn't walked far when I heard the first call. It was just behind us and high overhead, but it was unmistakable. I fought my instinct to look and kept my eyes on the road.

"Where did you say we were going?" the kid asked again.

"I didn't say," I answered. "Don't talk, kid. I need to listen." As I was saying it I heard the second call almost directly in front of me and not far overhead. I caught a flash of black in my peripheral vision, and it took everything I had not to look, but I knew better.

"Did you see that?" she asked, startled. "That thing almost hit you!"

"Shh."

"What kind of bird was that?" she continued.

"A raven. Now be quiet. I've got to listen." She stayed quiet after that, walking along beside me as my pace slowed.

After a little more than an hour my legs started to get sore and I started to get worried. Had I missed the third call? I didn't have time to start over. We needed to hurry. I looked over at the kid, wondering how she was doing. Her cheeks were a little red, but she seemed fine. She was young. She could probably walk all day.

That's when I heard it. It was high up and over my right shoulder. I stopped and turned quickly, staring into the sky. There! There it was! The road we were on had veered slightly northwest, but this thing was headed slightly southwest. We'd have to leave the road. I looked to the southwest, but the road was cut into the side of a small hill that rose in that direction. I couldn't see anything past the hill.

"Come on," I said, crossing the road.

"Where are we going now?" she asked, running across the road.

"Up this hill. This way." I looked back, but the raven was gone. I got this suspicion that I didn't correctly remember the direction it was heading, but I what could I do? I had to go with what I remembered.

There was a barbed fence a few feet from the shoulder, but it was easy enough to pass through and we were soon standing at the top of the small hill. I was winded from the short climb after the long walk. The terrain past the hill was more flat, and I could see for a good distance. There it was, looking just like I remembered it. It was still a good walk away, and I was a little discouraged. We weren't going to get there before nightfall.

"What do you see?" she asked.

"Aphter," I said.

"Where?" she asked.

"You can't see it yet."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't know how."

"Can you tell me how?"

"No. You can't tell someone. They have to watch and learn for themselves. Let's go." I started walking down the hill.

"What is Aphter?" she asked, catching up with me.

"A town."

"And we have to go there?"

"Yes."

"Who lives there?"

"Lots of people."

"People who can help us?"

"I hope so."

We walked without talking for a few minutes, listening to the cicadas start their evening song in the trees. A cool breeze blew in from the northwest.

"What sort of people live in Aphter, Simon?" she eventually asked.

"Dead people."

---

TWO

The sign just said, "Aphter," not "Welcome to Aphter" or "The Aphter Chamber of Commerce Welcomes You!", just "Aphter."

I turned to the kid, but I couldn't make out her face in the midnight dark. "Okay, now you'll need to listen to me carefully and do exactly as you're told, do you understand?"

"Why? What's going on?" She sounded tired. We both were. We'd been walking for at least six hours and my legs were throbbing.

"We're here."

"We're where? We're standing in a field!"

I sighed. "You'll have to trust me," I said. I put my hand on her shoulder, but it felt awkwardly like something someone else would do, so I took it off. "We're here, you just can't see it yet."

"Why not?" She looked around.

"I already told you why not. You need to pay better attention to things." I sighed again, trying to compose myself. "Listen, I'm exhausted, and I'm sure you must be too, so let's just agree to be agreeable, okay?"

"Whatever."

"Okay. You're going to have to take my hand, and you're going to have to close your eyes. Do you understand? This is really, really important. We only get one shot at this. I don't want to leave you behind."

"One shot at what?"

"We're going into town, into Aphter. I can go in because I can see it. You can only come in if you hold my hand and close your eyes."

"Why do I have to close my eyes?" she asked. She was still looking around, as if she could make herself see what I saw by peering intently into the dark or concentrating enough.

"Well, you don't have to, technically, but your brain won't like what it sees if you don't. It will make you sick. Really sick, trust me. We don't have time for you to be sick, so just close your eyes."

She thought about it for a minute. "Do I have to keep my eyes closed the whole time?" she asked.

"No. No. Just during the change. Once we're in town, I'll tell you and you can open them. It will only be for a few seconds, and I won't let go of your hand."

"Oh," she said, sounding relieved. "Okay." Then she added, "Are you serious about this? Is this real?"

"Just wait and see," I said, taking her hand. "Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"Good. Keep them closed until I say." I turned to look at the road into town. I wasn't in town yet, so I couldn't tell if anyone was about. The town looked empty, and probably would be pretty dead at this hour (no pun intended), but you could never tell. Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the dirt road of Aphter and pulled the kid, Amy is her name, with me. I was looking at the ground, so I saw the polished black shoes in time to stop just before running into the police officer less than six inches in front of me.

"That's quite far enough, breather," said his vaguely British accent.

"Can I open my eyes?" asked Amy.

---

THREE

The cop was on the smallish side of average with short, dark hair and a thick, black mustache. He was wearing a skintight, short-sleeve, light-blue, button-front shirt with a silver badge on the chest and navy blue, skintight, polyester uniform pants. There was a raven perched on his shoulder peering up at me.

"Who the hell told you how to get here?" he demanded.

"N-no one told me," I stammered nervously. I'd never been greeted like this before. Who the hell was this guy?

"Hmmm...," he said, taking a step back and bending to look directly into Amy's face. She still had her eyes closed. "You can open your eyes, little girl," he said. She opened her eyes and was startled to see this strange policeman staring at her. She started to step backwards.

"No!" I yelled loudly, pulling her arm a bit too roughly to keep her from moving back at all. She stumbled forward a bit and almost collided with the cop, but he snapped up and thrust his hands onto her shoulders to catch her. In the commotion the raven cawed loudly and leapt into the air, flying to light on the roof ridge of a nearby house and calm its ruffled nerves.

"Careful there, breather. You'll have her arm out," said the cop, bending to look her in the face again, his hands still on her shoulders. "Are you okay, miss?" he asked, smiling a huge, toothy grin under his mustache. "Let's move a little further in to talk," he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder and leading her a few steps away from the edge of town. She held tightly to my hand, so I followed them.

"Hey, I'm sorry," I said to her, squeezing her hand. "If you had stepped back any farther I would have lost you." She just looked over at me with a blank, bewildered look.

The cop led us into the light of the nearest lamppost and then slipped his hand off of Amy's shoulder and snapped around to peer at us again. "All right now, you two, why the hell are you here?" His accent was hard to place, but there was something very familiar about him. His movements were a little exaggerated, almost flamboyant. His nose and toothy overbite stuck out in a way that I was sure I had seen before.

"Do I know you? Have we met?" I asked.

He leaned in and peered at my face. "No, I don't believe we've met," he said.

"Well where's the sheriff?" I asked?

"I am the sheriff," he replied, with a strong emphasis on the word "I".

"What happened to Sheriff Wayne?" I asked.

The question surprised the odd sheriff, and he put a hand to his chin like The Thinker and considered me for a long pause. "Who are you?" he asked, finally.

"My name is Simon," I replied, "Simon Sayer." I held out a hand to shake, but he just glanced down at it and back up again.

"Well, I've never heard of you, Simon Sayer, but you've obviously been here before. What brings you here now?"

"Just business," I replied drawing my hand back and putting it into the pocket of my jacket. "Where's Sheriff Wayne?"

"What sort of business?"

"You didn't answer my question," I observed.

"We have that in common, it seems." He smiled.

"Am I required to tell you my business, Sheriff?" I asked, trying to sound as friendly as possible. "I've never observed that requirement here before. Have things changed so much here?"

His smile faded a little, and I could see a little tension pass from him as he arrived a decision. "No, of course," he sighed. "Your business is your business, as long as you don't cause any trouble." He took a pen and small notepad from his front pocket. "Simon Sayer, you said?" he asked, making a note of some sort.

"That's right."

"And your name, my dear," he smiled at Amy.

"Amy," she replied.

"Amy what?"

"Amy Montaigne."

He made a quick note and, with a flourish, snapped the notepad closed and thrust it and the pen into his shirt pocket. "Well, Amy Montaigne," he said, sweeping his arms wide in the dramatic gesture of a sales model, "welcome to Aphter. I am called Sheriff Mercury, but you can call me Freddie."

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Looking for something funny? Todd Levin is funny. Thanks for stopping by.

Blogos. Fear.

I'm guest-posting on my own blog. It's such an honor. I'm drunk posting this. Man, I'm wasted. I'm posting this while nude. Dude, it's freezing. And when I say "it," I mean the weather. Now I'm pretending to be a teenage hot guy. I'm stoked. Now I'm pretending to be an teenage lesbian. It's getting too hot in here for this heavy shirt. Could you help me with it? Now I'm a TV reporter trying to lure pedophiles to our mobile studio set up in this modest house in this middle-class neighborhood. Yes, that's right, I'm only twelve. Now I'm an FBI agent. Now I'm a serial killer. Now I'm an online gamer. An online dater. A knitting enthusiast. An aspiring writer. An inefficient employee. A bored housewife. A religious proselytizer. A political wonk. A porn addict. A college dorm potato.

I am blogosphere. Read me roar.

I want to do a self-portrait in oil paints, but I can't decide who I should get to sit for it. I was going to try to get a celebrity, but there are none of them around here. Around here we just seem to have a bunch of employees and housewives and dudes who don't work and single people and teenagers and children and old people. There's not celebrity one. Maybe I could get a homeless guy to sit for it. Whomever I get, I certainly hope it comes out looking like me. It won't be much of a self-portrait otherwise, right?

I'm not having an identity crisis. I'm have a triple shot caffè e latte with no foam.

Hello, friends. wHo are you today?

Later. Love.