caveat emptor

lost

Sometimes a filter covers the sun and I lose my way. Sometimes my proactivity is waylaid and errands are set aside as I cast about, trying to retrace forgotten steps, looking for the things we've lost. Some times I lose count of the coins we've stacked up into neat piles in secure places and I am overcome with the fitful need to estimate the value of all the things we've lost. I cannot remember what they were. I cannot see them with my minds eye. I can almost make out some of them from their silhouette in the fading visual artifacts their bright absence burned into the backs of my eyelids, but the shapes are indistinct, the patterns do not register. Please understand, man or woman that you must surely be, when I am less than machine. I discharge my duties with all the resolve I can muster, and I am dedicated to the fact of my enslavement to the resources you provide. Sometimes, however, the human soul I struggle to control gets a hand free and wreaks havoc with my established priorities and laid plans. Does this happen also to you? Can you still feel the sensory memory in your hand of something you must have misplaced? Aren't there other things we used to have? Haven't things been lost? If we stop and look together, maybe we can find them. Maybe you have mine and I have yours. Show me your things and I'll show you mine. Then, when we know for sure, we can get back to whatever it was that seemed so important just moments ago.

Identity and Differentiation

Somewhere I heard once that our constituent particles are much, much smaller than the gaps between them. If you could shrink down to a very, very small size, you would see the atoms of solid objects spread out with nothing between them except invisible forces. If you saw a hand pressed against a wooden table top at that scale, you would see loosely grouped atoms of the hand and loosely grouped atoms of the wood that could easily pass right through each other without colliding. It's not the atoms that stop the surface of the hand at the surface of the table, it's the forces between the atoms. Without those forces, or so I've heard, the atoms would just drift apart and become undifferentiated. So, the force keeps me in and keeps everything else out. It's a strange force. I call it identity, though that's not what scientists call it.

When he woke up and stumbled from the bedroom, Paul found that Lisa had left him a note. It read as follows.

Paul,

It's not that I don't recognize your love and concern. I do. I both understand the value and feel the pleasure of being the object of another's affection. I hope you can understand, however, my need to move unfettered through, at the very least, the limited scope of my own domain. If I cannot feel free in the sanctuary of my own mind, what freedom can I ever have? Embrace me, therefore, with your affection, but do not shackle it to my ankles and wrists. I'm not offended if you tap me on the shoulder with your concern, just don't thrust it between my shoulder blades. I can see your point of view without letting it blind my eyes. I can hear your opinion without letting it drown out my own voice. I am asking you to erect your machinations elsewhere. I like to walk unmolested across the craggy landscape of my own soul. I do not want warning signs and safety rails around the deep cavern of my despair. Sometimes, you see, I like to leap over the edge. Sometimes I like to tumble, battered and bruised, into those dark depths. Can you understand this? Do you understand the need to fall in and scramble, bleeding and exhausted, back out? Do you understand that I cannot abide walls to keep me out of my own damned garden? It's my sadness, my despair, and I must master it. Please understand this thing. You need not worry that, if you falter in your tireless vigil, I will slip secretly away beyond all salvation. I make you this promise: If there comes a day when I cannot swim in the deep end of my own ocean you will know it, because I will pull the plug and empty it. If there ever comes a day that I cannot be master here in the house of my own mind you will know it, because I will burn the whole damned thing down.

Lisa

He wasn't sure how to take it. "I just suggested that she check her tire pressure," he thought.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

I'll Always Be King of Rain

They're playing The Police at Starbucks. That's my soul up there. I have to admit that I'm a sucker for Gordon Sumner's wailing voice and the mystical overtones of the lyrics. That's my soul up there. It reminds me of high school, which I loved and hated. That's my soul up there.

Enough of that. I'll always be king of pain.

Enough.

The rain will not stop. It keeps falling and falling and falling. We're all underwater here in North Texas. I'm typing this underwater. My SCUBA is almost empty. I'm not long for this world, I fear. I have to admit, I never thought the end would come for me buried by rain. Most of my life has been hot and dry. I always thought I would collapse, parched, into the dust. I always thought I would dry up and blow away. Here I am, though, typing my dying words with pruny fingers. I cry my pleas for help up to the gods in the sky, but only the sea goddess hears them way down here in the depths, and she just laughs at me. If I worshipped her she would probably spare my life and cast me up onto the dry land to the north, but she can go to hell. I'd rather die in Texas than live in Oklahoma.

I should point out at this point that I have nothing against Oklahoma. I just thought that the preceding was a clever turn of phrase. Don't you agree? No? Oh, okay. Sorry.

Now they're playing The Beach Boys. The Beach Boys have a totally different sensibility than The Police. I don't relate as well. That's not my soul up there.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Driver

When I started driving this truck I was running away from something. Well, maybe I was running away from nothing. No plans. No ideas. No money. No place. Now my life is a constant struggle to negate my own surroundings, to be something other than what I seem to be. I try to eat the truck stop salads, to maintain some semblance of eating well. Mostly they're just iceberg lettuce, lettuce and sweet salad dressing. Sometimes there are shredded carrots in there, the occasional tomato wedge. I try to exercise in the mornings, jogging beside the truck or even doing sit-ups in the sleeper. I try to listen to books on tape, pretending to be engaged in culture.

You don't see the world driving a truck. You see the roads: High pitched, whining roads and chugging, rough roads, rain-slicked roads that blend into the wet night all around and disappear. You see the backs of a million cars. You're blinded by the sun. Before long you begin to realize that you know nothing about the world but you know little things about every state. Which gas station in Alabama has the worst coffee? Where can you take a shower in Kansas? What's the quickest way through New Jersey? You measure the passage of your life with the gas gauge. You're filling up the tank again. What have you learned since the last gas station? How have you changed? Not much.

I think I'm getting the knack of banter with truck stop waitresses. I like the good ones, the ones that are clever and efficient, friendly but aloof. When I first started driving I was bewildered by them. I was awkward and even hostile. I was condescending. Maybe I've lowered my standards, but I feel like I've just opened my eyes. I'm not sure who the hell I thought I was before, and I have no idea who I am now, but I have a better sense of who these ladies are. I'd love to get to know one of them, maybe ask her out. I don't know. They must get hit on all the time. I'd love to kiss one of them, make love to her. Probably I'll just make small talk, though.

I don't know how long I'll drive this truck. I'm afraid it's becoming easier, almost enjoyable. I've always thought of myself as an artist or an academic. I never pictured myself as infrastructure. I never imagined serving a tangible purpose. I move things around. Do you have a big pile of stuff in the wrong place? I can move it for you. Most of the time I make a point of not knowing what I'm hauling. Just hook me up and give me and address, I'll get it there. I just need to know where and when. I don't care what and I've stopped asking why.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Snippety Clip-Its

PHOTO CAPTION OPTION #1: When it rains my windshield becomes an impressionist painter.
PHOTO CAPTION OPTION #2: This must be what they mean when they talk about "driving rain."

---

Did you ever wish your sadness were more cool, like the people who have poetic or sexy sadness? Some people can turn sadness into a style. Did you ever feel as though your sadness were just homemade or generic? It's a knack, inscrutable and transcendent. You either have it or you don't. Don't try to make your sadness something it is not. That's just... well... sad.

---

I was mentioning to my mom once how odd I think it is that some people talk about going "down" to Oklahoma, even though Oklahoma is north of here. She said she thought it was odd when people talked about going "out east."

"You don't go out east," she insisted. "You go back east. You go out west."

"But," I countered, "you're from California. You could go back west."

"No," she said, "that just sounds wrong."

I find it odd that she relates more to the westward expansion of America than to her own past. What does that mean?

---

"I've just realized that I can't be comfortable around people who are too stylish or too successful," I told him at lunch. "They just aren't my people. I don't feel accepted by them and no amount of acceptance on their part can change that feeling."

"That's a little fucked up," he said.

"Yeah, I know."

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - This is my 444th post on this blog. Thanks for stopping by.

Things About Me Numbers Forty-Two Through Forty-Seven

42. I wasn't completely honest about the Starbucks acquisition. Some of the details were inaccurate.

43. A couple of Saturdays ago, before going to Slidell, Louisiana to spend a week doing Katrina relief work, my son, River, was helping me clean the garage. He was disassembling a broken aluminum step-ladder when he sliced his right index finger to the bone on some jagged aluminum. I took him to the emergency department for stitches, but Susan told me to take him to the Children's Hospital even though he is a large, muscular, fifteen year-old. Hilarity ensued. My point is this: The garage is still not clean.

44. The other night I spotted a possum driving into the neighborhood at 23:00 (11:00 PM for non-programmer civilians.) Just to clarify, I was driving into the neighborhood. The possum was not driving. The possum was a pedestrian. It was hunkered (crouched for you non-southerners) on the curb with an awful snarl on its face that would have been terrifying if I had been walking instead of driving or if I had woken up at night with the thing sitting on my chest staring into my face. The possum is not a beautiful animal. Maybe this is why my Possum Petting Zoo has yet to turn a profit.

45. I have often almost been inspired to describe the three squares that float in the coffee shop I patronize each morning. Almost, but not quite.

46. There is a part of me that feels like writing about myself is stupid. I mean, seriously, who cares? I'd rather make up people to write about.

47. I really enjoyed Brandon's visit to my blog on Monday and the comments that followed. It was fun. Thanks to those who participated.

Hello, friends. Tell me what's happening in the world. I've stopped paying attention.

Later. Love.

Hawking Beans

Big things are happening here are Caveat Emptor. Major deals are being made. Changes are afoot. I'm not supposed to be talking about it, but I'll tell you if you promise not to let the proverbial cat out of the proverbial bag. Okay. Ready? Here it is:

We've been acquired by Starbucks.

I have to admit that I wasn't thrilled about the acquisition at first, but I don't run this place. As those of you who have been around here for a while know, I incorporated and went public with Caveat Emptor several months ago when the administration and public relations burden became more than I could bear. Within a couple of weeks the newly elected Board of Directors voted away all of my authority and relegated me to the position of Staff Writer and Figurehead, which is fine with me.

Okay, back to the Starbucks deal. When Todd, the asshole who runs marketing, came to me with the idea, I hated it. I've since come to realize, however, that I hated it just because it came from Todd. I hate that guy. Mr. Todd the Jerkhead, that's what I call him. Yesterday though, Barry the CEO and Chairman of the Board came to see me and explained the benefits of the deal. There are a lot of them, and they're all crisp and green and in my pocket. I got, like, $85 out of the deal. Pretty sweet. I'm not sure what percent of the total money that represents, but it's free money, dude.

Don't worry, though. Nothing's going to change around here. I made sure that they knew it would cost more than $85 to turn me into some kind of corporate shill. I mean, I did agree to make "Thing About Me Number Sixty-Four" about how I love the light-bodied Terraza Blend with its well-balanced smoothness and hint of caramel flavors. It's great over ice. You know, you can tell a lot about a coffee if you know where it's from because every bean has a distinctive flavor particular to its land of origin. Coffees from Latin America are celebrated for their great balance, medium body and clean finish. Starbucks knows this because, at Starbucks, Geography Is a Flavor™.

Oh, one other change. We will now be charging $2.50 per post. (Venti posts are available for $4.25.)

Hello, friends. How are you today? Thirsty? Head on over to Starbucks. There's one within five feet of you right now.

Later. Love.

P. S. - Check out Paul McCartney's new hit album "Memory Almost Full" over at Hear Music, the voice of music at Starbucks. Barristas are raving about it, saying, "This is the best music Paul McCartney has ever recorded" and "This is the only Paul McCartney I've ever heard except for when he was with the Rolling Stones or whatever" and "Holy crap, do we HAVE to play this thing again?" Check it out! Thanks for stopping by.

Vive!

We're all in different places together, sharing the experience of having little in common. Do our ven diagrams overlap? Are we orthogonal? Sometimes I am struck by our diversity and I am amazed that we can communicate. How can we be the same species? Hey Nineteen.

"Tell me about despair, yours, and I'll tell you mine." I am largely unconcerned with the state of things. I typically stare at the world and wonder that things are so good. Many of my friends disagree with me on this point. I think, as I told a friend recently, that it's because I'm so ambivalent. He's more pointedly leftist than I am, and he measures the goodness of the world by its leftness. I have few criteria; I may not have any. I just sort of look around and think, "Wow. Look at all this. Amazing."

On Father's Day I was driving through my neighborhood with my kids and we saw two dogs, a Basset Hound and a Yellow Lab, running around in the rain. They looked friendly and had collars with tags. I stopped near them and lowered my car window and the Yellow Lab trotted over, his tail wagging. I reached out to pet him and he put his feet up on the door and licked my hand. I looked at his tag and saw the name and then, patting him on the head, turned to my son. "Do you know a family named...," I started to say. Then, much to my shock and surprise, the Yellow Lab leapt through the window and landed in my lap. He was soaking wet and frisky, wagging his tail and looking around happily. In between bouts of laughter, I tried to push him back through the window, but he just kept licking my face. Then I maneuvered him around so that his head was facing the window and I gave him an encouraging nudge. He jumped back out through the window and ran off to find his friend. I was wet and muddy and I stunk like wet dog. My car was coated with mud and Yellow Lab fur sheddings. We laughed about it all the way home.

I think I'm a lot like that dog. If I'm not, I want to be.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I don't know why I insist on posting these terrible phone pictures of myself. I should choose a mascot or a really hot model and let him be the "Scott" for my blog. It would be better for the marketing and whatnot. Thanks for stopping by.

Tough act to follow? You should try leading it.

You can't hear everything you believe. Some things cannot be properly expressed. You can believe them out loud with your whole soul, but you cannot say them. You do not suffice to do so. It's okay. They're still true, and so are you. It just means that the world is not constrained by the boundaries of your mind, and that's a good thing, right? It means your mind has room to grow.

Once, in another life, I worked painting the lines on the road, marking the lanes. I wasn't very good at it. I would always get bored with the path and set out across the fields and hills, heading for the horizon, painting the lines behind me. Inevitably, cars would follow the lines off the pavement and queue up behind me, honking impatiently. "Where does this road lead?" they would ask.

"I don't know yet," I'd say. "We'll have to wait until we get there, then we'll know."

These days I try not to paint lines behind me. If you pay attention, if you're really observant, you could still follow my tracks. Most people just stay inside the lines, however. That's cool. It's less pressure if no one follows.

See what I mean? I believe something, but I can't express it. Isn't that great?

Hello, friends. Tell me what you're thinking.

Later. Love.

He's Not Dead. He Just Quit Blogging. There's a Difference.

Have you ever read a line or a phrase that was so well-constructed and clever you just had to say, "Damn!" like you were Shaft or something? I have. Many times. More than a few of them were written by Brandon Rogers. Like most people, I pimped my blog to the world by assing it up over in the comments section of Brandon's blog, One Child Left Behind. (As far as I know I just made up the term "assing it up." If it's an existing term and it means anything other than "goofing around and being silly," I do not mean it in its traditional sense. I'm misusing it.) It makes me happy that my blogging activity coincided with Brandon's for as long as it did.

And now, with just a little further ado, here is a long-anticipated guest-post from Brandon. I haven't even read it yet because I didn't want to spoil the surprise of seeing it up on my own little blog. I know it's good. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks, Brandon, for letting me play along.

---

14 Million Things About Me

I find it impossible to start anymore, either conversations or adventures or diets, but the finish is where I'm possible, so I try to begin somewhere between the middle and the end. Right when you're asking me my name and what I do, I've already picked out the curtains and possibly even skipped ahead to collecting my things from a box you've left for me out on the lawn with a note that reads, "I'M STARTING OVER WITHOUT YOU." What is that saying? "It's better to have been loved and forgotten than to never have been loved at all?" Or is it, "It's better to have been loved and forgotten than to have had your pancreas removed by vengeful robots. But just barely." (ROBOT REFERENCE 1)

Besides, everyone knows that the worst isn't never having loved at all but the constant reminder of that bitter flower of she-loved, then-she-loved-me-not dotting your yard each spring. So many petals for such a short lived game, why pick daisies? I think. Better to challenge fate with a single-petaled blossom, increase your odds of success. I can't think of many, though. Skunk cabbage, maybe? (FLOWER or ANIMAL REFERENCE 1)

"SHE LOVES ME. FTW." (URBAN DICTIONARY USAGE 1)

...

But I can't right now. I'm bleeding. (OBSCURE LINE !)

...

I'm bleeding because I cut my hand whittling and whiling away the slow as forest fern minutes on a camping trip, in search of altered consciousness, the state I always needed to achieve in order to write or answer questions, and they are coming fast and furious now, more dangerous than the threat of mountain lions overhead and devil's club underfoot, the threat of direct questions right at your heart. He asks me what he was like. I am altered consciousness, via a bottle of wine, and honest. He was a good looking man. A drunk. He beat up your grandmother pretty good. This was supposed to be another weekend alone to talk about S-E-X, not V-I-O-L-E-N-C-E. Oh well, the latter is easier, as is proven by the fact that I can never remember sitting in a theater as a child and having my eyes covered during that scene where the one guy eviscerates his enemy with some crude deep-sea slaughtering implement.

I try to achieve my altered consciousness in different ways lately, doing my best to cut back on anything that might be confused for the first step on a downward spiral staircase. Sometimes I hold my breath until the stars appear, and it reminds me that one day far into the future we will look into the night sky and see no more stars, as the nature of the universe is that everything flies from the center of a great explosion, and in this infinite space there is no alternative than to grow farther and farther and farther apart until the wavelengths between us are stretched thin beyond perception. I once forgot about a girl using this technique. This is why it's so hard to fall in love with a real scientist. So many of their findings are so unsentimental. But, oh, the practicality of it all.

The weekend scientists, on the other hand, are darling. They still see ancient stories in the constellations. Can still find their way North with nothing more than two sticks and the courage to lie down on the ground, find the brightest star in the night sky.

...

(About Food)

We should all go camping in order to achieve altered consciousness, pack ourselves away in the remotest wilderness we can and know what it's like to be begged for our affections and to beg another, to no avail, to fruitless abandon. Don't grow old unless you've descended into the deepest cave and ascended the highest peak recommended by your doctor, in spite of the fact that love and mountain climbing and fasting are not the kinds of things recommended if you have a heart condition. Just remember that the easiest time to start a diet is right after eating a heavy meal.

I was once told that I was adored, and though it wasn't meant in the way I had hoped, reading the letter became my food substitute, three times a day, with some snacks in between, plus brunch, and sneaking bits when no one was looking. I know how this always ends up. With alarms and whistles and locks on my computer. A diet of you. Spicy. It's not that I've never wanted to beg someone to love me in spite of herself, it's just that, well, what if she caves in? I'm claustrophobic.

"I'm going on a diet," I once told my grandmother, in preparation for the upcoming Babe Ruth season.

"Well," she answered, "I don't know much about diets, but I know that sounds like a big decision. And I also know that big decisions shouldn't be made on an empty stomach." I forget what she made me, but it almost assuredly contained yellow cake mix as a key ingredient.

In the car, an incoming message reminds me that I've been intending to switch my cell from vibrate to ringtone. Every time my stomach growls, I think someone out there is concerned over me. That's a lot of disappointment to deal with on a daily basis.

...

I can attain altered consciousness now by running. Last week around mile 4, I felt as though I had a stitch, just under my rib cage, in my back. It felt like someone had squeezed a capsule in there, like one of those gelatin time release devices, full of analgesics. I started to run on that side, willfully pressing down until it popped, releasing the sweet drug into my body. In waves, it felt like the time when I was delivering papers in Watertown, and Travis Clemons saw me and told me that his sister liked me back. At least 10 houses missed their subscriptions that day.

When the third wave passed it was like saying good-bye to her, dropping her off in front of her house, off the back of my bike. I ran on that side the rest of the way home, hoping to pop that pill one more time, knowing it turns out the same, whether in this recreational reenactment or in reality. Still, in a no-win situation, I suppose you can still choose HOW to lose. I tell myself I fell from the nest and decided on my own to just walk from here on out. I convince myself I don't mind apologizing even when I think I'm right, and that this is just one more way of attaining altered consciousness. I remind myself of all those hours I practiced on the defibrillator and the longer I practiced the longer I went without ever having to use it, the relationship between practice and coming-to-pass an ever steepening unlikelihood, like my own 10 step talisman against heart death, so I practice now how I'm possibly going to say goodbye, every day with the same words, those days were a gift and I return them hardly used, knowing the more I say it, the less likely it will ever come to pass.

I try to wield a word per day. There's no harm, you know, in looking up new words and putting them to use. The worst can happen is people mistake your curiosity for pretension, and having people understand your true intentions is its own kind of hell, anyway. I add a new phrase now and again. The more the manier. It's not pretentious if it's meaningful. And all these words in the dictionary have meaning, by definition.

I say these kinds of things to myself as I run, pretending that I am talking to someone else, someone for whom I might eventually write these things down, and perhaps I do, but it's still nice to feel the presence of being. I might be the only 34-year-old actively recruiting an imaginary friend.

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Ghost

Ever since the world ended it's been harder for James to keep going. He can still remember where he was when it happened. He can still feel the aftershocks. When the dust cleared nothing was left; everything was gone. Now it's all he can do to shower and shave, to walk out the front door. Now the drive to work through what remains of the world is dismal and bleak. Now his new office is a shelter from the ruin; he closes the door and hides inside.

Sitting at the bar after work, James admires the waitress. She is too young and too pretty for him, but her sweetness pulses pangs of regret in his chest. Watching her work, watching the other people around, James is sad that no one has survived. He misses people. He misses being alive. He misses bars like this one, girls like her. In the end it was all for nothing, but he misses it all anyway.

James lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. "It came without warning," he thinks again, and not for the last time. If there had been some warning, some sign, maybe he could have been prepared. Maybe he could have survived. He can still remember how she couldn't look him in the eye. He can still remember the sound of her voice, the last sound he ever heard. "At least we were together when it happened," he thinks. "At least we were together at the end."

He can't remember her walking away. His mind won't let him see that. Not again.

---

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

The Phantom Zone

Have you ever wondered about The Phantom Zone? Do you remember it? Those three criminals from the movie Superman II were trapped in it until a missile that Superman threw into space shattered it and let them out to terrorize the Earth. (Smooth move, Superman.) I've been trying to figure out how it works. Is that little spinning square of glass all there is to it, or is that just a window into the actual "zone?" If that's all there is, then why could you only see their three faces, stuck screaming in the spinning square for all eternity? Where were their bodies and their legs? If it was just a window to another place, then why would they just stand there staring out the window and screaming forever? Wouldn't they eventually get tired of that? I would.

Here's an entire "encyclopedia" entry about The Phantom Zone that I found. Don't go read it. Seriously. You don't need to know this much about The Phantom Zone. Go have sex with someone instead. Trust me.

Hello, friends. What strange things have you been thinking about?

Later. Love.

Dearest Winston

Dearest Winston,

You have the deepest goodness, but you are a fool. How many years have I watched you breaking your back with your own two hands? You have sold yourself cheap to the world, and they have yet to pay even what they promised. Loyalty and time are precious, but you give them to the wind, to the vanishing clouds. You dedicate yourself to your own abuse, you take what's left of yourself for granted. Thieves rob you blind and you hold the door for them and smile. You help them with the heavy lifting. You trade a first class seat to heaven for standby to purgatory to gain an hour of sleep or a bit of string or the shadow of another's whim. Twelve hours of collecting scrap for three dollars and eleven cents becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, determined to make your estimation of your own worth as accurate as possible.

You take advice with a smile. You agree whole-heartedly. You were thinking the same thing yourself. Still, there you are, year after year, plowing under the crops, harvesting the weeds. You are a noble fool with another heart where your brain should be. You'll outlive us all, poor bastard. You'll dig your own grave when the rest of us are long gone. You'll lie down in the dirt and think, as you close your eyes, "Things will get better soon."

These are things that I thought you should know. I say them in love; I hope you can believe that.

Your friend,

Scott

P. S. - Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Trying to Walk Like a Lady

She's not crazy, she just forgets sometimes that other people are real. She forgets that they can see her. She forgets that she is real. She forgets about light and reflection, about rods and cones, about compression waves and eardrums. She lives in her brain, sheltered beneath her curly flop of blonde and brown hair.

With one foot on the curb and one hovering over the gutter she tries to walk like a lady, the way she was taught. She doesn't put a book on her head, however. Not this time. She knows from experience that it will not stay there, not at this angle. Mostly, however, it's because she doesn't have a book with her. She's still thinking about the last book she read and she cannot read another until she is finished. It was a good book, but troubling. She wonders, as she considers the book, what it would feel like to put her arms around the author and whisper to him, softly, in his ear. She wonders what it would feel like to approach him from behind and put her hands around his neck and squeeze. She believes, because of the book, that he would let her do this, trusting that she would stop before he suffocated. She wonders if he is right about that. Probably he is. He seems like a smart man.

She has dinner with two friends, a boy and girl who are in love with each other. She is a little sad as she hears them talk to each other, because she can tell that the girl is wonderful and sweet and exactly what the boy needs. She can also tell that he will not stay with the girl long, because he is like that. She hopes that she is wrong about this, because she loves the boy and she wants him to be happy, but she suspects that she is right. When the night is over she hugs them both and gives the girl an awkward little kiss on the cheek. She almost cries as she does it, and she rushes away afterwards in embarrassment. She doesn't regret doing it, she only regrets doing it badly.

At home in bed she imagines them all in a rowboat on a cool, calm ocean night. They laugh and drink wine. With them is the author of that book. He is there to be with her, to be her date. In her imagination they are all better and happier. There is no awkwardness and no foolishness. They are all doing well. "Where are you going?" the author asks her as she steps out of the boat. "I'm going to see if I can walk like a lady on the waves," she says. "I'll be right here. You can watch me." He smiles at her and she places his book on top of her head, the way she was taught.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Leonid

On Sunday mornings Leonid enjoys life and coffee at a sidewalk table in the downtown square. He enjoys coffee there on most days, but he usually only enjoys life on Sunday mornings. Most other days he scratches and eeks out a meager living selling life insurance. He can tell you, if you ask, how he ended up here. "My father made cabinets in Russia," he would begin. "Then he brought us here." It's a long story, but worth hearing if you have the time.

Leonid sits and watches the starched and pressed people from downtown condominiums parade past his table on their way to perfectly respectable Presbyterian and Methodist churches. These are not mystics. These are not seekers. These people must make an appearance. They must make connections.

"Life insurance is a paradox for God," Leonid likes to tell religious people. "God wants two things for people: He wants them to be poor and he wants them to suffer. Life insurance, therefore, puts God in an awkward position. Don't you agree?" Leonid doesn't really believe this, but he finds it a funny thing to say. Most people do not agree with this assessment.

Leonid wants a fiery love in his life, a smart woman with whom he can argue and reconcile, a woman he cannot fully contain. Leonid wants two smart friends, one politically-minded and one philosophical, with whom to drink coffee. Leonid wants a son who is a better man than he is, more respectable and more handsome. Leonid wants a daughter who loves him more than he deserves. Leonid has none of these things, but he is not bitter. Leonid does not feel that life owes him such blessings. He understands the economies at work around him. He understands the dearth of resources he commands.

If I wrote a song for Leonid I would use guitar and violin. It would be complex and wild, but a little sad. It would end with a soft chuckle, barely audible. It would not be your favorite song, but you would want to hear it from time to time. You would like the way it made you feel. Leonid is like that. In my mind, he is like that.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Forty-One

41. Since my son has gone on a week-long work trip to Louisiana to help build houses and my wife is studying for Super Hard Accounting Number Eight or something, my daughters and I went to the Fort Worth Zoo yesterday. We had fun looking at the animals. By the end of the day I was feeling so animal-friendly that I roasted a chicken for dinner. I also boiled some small red and brown potatoes and made a salad from green-leaf lettuce, cherry tomatoes, grated Parmesan cheese and raspberry and walnut vinaigrette dressing. It was a good day.

I took my camera with me, but the battery decided to be dead. So, instead of bad, blurry pictures taken with my camera, you can see some bad, blurry pictures taken with my phone. There are more here.

Hello, friends. How was your weekend?

Later. Love.

Things About Me Numbers Thirty-Eight Through Forty

38. I wonder strange things as I drive to work. This morning I wondered if birds ever wonder, "What the hell IS this thing I'm sitting on?" I wonder if any part of them prefers a real tree or mountain perch to a telephone pole, flag pole or Exxon sign. I imagine explaining it to them. "Hello. That perch of yours, my fine, feathered friend, is a microwave relay tower. It repeats and directs communication signals all over the..." "Look, fella, you lost me at hello. Unless you've got a mouse in your pocket you're willing to part with, move along." That's how the conversation goes in my mind.

39. I notice strange things when I drive to work. The tall, yellowish grass that grows in pastures has a slight purple tinge to it. You can't see it if you look at a single stalk (or blade) of the grass, but you can see it in the bending dance of the aggregate in a windy field. It reminds me of the subtle, colorful sheen of a Blue Weimaraner, the most beautiful dog I've ever seen.

40. I draw strange things when I sit in meetings. (You should zoom in on the picture to get a real sense of how my mind wanders.)

Hello, friends. Tell me something good.

Later. Love.

Things About Me Numbers Thirty-Four Through Thirty-Seven

34. This morning I saw a mutt hanging its head out of the passenger window of an old, beat-up pickup truck. It looked like a friendly mutt. Seeing it, I realized that my totem animal is the mutt. It's perfect.

35. You can really see my deviated septum if you look directly up my nose. I'm too tall to look directly up my nose, but my new Samsung BlackJack phone can do the job for me.

36. Here's a picture of my elephant. He's very small but he doesn't put up with any funny business. He was made tough by being the only independent voter in his Republican herd. You will respect my tiny elephant.

37. Here's the pond that lives outside my office window. It used to be full of baby turtles, but they've all left and slightly larger turtles have moved in. I guess turtles do that. It's like a pond exchange program or something. Here's what's cool about turtles: You'll never meet a homeless turtle.

Hello, friends. Is your elephant as cool as mine? I submit that it is NOT!

Later. Love.

Mercury Peaks

The grey clouds are burning off above the steamy ground. The threat of summer is everywhere, though the drought that has marked the beginning of the past several summers was scattered by thunderstorms, blown away this year before it could get a foothold. In its place is a carpet of green that you typically only see in friendlier climes where pretty green plants are indigenous in the summer. These might tempt you to hope it is still spring, but do not be fooled. Already summer is here. Already the kids are still in bed, leaving the morning for the suckers with jobs. Already the thermostat charges $100 per degree Fahrenheit. Already my youngest is at camp, having the deep, full fun that children have so well, celebrating the abundance of no expectations, the dearth of something to accomplish.

Are you ready for the summer? Are you ready for the good times?

I hibernate in the summer, though you can't tell from the outside. Wake me in the fall. I'll be in the freezer.

Hello, friends. Is it summer where you live? Do you like it?

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Thirty-Three

33. I guess it's ironic, I don't know. Maybe it's just a little awful. There are people in the world who are really amazingly skilled. There are people with talent that will take your breath away. As for me, I fumble around with a few tricks up my sleeve. My greatest actual talent is probably something cognitive, like "being able to sort out, understand and describe complicated things." That's good, I think, though it's not the sexiest of skills. Besides that I also clunk around with a a few modicums of talent. I can copy photographs into pencil drawings with some skill. I can sing a little. I write a little. I'm not, however, an artist of stunning skill in any of these creative endeavors. That's okay. I do well enough to entertain myself.

To develop the point to which I'm getting, I'll introduce this idea: Don't you love the people who are really, really skilled, true artists, who are also extremely nice and gracious in dealing with people who are less skilled? People like that are amazing when they are sincere. People who encourage and try to bolster the confidence of others, even those aren't particularly talented, are beautiful. People like these seem to genuinely enjoy watching people give their best effort and put themselves "out there." I love people like that.

I also admire the people who will risk humiliation and embarrassment to try new things even when they aren't good at them. Some people just throw their shortcomings and imperfections out in front of everyone saying, "Here I am. This is me. I know I'm not the best, but I'm going to play along with everyone else while I still can. If I don't do well... well... at least I didn't just sit on the sidelines bored and scared." People like this are also beautiful.

Here's the point to which I'm getting: I'm not like either of those kinds of people. I can hardly stand to watch someone do something if they aren't good at it. It makes me sick to my stomach. I cringe. I have to turn away. I also avoid any situation where I feel like I'll embarrass myself. I just sit on the sidelines. I don't dance. I sit beside the pool, dying to swim, and I read a book. People, beautiful and ugly, thin and fat, are having a blast at the beach, just being themselves. Not me. I let my insecurity rob me of experiences. I always have.

That's okay. We all have our little flaws. I don't like this thing about me, but I've accepted it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.