caveat emptor

Finally. Answers.

I've finally finished the Answer-O-Rama, my patented advice and answers machine. It works pretty well, though I cannot tell you about its top-secret, patented inner workings. I can give you a few hints however: It's made mostly out of ideas I got while reading and thinking about things like science and technology and philosophy and grammar. I put it together with screws and wood and wires. Okay, that's enough. I don't want everyone to build their own because then no one will buy one of mine.

Does it work? Is that what you want to know? Does it work? Well, you tell me. Here, I'll try it out as a demonstration of sorts. First, I ask a question into the microphone while holding down the "Question Button." (It's the one with the big "Q" on it.)

QUESTION: What is the source of this howling pang of longing in the soul of humanity?

Now I release the "Question Button" and push the "Answer Button." (The one with the "A".) Now I wait and listen to the clackety racket of the electric typewriter deep in the bowels of the device. (NOTE: Please do not read too much into the preceding description of the inner workings of the device. It may or may not be an electric typewriter that makes that noise and the device doesn't actually have working bowels. I used the word "bowels" metaphorically.) Now the answer comes chugging out on letter-sized paper.

ANSWER:

Early human lived [PREPOSITION] caves

And huddles close foR making warm

Before fire [VERB, INTRANSITIVE]

Pack smells and sounds in [ARTICLE] dark

And community to fight the fear [PREPOSITION] a unknown

I'm still working out a few kinks. Let's try an easier question. [sound of "Q" button being pushed]

QUESTION: What is two multiplied by three?

Okay. Now, let's see. [sound of "A" button being pushed, followed by what may or may not be an electric typewriter]

ANSWER:

Modern life, new math

A lie? Where now the hot breath

Of some [ADJECTIVE], primal mate on your neck

As you huddle [PREPOSITION] sleep

Also, 2x3=7.

It's getting closer every time. I'm pretty encouraged. I'm accepting pre-orders.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Pretty

A little something I wrote. A bit of fiction, based on nothing and about no one. Just a writing exercise. I hope you enjoy it.

"Is she pretty?" That's what they asked me about you. "Is she pretty?"

"Yes, she is pretty," I said, but it felt so wrong to me, too simple. You're a plain girl of a certain kind, with hair the color of brown hair, the kind of brown hair about which you would say, if someone asked you, "It's brown." Your skin is fair, almost pale, though easily flushed pink or red with exertion or emotion. No blemish distracts the eye from failing to notice your subliminal complexion. The smallness of your shoulders and neck, arms and legs hardly cast shadows across the paths of the many who walk by you unaware each day. Would you call your eyes hazel in color, brownish bluish greyish green, were anyone to ask? How can I tell them that your beauty is furtive, that you can only see it when you're not looking for it, that, upon inspection, you hardly register? "If you sit with her at the end of the day," I might say, "after more words and more laughs and more touches than you can count, and ask yourself when you have been happier, or try to remember the burdens you bore just yesterday, you will notice, quite unexpectedly, sitting beside you, a beauty like you've never seen, small and fair, brown hair falling without motive over hazel eyes. She is the kind of pretty that surprises you, so that one day, quite unexpectedly and irresistibly, you whisper both to yourself and also to her, 'My God, you're beautiful.'"

"Yes, she is pretty," I said. Can you imagine?

Hello, friends. How are you?

Love.

The New Singer

Pathi never forgot the sight and sound of his first anxious interview with the singer. Pathi was still a young man at time, only a boy really, and not much of a boy at that. He was no scholar and he was no athlete. The girls didn't even notice him because he was small and, he thought, not very attractive. Pathi lived most of his life in his house in his mother's shadow, because he loved his mother very much. He liked to sit out of the way and listen to her when people came to talk to her. She talked to people very well, he thought.

He didn't always stay at home, however. He liked to take, once each day, the short walk around his neighborhood — the same route every day — to see if he could predict who he would see and what they would be doing. Pathi felt something strong for all of these people, his neighbors, and he liked to believe that, although he didn't speak to them, he was getting to know them a little better every day. His favorite neighbor was the singer who lived on the edge of the neighborhood, close to the river.

Kemu carried, as often as he could afford,
More rice in his lunch than he could eat
Kemu shared rice on those days
With his workers who had brought nothing to eat
Do you see why we love Kemu?
I will tell you why we love Kemu.

Three years ago when Pathi's father, Kemu, died, the singer sang a song for him, a song for dying. Pathi learned more about his father in that song than he had learned in all the years he lived with his father, watching him get up and go to work every day, watching him come home to sleep in the late evening. Ever since that day, ever since that song, Pathi had felt drawn to know more about people. He was getting to know them a little better every day.

"Excuse me, sir," Pathi said softly, his rarely-used voice catching in the dry fear of his throat. The singer was in a sweaty struggle to move a large rock across his garden.

"I am busy now, little friend," the singer panted. "Maybe you could come back later."

"Do you need help?" Pathi asked. At this the singer stopped his struggle and straightened his back with a groan, turning to look at Pathi.

"You're not much on the outside, little friend," he said. "What help can you offer me?" The old singer smiled as he said it and sat down with a sigh on the rock, wiping sweat from his forehead with the dirty skin of his forearm.

"How did you become a singer, sir?" Pathi asked, blushing as he did so and dropping his stinging eyes to the ground.

The singer, catching his breath, didn't answer right away. "If you want to be a singer," he said finally, "you have to sing songs. To sing songs, you must have songs to sing."

"Where do you get the songs?"

The singer put his hand over his eyes. "Songs come from your eyes, little friend. You have to open your eyes wide to be a singer. Are your eyes opened wide, little friend?"

"My name is Pathi," the boy said. "You sang a song for dying for my father."

"And now you want to be a singer," the old singer said plainly. Although some part of him had already known it, Pathi knew certainly, for the first time, that it really was true. "So, sing," the old man told him.

"Sing what?"

"You walk by here every day. You walk and your eyes seem to be open. Sing what you see when you walk."

Pathi had many songs about what he saw when he walked. He sang them to himself as he walked, but he didn't know if they were good songs. He thought a long time about what to sing and decided, instead, to sing a different song.

When my father, Kemu, was alive
My mother's hands and her voice were soft
Now her hands are rough
Now her voice is rough
When my father, Kemu, was alive
My mother stood tall and breathed well
Now her back is bent
Now she wheezes and coughs

Pathi stopped, unable to sing the rest. A lump came up in his throat and the old singer knew why. "It is a good song," the old singer said softly.

"Is it?" Pathi tried to say, but his voice wouldn't really come out.

"It is a song for dying," the old singer said plainly. Although some part of him had already known it, Pathi knew certainly, for the first time, that it really was true. His mother was dying. Pathi began shake with noiseless sobs. The old singer, tears in his eyes, reached out and took the new singer in his arms.

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Async and Remote

The One Minute Manager lauds the importance of touch, but I just can't bring myself to reach out like that. Corporate mail reminds us that a masseuse will be set up in this or that room in case we need a relief for stress. I can think of few things more stressful than strange hands pushing and poking and patting me. I'm just not a touchy guy. I'm particular about such things. I'm touchy about them, you might say, though that's a confusing adjective to use in this context.

If I seem distant from where you're reading I hope you don't take it personally. I always assume that people don't really want to know me. People just want, I figure, to consider me from a distance. "If I approach," I think to myself, "they will feel invaded or be filled with dread." It's an unhealthy desire to be accepted that drives my attempt to be superhumanly acceptable. It's a sterile and impotent acceptance that only embraces from afar. Is this really my goal?

This medium is perfect for me. You can't even see me as I type this. I'm not even connected right now. I'm typing all of this into a text editor program. I'll spell check it, connect, look both ways to make sure no one is approaching, upload it quickly, and disconnect. You can read it after I'm gone. Feel free to comment. I'm perfectly capable of this sort of asynchronous relationship.

Hello, friends. Won't you tell me how it's going over there where you are?

Love.

Fool School

Past where the grumbly mumblers rumble On either end of the night Out where the jumbly tumblers stumble And struggle to get it right They come in early and stay out late They drive to the edge of the town They meet in the warehouse on Orchard and Slate They study the art of the clown They're taxers and bakers and shooters and makers Professionals one and all But they want to be fakers and givers, not takers, So they're learning to take a fall Juggling, balloonery, precision loonery It's a no-nonsense school Dancing, buffoonery, sad-sacking goonery Purposefully playing the fool You're already skilled in self-humiliation You're already creepy and strange Perhaps you should train for a different vocation Maybe it's time for a change Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

My Song Too

Not greater than and not less than and not the same. It doesn't happen in math, but it's a foundational theorem of humanities.

Sometimes we mutter to ourselves — or perhaps we are talking to life itself — people like us, vocalizing as a form of being. Could it be that, for some of us, thought exists only as dialogue, internal or external. We power the spheres, reasserting the persistence of reality as though it were a fragile collection of spinning plates. "To think is to talk." Some people would say we are distant or quiet, but for us the conversation never ends. I live in words and, most days, I live well.

It is said that we hide ourselves, protect ourselves, set up barriers and walls to keep our unpresentable selves hidden. Sometimes I feel as though my armor is threadbare, pervious and pregnable. I often find myself at the verge of tears, driven close to exposure as helplessly silly by the most random of things. In a move the other day I beheld a group of Whos living on a speck crying out to the invisible giants that controlled the fate of their world, "We are here! We are here! We are here!" Real pangs, giant sweeping gusts of emotion howling through the chasm of my soul almost brought me to tears, though I fought them back.

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Here There Is No Sky

In case you're interested, I've posted a new little fiction on my recently neglected cogito blog. It's called Here There Is No Sky. Check it out, if you'd like.

Hello, friends. Thanks for stopping by.

Love.

It is Written

Thou shalt not dress up thine Chihuahua in stereotypical Mexican garb and neither shalt thou pose thine Chihuahua for pictures neither cute nor adorable. With respect shalt thou treat thine Chihuahua from now until the end of days.

I'm making my own religious book, King James style. I don't have nearly enough rules yet, but I'm writing down all the ones that cross my mind.

Who art thou, oh Man, that thou ridest so close upon mine bumper? Hasten to slow your following lest you touch mine car. In wrath shall mine foot come down upon the brake. To whom shall you turn when the insurance companies come for the flesh of your body? And it shall be, verily, all your fault. Follow me, therefore, but back the hell off a bit.

Let it be known that this donut of chocolate is mine own. Touch not mine donut of chocolate. Though I go away for a season, surely I shalt return, mine sceptre and mine coffee in mine hand. Woe unto thee, oh children of mine loins, if, returning, no donut of chocolate I find in this place. There will be weeping, and wailing and washing of dishes.

Unto she who waits upon me do I say, "Callest thou these eggs over medium? Thou must be kidding. Rememberest thou not when I beseeched thee that my eggs be over medium? Where now is thine tip? But, that you might know that I am merciful, I shall allow you one chance to replace these eggs with ones over medium. Bring not unto me again eggs such as these, lest I tip you not."

Those with eyes, let them read mine laws and let them obey. Or not. That's cool too.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Theophanies and a Smallish Stone

Maybe you do this too. I don't know. Sometimes I like to pretend I've been given an assignment — an important mission, if you will — by the king and queen of everything. "Walk the Earth," they might say to me, "and find the small stone on which is engraved the meaning of life. We dropped it a long time ago and we need it back because we do not remember what it said." "What does it look like?" I might ask. "It's brownish and smooth." "And how big?" "Not very big. Maybe, like, this big," the king might say, holding up his hand and indicating a smallish size with the gap between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. It's the trouble with people who have too epic an opinion of themselves. They're always engraving things onto stones. Metaphorically, this is a very inflexible method of communication. There's little wiggle room. "Are these plans set in stone?" you might ask. "As a matter of fact...," comes the sheepish reply. Maybe you do this too. I don't know. I like to write in pencil, or just talk. Why do we need a record of everything? These titans carve everything in stone but you cannot prove they exist. Meanwhile here I am, perfectly tangible, walking around, looking around, stooping now and then to pick up a smallish stone, staring at it, turning it over in my hand, tossing it away. Hello, friends. How are you today? Love.

Local Economy

Somewhere in my background a radio blathers doom about the economy, but the Fed just can't seem to raise my interest today. In some homes, I've heard, values are down so low that a families can't pay attention to each other any more. They say no one is taking credit and no one is giving credit and credit is coming due. On all frequencies English majors are spinning math, going off on tangents, wondering who will cosign. Meanwhile the markets are exhausted and looking for a place to crash. I wonder to myself, "How long will these men in neckties Bear the lack of Bull on the finance page before they tie the Windsor noose?" None of these are material losses for me, however. I'm not overly taxed by any of this, lying here with you, taking stock of all your assets, investing in bonds, exploring your options, leveraging insider information, presenting a tender offer, interest compounding by the second.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Her. Storm.

Only briefly, for a flash of an instant, I saw you in the sudden breaking of the dark when lightning screamed overhead. What morning like this you've chosen, out and about in the water wind howl, walking as though you have the right in the whipping rain. Where has the urgency gone from your casual step, nature threatening like a bully in black but you betray no notice, much less fear? What manner of woman are you? You are the heart of the storm and all of this is yours. Why show your secret to me? In the next flash I look for you gone and wonder where you'll end up. This is no world for us cowering in fear of her, the storm. Every dark and stormy drive gripping the wheel forever more I'll peer through the blinding flashes and my heart will look always for the silhouette of you.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

seventeen

When I was still a kid I didn't understand what it meant to be a boy. Being doesn't require understanding, after all. Being just is, and boys will be boys. This isn't about being a boy, however, it's about how we come to understand. While I was still a boy, not even twenty, I met a girl. I didn't, to be sure, understand what it meant to meet a girl. Meeting happens, boy meets girl, or so the story goes. Life is a mystery, the universe and whatnot, and the complexities therein don't lend themselves to comprehension. The basics of life, however, will explain themselves to you if you will only live. It's not so formulaic, but it's simple in an organic way. Not understanding what it meant to be a boy, I learned quickly in the hands of that girl what it means not to be a boy anymore. Maybe there are other ways, but for me it took a girl who became a woman and a little bit of time to make this boy a man, and not just in the bed, though there was that. She made me a man in my mind, deciding how to act, where to go, when to arrive. Being a man, life showed me in her arms, means wanting things that take longer, accepting a little trouble today in exchange for tomorrow. To be a man I gaze near-sighted into the distance and — fighting always against my hoarding desires — give my today away. I constantly realize suddenly, like waking up at the wheel, that I've lost my focus yet again. As a man, such as I am, I give but I always hope not to be diminished in so doing. Life shows me here what it might mean to be a woman. Women are content, I think, to ration themselves away to the world. Women burn themselves to keep us warm. Women do not hope to have anything left when it is over, they only hope that nothing went to waste.

I don't know. I don't know. Seventeen years I've been with you and I'm still just trying to understand. I feel like I'm speeding through life with you in my arms, hugging the curves so to speak, and it's been so much more than I ever expected out of life, so much more than I thought I deserved when I was a boy. These foggy mumblings of my dim mind could never tell you more than a tiny part of how I feel at this moment, and I cannot possibly feel everything I feel for you in a single moment. I love you so much more than I am able to understand clearly, so much more than I can say. Happy Anniversary.

Love.

The End of an Era: A Short Story

In case you're interested (and you know you are) here's a photoset that chronicles my refusal to cut my hair from August 2006 through yesterday.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

A True Story of Little Consequence

Last night a fellow for whom I do a little programming work virtually begged me to spend more time on his project. It's a project on which we've been working for years. He'd really like to get it done. The guy had a few stacks of $100 bills in his briefcase. I am not making this up. It was a few thousand dollars. "Isn't there anything I can do to motivate you to do this?" he asked.

"Well," I said, sighing and wishing I didn't have to be in the uncomfortable discussion, "I have to be honest with you: The money is not really important to me. I'm just hanging in here until June for your sake, to help you out. What could motivate me? What could excite me? The only thing I can think of that I really, really, really want in life is to stop doing side work like this." It was a cruel shot to his hopes, but it was more deeply honest than anything I have said in a while, and it was cathartic. It was also funny, and even he was able to laugh at it as his heart sank.

I don't want to be cruel, I just want to be free. I can be made to feel obligated for a season, but I cannot be bought. I'm a paid volunteer, not an indentured servant.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

P. S. - Here are a couple of "hair update" photos. I call the top one my "Mufasa" look. The bottom one I think of as "Wizard Hair." Narcissistic? Me? Me? Me? Thanks for stopping by.

Rumble: A Rerun

I'm crazy busy, so here's a rerun from October of 2005. It's called Rumble:

---

Tonight's the big rumble against the Dangerous Water Animals, our rival gang, and I'm SO not ready. We're going to surprise them over by the rec center where they typically hang out on Friday night. We've got no choice, really, they put one of our guys, Diet Dr. Pepper, in the hospital. He's a good kid, and we're plenty mad about it. I'm plenty mad too, believe me, but I wish it was next weekend so I could practice some more.

Don't get me wrong, now, I'm not afraid. The day a member of the Ferocious Predatory Cats, our gang of young toughs, is afraid of the Dangerous Water Animals is a day that's never going to actually happen in this path along the time-space continuum, if you know what I mean when I say that. It's not fear of them, it's performance anxiety. I always get it before a big rumble if I feel I'm not prepared. I'm just not sure of my moves. I wish we had a chance to do one more walk-through. I DO NOT want to be the guy who messes up the whole rumble.

The plan is that we'll come in from the right, walking slowly toward the cluster of Dangerous Water Animals on the left. They'll be standing on the sidewalk or sitting either on the curb or on the stoops. I'm sure their arrangement will be well-composed. They're pretty good about that (Leather Motorcycle Gloves, our handsome gang leader, would be furious if he heard me say that.) They'll notice us and slowly stand and group up behind Smoldering Eyes, their leader. When they're all in place, Leather Motorcycle Gloves will start the snap count, and we're joining in with snaps on beats 2 and 4. He's going to snap beats 1 and 3 alone. It's a pretty cool effect. Then we switch from our normal walk to the step/slide strut. I'm good with that part. We do that for four measures and then FLARE, BACK, BACK, KICK, SLIDE SIDE (2,3,4), SLIDE FRONT (2,3,4), FLARE, BACK, BACK, KICK, FLARE, FRONT, FRONT, KICK, SLIDE BACK (2,3,4), SLIDE FRONT (2,3,4). These are our signature opening moves. I know them like I know my own tap shoes. Then, of course, we just snap for sixteen measures while they do their opening moves.

This is where I lose it. I'm just a total blank. I think Wild Cherry Cough Drop does his swirling, kicking thing at this point, but I'm not really sure. WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE TONIGHT?

I'm going to text Hot Pockets and see if he can meet me for lunch. We can grab a salad or something and then go over our moves in the park. I'll offer to buy, that'll get him there. I really don't want to call in sick for this one. Leather Motorcycle Gloves is already a little depressed about attendance. He's so hard on himself. He's a good leader, he really is. I mean, he's no Smooth Cruiser, it's true, but who is? There'll never be another Smooth Cruiser. Nevertheless, Leather Motorcycle Gloves inspires the guys and his choreography is really creative. I really don't want to let him down.

Practice, practice, practice. Come on Hot Pockets, text me back.

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Memos From the World of Dreams

I've been getting memos from the world of dreams. I file them all under "D." "D" is for "Dreams, World of." I always dance with fancy, it's just something I do. Lately, though, I've been dancing alone with fancy dancing alone nearby, always trying to engage me as I act aloof. There's a subtle difference. From a distance you might not be able to tell, but the administrative assistant for the King of Dreams notices, and he (he being the administrative assistant, not the King, you sexist) sends me memos worded strongly. "We have been most generous with you in the past, Scott," he says. "We expect you to hold up your end of the bargain." I could claim not to know what they want, but it's not true. They don't write contracts. The terms are implied, but they're very clearly implied. No one can claim not to understand. I admit this, and I'll pay my debt to whim, but I'm dancing to the tune of reality sometimes these days. It's a jerky dance, not as pretty, but we owe debts about which fancy couldn't dream, debts that dreams would not fancy. Would that we could pay Peter to rob Paul, or vice versa, but everyone watches closely and keeps immaculate books. So we dance. What else can we do? We dance.

Wisdom from funny sources: Steven Wright claims to be a peripheral visionary. Zach Galifianakis says he's addicted to cold turkey. Mitch Hedberg told a race car driver, "Man, you must really like Tide." If any of these men started a religion I would not join and I would not believe but I would attend regularly.

The difference between truth and fact is not subtle if you think about it. Fiction, if it's good, is truth without facts. News reporting? Facts without truth. The two are hardly even related. Then there are lies. Just because they didn't really happen doesn't mean they aren't true. True? I don't know.

Hello, friends. Tell me what's happening, won't you?

Love.

Worst. Post. Ever. Don't. Read.

Sometimes you fail miserably to convey what was in your head. Some things are just bad ideas. That's how I feel this morning about my Barack Obama post from yesterday. In my head? Hilarious. In actuality? Strange and disappointing. Judging from the reactions I've gotten, both in comments and emails, it just seemed to annoy most people. I'm tempted to delete it, but I don't like to delete posts. It happened. Move on.

I was actually thinking of doing a whole series of Barack Obama posts, scattered around. Barack Obama teaches kids about the importance of oral hygiene. Barack Obama shows up to teach some campers how to start a fire with two sticks. I have a supernatural vision in which the floating heads of Jesus, Buddha and Barack Obama tell me how to work through a crisis. Barack Obama, the PSA of our times. I don't know. To me it seems funny, but that's just me.

Hey! Guess what? There's snow everywhere here in North Texas. I like it. It's quite a different look for the area. You know how kids love to run in the snow and have fun? Isn't it precious? It bugs the hell out of me, to be honest with you. I'm such an aesthete that I just wish they'd leave it alone so it would look pretty until it melts. I'm curmudgeonly, I guess.

Wow. I'm just going to stop. I hate this post so much. What the hell is wrong with me this morning?

Hello, friends. Sorry. I'll try to be better on Monday.

Love.

Why I Like Barack Obama, The Real Story

Like most people, I take my blogging extremely seriously. Serious blogging, as many of you know, takes hard work. Some people assume that, because I am so talented and intelligent, I don't have to work as hard as other bloggers. This is not true. This magic doesn't just happen. I invest two or three weeks of intense study and preparation into every single post on my blog. And I don't just do this with Google and Wikipedia. No, I've always thought that using the Internet as a research source for a post on the Internet would be like forcing the Internet to marry its own sister. None of us want some crazy, inbred Internet for tomorrow with crooked, banjo teeth and ears like Prince Charles. No, I always do my blogging research from real books at real libraries. My favorite library? The Library of Congress, of course. I practically live there. That's how I got to know Barack Obama.

As most of you know, Congress takes its library very seriously. They don't staff it with just any old librarian off the street. The Library of Congress is staffed by a rotation of Senators and Representatives from Congress itself. They all take turns. Do they all enjoy it? No, some of them just do it for the prestige. Some of them can't even read. Many of them only read comic books or porn. A few, however, have a real passion for the education of the American public. Such a Senator is Barack Obama. How do I know? Let me tell you.

One grey and rainy day in Washington, DC a few months ago, I was at the LOC (that's what we call it) doing research for an upcoming post about a homeless guy who argued that life takes place entirely within a Cello case. It's a strange post and I've not yet worked out the exact wording of the second paragraph so I've no posted it yet. It's shelved for now. But, I digress.

I was there that day with Armando and Paula, two of my favorite interns (at the time) from the Caveat Emptor staff. We were sitting at our usual table with our regular stacks of encyclopedias, philosophy texts, style guides and inspirational classics of fiction scattered on the tabletop and on the floor around us. It was getting late in the day and we were getting giddy, suffering from what bloggers often call "Research Fatigue." As such, we were joking around a little too raucously for the LOC environment, though there was no one around us to be bothered by our play. Well, almost no one. There was a librarian, our least favorite, reshelving some books nearby. Had we seen her we'd have kept it down, but we didn't until it was too late. She was heading our way and she looked pissed.

"From day one of my time here you people have been coming in here, making a mess and cutting up!" she snapped, pointing an accusing finger at us. Her voice was hoarse (probably from screaming at people) and her face was red with rage. "In all my years of extensive experience I have never met a group more disrespectful and inappropriate. Shame on you! Shame on you! I've overlooked it in the past, but today I'm in no mood for this, having been woken up at 3 AM last night. I am exhausted and I am sick and tired of all this noise, so you're going to have to go! Go on, get up and get out! I don't want to hear any of your empty speeches or excuses. Get out! And don't come back!"

She literally grabbed me by the back of my collar and was pulling me up out of my chair. I couldn't believe it.

"Hey, now. What's going on here?" I heard then from nearby. It was a calm, baritone voice, friendly and warm. "Surely there's no need for all of this." Barack Obama stepped up behind her and me and put a friendly hand on each of our shoulders.

"I'm handling this, Barack Obama!" she screeched, jerking her shoulder away from him. "I'm sick and tired of these people and their disrespectful carrying on!"

"Now, Senator," Barack Obama said, soothingly, "Why don't you let me take care of this for you. You look tired. Take a break"

"You don't have what it takes to handle this!" she growled at him scornfully.

"Now, Senator," Barack Obama smiled, "I think I can work this out with my friends here. You've got a call at the front anyway. You look tired. Take a break, friend. Go take your call and let me handle this for you."

"A call? Why didn't you say so?" she snapped. She scowled at us one last time and then stormed away.

"So, what are you guys up to today?" Barack Obama asked, taking a seat at the table with us.

"Just doing a little blog research," I replied. "Thanks for that." I nodded after the retreating, angry Senator.

"No worries friend," he said, patting me on the back. "You know, I think it's great that you guys are in here taking advantage of this great library. It's your right as citizens, you know. This place and all the knowledge and wisdom in it are yours, not ours. Congress builds and staffs this library so that citizens like yourself — good citizens who take seriously the duty we all have as Americans to be an educated and thoughtful society — can have access to the information you need to transform this world."

"Wow," I said, shaking my head in wonder. "I never thought of it like that before. I might have to write a post about that."

"Feel free to use those words, friend," Barack Obama said, smiling again. "Ideas and words should be shared freely, I think. It's the only way we can get the good message of hope out to the world. We have to share it with each other."

"That's a great point, Barack Obama," Armando said.

"Thank you, my young Latino friend." Barack Obama reached across and gave Armando a light, friendly punch in the arm. "Now, I'm going to ask you guys to do me a favor," Barack Obama said, looking soberly at each of us in turn. "Can you do something for me?"

"Yes we can, Barack Obama," Paula said, blushing a little at her own enthusiasm.

"Great! Great!" Barack Obama replied. "Some people need lots of quiet to concentrate on what their reading or writing. We all have different needs and strengths and weaknesses, and some people are easily distracted by talking and noises. We want everyone's needs to be respected, don't we?"

"Of course, Barack Obama," I answered eagerly.

"I know we do!" he smiled. "So, I'm going to ask you guys — if you don't mind — to try to keep it down a little. Can you do that for me, friends?"

"Definitely," Paula whispered, beaming.

"Thank you," Barack Obama whispered in return. He winked at us and stood to go. "Have a terrific day!" he said, and then he walked away.

And that, my friends, is the true story of why I like Barack Obama.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

A Song That Is a Bird

What she always loved best about headphones was the way the world went away. It's funny how you can love the world but still sigh in relief when it goes away for a while. Love is like that sometimes. If, with the music in your ears, you close your eyes or stare into the blankness of the blackish blue sky of the early morning, you can be anywhere or nowhere. For her the sensation was, as far as she knew, like flying. She was convinced that music canceled gravity, that music conjured wind on a still day, that music moved the world. "What if birds sang long, mournful songs like whales?" she wondered aloud from her distant headphone world. "I think that would be beautiful," answered the old woman rustling through the newspaper at the next table, but she didn't hear the reply from so very far away.

It's a problem, this infinite desire for finite material. The solution is simple if you don't mind grasping your newfound wealth with bloody hands. Getting it this way is hard. Keeping it is even harder. It's a very simple solution, though. It's easy to understand. Maybe, though, we can fathom a different way. Am I the only one who finds it difficult, looking out over battlefields, to understand who won? So often, it seems to me, the victors lie twisted and broken in pools of their own triumph, victory that will forever stain every trophy the losers touch. "This is going to cost a lot more than we thought," they say, the songs of descending carrion birds casting wild shadows across their dearth of smiles.

As a creator, I'm always trying to craft some world in model that describes well what it is meant to represent. I want people to recognize the little piece of world they can hold in their minds or grasp in their hands. "Oh, this. I know this." Like a song that is a bird. A song that, when you hear it, makes you say, "Oh, right. A bird."

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

P. S. - A simile is like an insecure metaphor with reservations and disclaimers. A metaphor is a bombastic and confident simile. Don't you think so? Thanks for stopping by.

Baby Grace

Some days it's so easy to sit here and write something I like. Then there are days like today. I want to write about anything but the election. Man, I hate this election and what it's doing to my heart and mind and soul. It was SO STUPID of me to start paying attention to the thing. I know I'm not good with real life and enthusiasm and so forth. Ambivalence about real, important things is how I defend my brain from madness, and now I've let down that defense and IT'S DRIVING ME INSANE. I'm determined, however, to think about something else. I'm just going to hit enter, start the next paragraph and see what happens.

Newborn babies aren't stuck-up, they just don't know how to talk. Don't take it personally. They also are not lazy, they just can't get around on their own. Newborn babies can hardly do anything at all. Cut them some slack. However strongly you might feel the conviction that everyone should pull their own weight, you should really make an exception for newborns. They just can't pull their own weight, however tiny that weight might be. They are struck with an overabundance of youth. They have to learn the ropes. They need a little time to get their head together. Literally. So back off, asshole. They're doing the best they can. Give them a few years to enjoy their babyhood and don't judge them by the standards of adultery.

Okay. That's all I've got. Now I have to go vote. (I live in Texas.)

Hello, friends. How are you?

Love.