The thing that threw people off about Oscar--and that sometimes got him in trouble--was that, like many people who spoke English as a second language, he omitted the 's' on his plural nouns. For example, "I have three son and two daughter."
Most of the time, it wasn't a big deal, but because of his profession as a glove manufacturer, his tendency to not mark plural nouns with an s caused some funny looks, especially when he was talking about work:
"Making glove is my family business."
"It was my father who first taught me how to make glove. At first I was horrible! But he didn't give up on me. I copied his style of making glove and rose to the top of my profession. He continued to make glove every day until the day he died. Even when he had 87 year, he could still make glove like someone half his age."
To a glove maker from Italy: "You make glove like no one I have ever seen. I would be honored if you would make glove for my company. At the least, I hope you will post a video of your skill on YouTube so that all people around the world can watch you make glove. Maybe someday we make glove together, eh?
"I would gladly give up all my fortune for a chance to make glove with my father just one more time. But I can rest easy knowing I have taught my own son how to make glove just like my father once taught me."
And on and on until today when Oscar retired from glove making and passed the family business on to his son. The world is less prone to eyebrow raising statements because of it, and also a little less interesting.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
September 29 - One Week Until Retirement (Cliche Busters Volume 2)
After serving on the Los Angeles Police Department for more than 40 years, Detective John Sanford was one week away from retirement.
And he was ready.
Earlier in the week, the boys from the precinct had chipped in and gotten him a top of the line rod and reel, which he planned to put to very good use on the fishing boat he'd been neglecting for the past several years, caught up as he was chasing down dead end leads on the Speros case, the one unsolved case left on his docket--a case he planned to keep working on up until the very moment he handed in his badge and gun.
But once that day came--in just one more week--he planned to spend every moment he could on that boat, teaching his grandchildren how to fish. It was going to be glorious.
His phone rang.
"Sanford."
"Hey, old man! They still letting you answer phones around there? Ha ha!"
It was Detective Jack Maddox, his more fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants partner. Whereas Sanford was more cautious and deliberate, Maddox played by his own rules and delivered his own brand of justice to the streets of Los Angeles. Sanford was a down to earth family man. Maddox was reckless and impulsive. They were the original odd couple!
And yet over the years, their fire and ice approaches to police work had gelled, and the two had found a way to work--and thrive--together as a team. Now they were best friends in the world.
"Ha ha," Sanford laughed. "No, they haven't wheeled my old bones out of here just yet. Well, what the hell you want? I ain't got all day. You know I'm retiring at the end of the week."
It was the Speros case.
There was the possibility of a new lead. Maddox wanted to know if Sanford could check out an abandoned warehouse out by the old municipal airport. Maddox would go with him, but he was on the other side of the town, so he couldn't. Besides, it was probably nothing anyway.
Sanford checked the time. He was supposed to meet his wife for lunch, but he could squeeze a visit to the warehouse in before that.
He got up to leave, but his eye caught the pension forms on his desk--the forms that would authorize the payment of his pension and other retirement benefits to his wife in the event of his untimely death.
Wow, I really need to sign those, he thought, grabbing his pen. Otherwise, if something were to happen to me, Madge would get nothing!
Just as he was about to sign them, his phone rang.
It was Madge, and she had exciting news: Their daughter Audrey and her husband Robert were pregnant--with twins!
This is the happiest day of my life!, thought Sanford as he practically floated out the door of the precinct, leaving the unsigned pension forms on his desk.
He drove out to the old municipal airport and spied the warehouse from atop a ridge that overlooked it.
The place was dead.
There were weeds growing between cracks in the pavement. No cars. No activity of any kind. The place probably hadn't seen business in years.
Sanford decided against calling for back-up.
He drove his squad car down onto the property, got out, and walked slowly up to the metallic door. Rapped on it.
No answer.
He pulled on it, but it was locked.
"Hello?"
No answer.
He walked around to the back side of the warehouse, slowly, carefully. The midday sun left no shadows. He looked out in the distance. Power lines. Desert scrub. Emptiness.
Sanford pulled on the back door. It was locked, too.
"Hello!" he yelled again.
Still no answer.
He walked back to his car, turned his back to the warehouse, and got Maddox on the CB.
"Maddox. Sanford here. I'm out at the warehouse, but there doesn't seem to be anything going on. All the doors are locked and nobody's around."
Maddox thanked him for checking it out and apologized for having him go all the way out there on a wild goose chase.
Then Sanford told him it was all right, left the warehouse and met his wife for lunch. After lunch he went straight back to the precinct and signed his pension forms, and then retired uneventfully at the end of the week. Even though he'd never solved the Speros case, he was able to let it go. He was able to let all his police work go because retirement was so relaxing and enjoyable.
And he was ready.
Earlier in the week, the boys from the precinct had chipped in and gotten him a top of the line rod and reel, which he planned to put to very good use on the fishing boat he'd been neglecting for the past several years, caught up as he was chasing down dead end leads on the Speros case, the one unsolved case left on his docket--a case he planned to keep working on up until the very moment he handed in his badge and gun.
But once that day came--in just one more week--he planned to spend every moment he could on that boat, teaching his grandchildren how to fish. It was going to be glorious.
His phone rang.
"Sanford."
"Hey, old man! They still letting you answer phones around there? Ha ha!"
It was Detective Jack Maddox, his more fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants partner. Whereas Sanford was more cautious and deliberate, Maddox played by his own rules and delivered his own brand of justice to the streets of Los Angeles. Sanford was a down to earth family man. Maddox was reckless and impulsive. They were the original odd couple!
And yet over the years, their fire and ice approaches to police work had gelled, and the two had found a way to work--and thrive--together as a team. Now they were best friends in the world.
"Ha ha," Sanford laughed. "No, they haven't wheeled my old bones out of here just yet. Well, what the hell you want? I ain't got all day. You know I'm retiring at the end of the week."
It was the Speros case.
There was the possibility of a new lead. Maddox wanted to know if Sanford could check out an abandoned warehouse out by the old municipal airport. Maddox would go with him, but he was on the other side of the town, so he couldn't. Besides, it was probably nothing anyway.
Sanford checked the time. He was supposed to meet his wife for lunch, but he could squeeze a visit to the warehouse in before that.
He got up to leave, but his eye caught the pension forms on his desk--the forms that would authorize the payment of his pension and other retirement benefits to his wife in the event of his untimely death.
Wow, I really need to sign those, he thought, grabbing his pen. Otherwise, if something were to happen to me, Madge would get nothing!
Just as he was about to sign them, his phone rang.
It was Madge, and she had exciting news: Their daughter Audrey and her husband Robert were pregnant--with twins!
This is the happiest day of my life!, thought Sanford as he practically floated out the door of the precinct, leaving the unsigned pension forms on his desk.
He drove out to the old municipal airport and spied the warehouse from atop a ridge that overlooked it.
The place was dead.
There were weeds growing between cracks in the pavement. No cars. No activity of any kind. The place probably hadn't seen business in years.
Sanford decided against calling for back-up.
He drove his squad car down onto the property, got out, and walked slowly up to the metallic door. Rapped on it.
No answer.
He pulled on it, but it was locked.
"Hello?"
No answer.
He walked around to the back side of the warehouse, slowly, carefully. The midday sun left no shadows. He looked out in the distance. Power lines. Desert scrub. Emptiness.
Sanford pulled on the back door. It was locked, too.
"Hello!" he yelled again.
Still no answer.
He walked back to his car, turned his back to the warehouse, and got Maddox on the CB.
"Maddox. Sanford here. I'm out at the warehouse, but there doesn't seem to be anything going on. All the doors are locked and nobody's around."
Maddox thanked him for checking it out and apologized for having him go all the way out there on a wild goose chase.
Then Sanford told him it was all right, left the warehouse and met his wife for lunch. After lunch he went straight back to the precinct and signed his pension forms, and then retired uneventfully at the end of the week. Even though he'd never solved the Speros case, he was able to let it go. He was able to let all his police work go because retirement was so relaxing and enjoyable.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
September 28 - The Hobo Philharmonic
They went by a lot of names, but The Hobo Philharmonic was the one that stuck.
The most ragamuffin, ramshackle, threadbare, worn at the knees, grease-streaked, pan handling, boxcar jumping, bathtub fearing, soup-can-as-a-bowl using, bonfire building, daytime sleeping, nighttime carousing, countryside criss-crossing, train yard sleeping, red nose having, cheap wine passing, cigarette sharing, vagrancy rap sheet having collection of misfit musicians there ever was. That was the Hobo Philharmonic.
Featuring:
Knuckles Barkley banging percussion on the bumper of an old Chevy, Stew-eyed Hank blowing on a bunch of old Thunderbird bottles, Petie Two Cups thumping a banjo made out of twine and a shower rod, Jimmy the Mick plucking a Jew's harp, Shakes McCallister blowing an old vacuum cleaner like a tuba, Mike the Fish shaking a bag of glass, Wyoming Jackson pulling on a stray dog's tail, Trouble Man Paul shaking a hot water bottle, Peso Ray playing a xylophone made of old beer bottles, Knock Knock Stampers fiddling a crosscut saw, Marbles Luke squeezing an old respirator like an accordion, Loopy Murkles plucking a stand-up bass fashioned out of a bathtub and baling wire, Crimson Ty strumming a toy ukulele, Alex the Commie blowing the kazoo, Hambone Dupree making cat noises, Goose Franklin clapping shoes together, Greasy Palm Jakes rustling old newspapers, Tommy the Babyshitter playing old TV cathodes like a theremin, Cornell the Buccaneer flicking a Zippo, Sad-eyed Lou blowing his nose, Tiny Fats whistling, Charlie the Mutt clogging, Rascal Walker spitting watermelon seeds, and Chimes Bottom Feeder clearing his throat.
That was one manifestation anyway. It was never the same lineup twice.
There was no telling where or when the Hobo Philharmonic was going to play. It just happened. That's why musicologists and field recorders never managed to capture them on tape.
You could never count on the Hobo Philharmonic being in one particular place--unless you considered the rail yards of the United States one particular place.
One day it'd be blaring outside of Kansas City.
The next night it would be gone and it would stay gone until a few weeks later when it popped up on the outskirts of Albuquerque.
And then it would disappear and stay disappeared until it was spotted near Dubuque.
That was the Hobo Philharmonic.
Blues music, field hollers, the music of the rails. Show tunes by way of Tom Waits passed out drunk in the back of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Spirituals and work songs, the music of American Gypsies, howls, junkyard anthems, the baroque of the broke, desolation blues, jug band operas, tin pan alley and the Beat Generation.
Not available on iTunes.
The most ragamuffin, ramshackle, threadbare, worn at the knees, grease-streaked, pan handling, boxcar jumping, bathtub fearing, soup-can-as-a-bowl using, bonfire building, daytime sleeping, nighttime carousing, countryside criss-crossing, train yard sleeping, red nose having, cheap wine passing, cigarette sharing, vagrancy rap sheet having collection of misfit musicians there ever was. That was the Hobo Philharmonic.
Featuring:
Knuckles Barkley banging percussion on the bumper of an old Chevy, Stew-eyed Hank blowing on a bunch of old Thunderbird bottles, Petie Two Cups thumping a banjo made out of twine and a shower rod, Jimmy the Mick plucking a Jew's harp, Shakes McCallister blowing an old vacuum cleaner like a tuba, Mike the Fish shaking a bag of glass, Wyoming Jackson pulling on a stray dog's tail, Trouble Man Paul shaking a hot water bottle, Peso Ray playing a xylophone made of old beer bottles, Knock Knock Stampers fiddling a crosscut saw, Marbles Luke squeezing an old respirator like an accordion, Loopy Murkles plucking a stand-up bass fashioned out of a bathtub and baling wire, Crimson Ty strumming a toy ukulele, Alex the Commie blowing the kazoo, Hambone Dupree making cat noises, Goose Franklin clapping shoes together, Greasy Palm Jakes rustling old newspapers, Tommy the Babyshitter playing old TV cathodes like a theremin, Cornell the Buccaneer flicking a Zippo, Sad-eyed Lou blowing his nose, Tiny Fats whistling, Charlie the Mutt clogging, Rascal Walker spitting watermelon seeds, and Chimes Bottom Feeder clearing his throat.
That was one manifestation anyway. It was never the same lineup twice.
There was no telling where or when the Hobo Philharmonic was going to play. It just happened. That's why musicologists and field recorders never managed to capture them on tape.
You could never count on the Hobo Philharmonic being in one particular place--unless you considered the rail yards of the United States one particular place.
One day it'd be blaring outside of Kansas City.
The next night it would be gone and it would stay gone until a few weeks later when it popped up on the outskirts of Albuquerque.
And then it would disappear and stay disappeared until it was spotted near Dubuque.
That was the Hobo Philharmonic.
Blues music, field hollers, the music of the rails. Show tunes by way of Tom Waits passed out drunk in the back of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Spirituals and work songs, the music of American Gypsies, howls, junkyard anthems, the baroque of the broke, desolation blues, jug band operas, tin pan alley and the Beat Generation.
Not available on iTunes.
Monday, September 27, 2010
September 27 - Hellbent for Leather
There's not a whole lot that's more embarrassing and compromising than having your ex-wife's new boyfriend walk in on you while you're strutting around in their bedroom wearing her lingerie and vamping it up to Sex Bomb.
Take it from me: It's hard to come back from that, especially if said boyfriend is there with a couple of his Hell's Angels friends. And especially, especially if you cover up your naughty parts like a 1920s pinup girl and--God help me--blush.
I wasn't supposed to be there, of course. She got the house. Hell, she got everything. Plus there's that whole restraining order thing, but I always saw that as more of a suggestion than anything else. Besides, when you're "between jobs" like I am, you gotta find ways to fill the time. And what could be better than a little low grade B & E at your ex-wife's place?
What could be better? Hell, just about anything.
Fucking Hell's Angels, dude. Man those fucking guys are scary! How my ex-wife ended up with one is a question for another time. For now, suffice it say it was quite a situation. We all just stand there looking at each other for, like, hours. Meanwhile, Tom Jones is still blaring in the background and when the song (finally) ends, what do I do? I look at the guys and I'm like, "Fancy a shag?"
FYI: Not the best ice breaker in the world if you're ever in the same situation yourself.
The dudes just stare at me, and I'm like, "Austin Powers? Anyone?" And they just keep staring, possibly because they never actually say those words in that particular order in Austin Powers and so they were confused, but more likely because, Holy Christ, get a load of this freak!
And seriously, the silence just goes on and on until all of a sudden, one of the bikers is like, "Shit, hold on." And he reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a digital camera and starts snapping shots of me. Then they all take turns getting into shots with me. THEN they start making me do all these poses.
(By the way, for the record, if you ever see any of them on the Internet, there's no penetration in the shots of me with the feather duster. I'm just pinching it there, scout's honor.)
Anyway, after about 20 minutes or so of them putting me in poses and laughing their asses off, I start wondering why I was so quick to go along with their little photo shoot. I mean, they never actually threatened me. But they're bikers! I just figured the threat was assumed.
But yeah, after a while I'm like, This is bullshit. I'm done. And they're totally cool about it. I mean, yeah, they razzed me and shit, but whatevs.
Anyway, the cool part is the one who's banging (the shit out of) my ex-wife didn't even seem that bent out of shape that he'd caught me in their bedroom in his girlfriend's undies. Undies, by the way, that I don't remember her owning when we were together. You see, she was never the kind of woman who would splurge on that kind of fancy schmancy lingerie for herself. And God knows I wasn't going to shell out for it, either, so I have to assume this was the guy (sucker?) who bought it.
So yeah, on the one hand it was pretty damn embarrassing and all to be caught like that, but then again at least I'm not some jackass bankrolling lingerie fashion shows starring my girlfriend's ex-husband.
I count that as a moral victory.
Me: 1. Hell's Angels: 0
Who's laughing now, biker boy?
Take it from me: It's hard to come back from that, especially if said boyfriend is there with a couple of his Hell's Angels friends. And especially, especially if you cover up your naughty parts like a 1920s pinup girl and--God help me--blush.
I wasn't supposed to be there, of course. She got the house. Hell, she got everything. Plus there's that whole restraining order thing, but I always saw that as more of a suggestion than anything else. Besides, when you're "between jobs" like I am, you gotta find ways to fill the time. And what could be better than a little low grade B & E at your ex-wife's place?
What could be better? Hell, just about anything.
Fucking Hell's Angels, dude. Man those fucking guys are scary! How my ex-wife ended up with one is a question for another time. For now, suffice it say it was quite a situation. We all just stand there looking at each other for, like, hours. Meanwhile, Tom Jones is still blaring in the background and when the song (finally) ends, what do I do? I look at the guys and I'm like, "Fancy a shag?"
FYI: Not the best ice breaker in the world if you're ever in the same situation yourself.
The dudes just stare at me, and I'm like, "Austin Powers? Anyone?" And they just keep staring, possibly because they never actually say those words in that particular order in Austin Powers and so they were confused, but more likely because, Holy Christ, get a load of this freak!
And seriously, the silence just goes on and on until all of a sudden, one of the bikers is like, "Shit, hold on." And he reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a digital camera and starts snapping shots of me. Then they all take turns getting into shots with me. THEN they start making me do all these poses.
(By the way, for the record, if you ever see any of them on the Internet, there's no penetration in the shots of me with the feather duster. I'm just pinching it there, scout's honor.)
Anyway, after about 20 minutes or so of them putting me in poses and laughing their asses off, I start wondering why I was so quick to go along with their little photo shoot. I mean, they never actually threatened me. But they're bikers! I just figured the threat was assumed.
But yeah, after a while I'm like, This is bullshit. I'm done. And they're totally cool about it. I mean, yeah, they razzed me and shit, but whatevs.
Anyway, the cool part is the one who's banging (the shit out of) my ex-wife didn't even seem that bent out of shape that he'd caught me in their bedroom in his girlfriend's undies. Undies, by the way, that I don't remember her owning when we were together. You see, she was never the kind of woman who would splurge on that kind of fancy schmancy lingerie for herself. And God knows I wasn't going to shell out for it, either, so I have to assume this was the guy (sucker?) who bought it.
So yeah, on the one hand it was pretty damn embarrassing and all to be caught like that, but then again at least I'm not some jackass bankrolling lingerie fashion shows starring my girlfriend's ex-husband.
I count that as a moral victory.
Me: 1. Hell's Angels: 0
Who's laughing now, biker boy?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
September 26 - Barbarians at the Blood Bath
Well, gentlemen, let me be the first to say congratulations on a battle well fought. Future generations of Mixxleblurks will surely place our triumphs yesterday over the Heleglorths among the pantheon of all-time greatest victories.
There's no doubt we all stepped it up a notch today, both as individuals and--more importantly--as a group. We've really been coming together these last several rampages and I want you all to know how much I appreciate all your hard work. It's been a solid team effort.
But I would be remiss if I didn't send a special shout out to Olshraff for his truly evil axe work. Olshraff, yesterday you delivered the breakout performance we all knew you had in you. Just awesome. Well done. Everyone else? Remind me never to get on this guy's bad side! He he.
Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering why I called you here today.
Sorry, I've always wanted to say that. Ha ha.
No, but seriously, I wanted to gather all of you, my most esteemed battle mates, together today for a special kind of victory celebration that I know I've been dreaming about for a long time. And I have a feeling you have, too.
You see, we Mixxleblurks have always prided ourselves on having the best victory celebrations among any barbarian clan out there. Hell, our post-battle parties are fiercer than the battle conduct of most clans. Need I remind anyone of the bender we all went on after the Siege of Xaxilon? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about, Flythgawn!
Well today, we're going to take things to a whole new level. For today, we shall bathe in the blood of our vanquished foes! Let us savor our victory by lounging in the very life blood that was oh so recently coursing through the veins of our bitterest of enemies!
What harsher humiliation could we deliver to the Heleglorths, what greater symbol of our triumph could we devise, what louder yawp could we trumpet to one and all about our total domination of the region than to soak our battle weary bones in the blood of our slain enemies! And then let the word go forth from this time on that the same grim fate awaits any and all clans that dare to enter our beloved Motherland. We will defeat you! And then we will bathe in your blood, just as we are about to do in the case of the Heleglorths!
No, really.
When I said we will bathe in their blood, I wasn't being hyperbolic. Check it out, my brothers: the Heleglorth Blood Bath.
It took me all last night and most of today to put this baby together, but what do you think?
And before you answer, bear in mind this is a work in progress. Still a lot that needs to be done, but I think you'll like where I'm going with the design. When I'm done, I'm thinking the railing will be lined with bones, and I'm thinking about putting in a skull shrine over there by the towel rack.
But in the meantime, this puppy is up and running and open for business. And please don't ask me how long it took to fill. I'd rather not think about it, ha ha.
What's that, Talkram? Is it hygienic? Are you serious? What the hell do we care about hygiene? We're barbarians for crying out loud--although I'll admit the blood did feel a little bit, like, sticky I guess, the first time I tried it.
But whatever. As I said, we're barbarians. I mean, am I right?
So, come on! Who's with me? Last one in's a rotten egg!
What's that, Vragram? Your son's birthday party? Is that today?
Yeah, of course. I completely forgot. How old is he again? Ten!? No, that can't be. Really? Wow, they grow up so fast, don't they? Yeah, of course you should be with him today. See you next time.
But the rest of you have exactly 10 seconds to get in this tub. Let's go!
How about you, Olshraff? What do you say, Mr. MVP?
What?
Seriously?
No. Bullshit, man. There's no way you're playing the newlywed card again, my friend. Not on my watch. Come on, after a performance like yours against the Heleglorths, you've got time for a quick dip, although I must warn you: Once you get in you're not going to want to get out, he he.
No?
Not even five minutes?
Damn, man. You whipped! I can't believe this is coming from the same guy that collected 12 heads yesterday. Look at me over here. I'm all, Will the real Olshraff please stand up? Ha ha. OK lover boy, I'll give you a pass this time, but you're on my list!
OK, Flythgrawn. Looks like it's just you and me! Get your ass in that tub. I am not going to take no for an answer! Ha ha.
What? Oh, grow up. It is not "gay", I am so sure.
But if it makes you feel more comfortable, how about we go out whoring afterwards? What do you think? Nice blood soak followed by a night of whoring neither of us will ever forget? My treat. Come on, Flyth. I've never known you to turn down an offer like that, am I right? Great. It's settled then. In we go! This is going to be great.
What are you talking about, "errands"? This is the victory celebration we've been talking bout since we started out and now you've got errands? You can't be serious.
Oh for fuck's sake, Flyth. I'm not saying we sit in there all night long. I'm just saying a few minutes.
No? You're busy?
No, OK. That's fine. No. Hey, if you're busy, you're busy.
No, I'm not mad.
No, really. I'm not.
Just disappointed.
Yeah, of course we're still on for barbarian yoga this Tuesday. But if you suddenly have too many errands, do try to let me know as soon as you can, OK? You're not the only one who's busy, you know.
No, I am not going to sit in there by myself. That's just weird.
Seriously, Flyth. I'm not mad. I swear. I guess I'm just confused. I feel like things are changing around here, like I'm the only one from the old group who's really "into" this whole barbarian thing anymore.
No, Flyth. Uh uh. Don't soak just for my sake. I don't want you in there because you feel sorry for me. I want you to want to soak with me. Otherwise I'll feel like an asshole. You said you're busy. That's fine.
Really?
You really want to? You're not just saying that?
Thanks, Flyth. That really means a lot.
See, it's pretty cool, right? Just imagine how awesome it's going to be once I get those bone railings up and running.
Yeah. Now this is what barbarianism is all about. Just kicking back in a bath of our enemy's blood and basking in the glory of a hard fought victory. This is living, my friend. This is living.
Eww, did you just fart?
There's no doubt we all stepped it up a notch today, both as individuals and--more importantly--as a group. We've really been coming together these last several rampages and I want you all to know how much I appreciate all your hard work. It's been a solid team effort.
But I would be remiss if I didn't send a special shout out to Olshraff for his truly evil axe work. Olshraff, yesterday you delivered the breakout performance we all knew you had in you. Just awesome. Well done. Everyone else? Remind me never to get on this guy's bad side! He he.
Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering why I called you here today.
Sorry, I've always wanted to say that. Ha ha.
No, but seriously, I wanted to gather all of you, my most esteemed battle mates, together today for a special kind of victory celebration that I know I've been dreaming about for a long time. And I have a feeling you have, too.
You see, we Mixxleblurks have always prided ourselves on having the best victory celebrations among any barbarian clan out there. Hell, our post-battle parties are fiercer than the battle conduct of most clans. Need I remind anyone of the bender we all went on after the Siege of Xaxilon? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about, Flythgawn!
Well today, we're going to take things to a whole new level. For today, we shall bathe in the blood of our vanquished foes! Let us savor our victory by lounging in the very life blood that was oh so recently coursing through the veins of our bitterest of enemies!
What harsher humiliation could we deliver to the Heleglorths, what greater symbol of our triumph could we devise, what louder yawp could we trumpet to one and all about our total domination of the region than to soak our battle weary bones in the blood of our slain enemies! And then let the word go forth from this time on that the same grim fate awaits any and all clans that dare to enter our beloved Motherland. We will defeat you! And then we will bathe in your blood, just as we are about to do in the case of the Heleglorths!
No, really.
When I said we will bathe in their blood, I wasn't being hyperbolic. Check it out, my brothers: the Heleglorth Blood Bath.
It took me all last night and most of today to put this baby together, but what do you think?
And before you answer, bear in mind this is a work in progress. Still a lot that needs to be done, but I think you'll like where I'm going with the design. When I'm done, I'm thinking the railing will be lined with bones, and I'm thinking about putting in a skull shrine over there by the towel rack.
But in the meantime, this puppy is up and running and open for business. And please don't ask me how long it took to fill. I'd rather not think about it, ha ha.
What's that, Talkram? Is it hygienic? Are you serious? What the hell do we care about hygiene? We're barbarians for crying out loud--although I'll admit the blood did feel a little bit, like, sticky I guess, the first time I tried it.
But whatever. As I said, we're barbarians. I mean, am I right?
So, come on! Who's with me? Last one in's a rotten egg!
What's that, Vragram? Your son's birthday party? Is that today?
Yeah, of course. I completely forgot. How old is he again? Ten!? No, that can't be. Really? Wow, they grow up so fast, don't they? Yeah, of course you should be with him today. See you next time.
But the rest of you have exactly 10 seconds to get in this tub. Let's go!
How about you, Olshraff? What do you say, Mr. MVP?
What?
Seriously?
No. Bullshit, man. There's no way you're playing the newlywed card again, my friend. Not on my watch. Come on, after a performance like yours against the Heleglorths, you've got time for a quick dip, although I must warn you: Once you get in you're not going to want to get out, he he.
No?
Not even five minutes?
Damn, man. You whipped! I can't believe this is coming from the same guy that collected 12 heads yesterday. Look at me over here. I'm all, Will the real Olshraff please stand up? Ha ha. OK lover boy, I'll give you a pass this time, but you're on my list!
OK, Flythgrawn. Looks like it's just you and me! Get your ass in that tub. I am not going to take no for an answer! Ha ha.
What? Oh, grow up. It is not "gay", I am so sure.
But if it makes you feel more comfortable, how about we go out whoring afterwards? What do you think? Nice blood soak followed by a night of whoring neither of us will ever forget? My treat. Come on, Flyth. I've never known you to turn down an offer like that, am I right? Great. It's settled then. In we go! This is going to be great.
What are you talking about, "errands"? This is the victory celebration we've been talking bout since we started out and now you've got errands? You can't be serious.
Oh for fuck's sake, Flyth. I'm not saying we sit in there all night long. I'm just saying a few minutes.
No? You're busy?
No, OK. That's fine. No. Hey, if you're busy, you're busy.
No, I'm not mad.
No, really. I'm not.
Just disappointed.
Yeah, of course we're still on for barbarian yoga this Tuesday. But if you suddenly have too many errands, do try to let me know as soon as you can, OK? You're not the only one who's busy, you know.
No, I am not going to sit in there by myself. That's just weird.
Seriously, Flyth. I'm not mad. I swear. I guess I'm just confused. I feel like things are changing around here, like I'm the only one from the old group who's really "into" this whole barbarian thing anymore.
No, Flyth. Uh uh. Don't soak just for my sake. I don't want you in there because you feel sorry for me. I want you to want to soak with me. Otherwise I'll feel like an asshole. You said you're busy. That's fine.
Really?
You really want to? You're not just saying that?
Thanks, Flyth. That really means a lot.
See, it's pretty cool, right? Just imagine how awesome it's going to be once I get those bone railings up and running.
Yeah. Now this is what barbarianism is all about. Just kicking back in a bath of our enemy's blood and basking in the glory of a hard fought victory. This is living, my friend. This is living.
Eww, did you just fart?
Saturday, September 25, 2010
September 25 - The Truth About Mark
All the girls at my high school think that Mark Spears is soooo cute. But I'll bet they wouldn't think he was so hot if they knew he had gonorrhea.
Friday, September 24, 2010
September 24 - The Bear Tickler
You can say a lot of things about old Dwight Schumacher, but one thing you cannot say is that I didn't tickle me some bears in my time.
You heard me right, by the way. I said I tickle bears and that's exactly what it sounds like. Ain't no euphemism for some untoward brand of hanky panky. Bear tickling is tickling bears, plain and simple.
First question most people ask: Are bears ticklish?
The answer is yeah, but only some of them.
Second question they ask is: Ain't bear tickling more than a little dangerous?
The answer is you bet your butt it is. Shoot, every time you reach up to tickle a bear you may as well be tickling the ball sack of old Death himself (begging your pardon). Hell, I could fill a book with all the different ways a bear could express his dissatisfaction with being tickled when he weren't expecting it. Yes indeed, tickling a bear could get a man (or woman, don't want to discriminate) killed. It ain't for the faint hearted, I tell you that much.
But it is for me because here's old Dwight's philosophy: You gotta die of something. And if you ask me, there ain't a whole lot nobler and badder assed epitaph that could grace your tombstone than "Dwight Schumacher - He died like he lived: Tickling bears."
Yes sir, ask anyone who knows me. They'll tell you. Old Dwight Schumacher never let a bear tickling opportunity pass him by. Whether it was grizzlies, blacks, browns, or polars, believe you me I done tickled them all.
Hell, I even went me to China one time and tickled me a couple few of them there panda bears--in the wild and in the zoo.
I shit you not.
People always ask me, they say, Dwight, which one of them panders were harder to tickle, the ones in the wild or the ones in the zoo? And you know, for the life of me I couldn't scarcely tell you. Getting past the guards and into the cages took an awful lot of guile and subterfuge on old Shumacher's part.
But then again, wandering around the Chinese countryside and foraging on grubs and berries for days on end, just hoping I might happen to stumble upon a wild panda weren't exactly no picnic neither.
Hell, in both cases, gaining proximity to the bear--"setting up the tickle," if you will (Oh, and I do believe you will)--was far and away the hardest part. There weren't hardly a thing to the tickle itself. By the way, this here's a tickler's promise: The panda is certain to be the gentlest and most giving bears out there, every bit as cuddly and warm as you'd expect him to be.
By the way, speaking of cuddly and warm, you want to hear yourself something real surprising? By far the most vicious and pernicious bear I done ever tickled was none other than the Australian koala. Just as mean-spirited and vile as they are cute, which is to say plenty. I ain't never regretted tickling no bear ever. But the closest I ever came was the time when I tickled this one ornery koala bear down under. Cursed thing damn near ripped my finger off me.
By the way, when I say I tickled him 'down under', I'm referring, of course, to Australia.
You heard me right, by the way. I said I tickle bears and that's exactly what it sounds like. Ain't no euphemism for some untoward brand of hanky panky. Bear tickling is tickling bears, plain and simple.
First question most people ask: Are bears ticklish?
The answer is yeah, but only some of them.
Second question they ask is: Ain't bear tickling more than a little dangerous?
The answer is you bet your butt it is. Shoot, every time you reach up to tickle a bear you may as well be tickling the ball sack of old Death himself (begging your pardon). Hell, I could fill a book with all the different ways a bear could express his dissatisfaction with being tickled when he weren't expecting it. Yes indeed, tickling a bear could get a man (or woman, don't want to discriminate) killed. It ain't for the faint hearted, I tell you that much.
But it is for me because here's old Dwight's philosophy: You gotta die of something. And if you ask me, there ain't a whole lot nobler and badder assed epitaph that could grace your tombstone than "Dwight Schumacher - He died like he lived: Tickling bears."
Yes sir, ask anyone who knows me. They'll tell you. Old Dwight Schumacher never let a bear tickling opportunity pass him by. Whether it was grizzlies, blacks, browns, or polars, believe you me I done tickled them all.
Hell, I even went me to China one time and tickled me a couple few of them there panda bears--in the wild and in the zoo.
I shit you not.
People always ask me, they say, Dwight, which one of them panders were harder to tickle, the ones in the wild or the ones in the zoo? And you know, for the life of me I couldn't scarcely tell you. Getting past the guards and into the cages took an awful lot of guile and subterfuge on old Shumacher's part.
But then again, wandering around the Chinese countryside and foraging on grubs and berries for days on end, just hoping I might happen to stumble upon a wild panda weren't exactly no picnic neither.
Hell, in both cases, gaining proximity to the bear--"setting up the tickle," if you will (Oh, and I do believe you will)--was far and away the hardest part. There weren't hardly a thing to the tickle itself. By the way, this here's a tickler's promise: The panda is certain to be the gentlest and most giving bears out there, every bit as cuddly and warm as you'd expect him to be.
By the way, speaking of cuddly and warm, you want to hear yourself something real surprising? By far the most vicious and pernicious bear I done ever tickled was none other than the Australian koala. Just as mean-spirited and vile as they are cute, which is to say plenty. I ain't never regretted tickling no bear ever. But the closest I ever came was the time when I tickled this one ornery koala bear down under. Cursed thing damn near ripped my finger off me.
By the way, when I say I tickled him 'down under', I'm referring, of course, to Australia.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
September 23 - Mr. Herbert
Mr. Herbert, the seventh grade science teacher of the Coxville School for Boys, always dreaded teaching the unit about sperm whales.
It was impossible for him to keep the boys' attention. All they did was giggle and say 'sperm' under their breath for the whole lesson. Total waste of time.
Why it was even in the curriculum was beyond him. There had to be dozens of whales in the world. Why did he have to teach seventh grade boys about the sperm whale? And come to that, why the hell was it even called the sperm whale? How did that name ever make it past committee? he would ask the other science teachers over coffee in the teachers' lounge.
Not that the boys' giggling bouts were limited to hearing about the sperm whale. Any word could set them off, it just had to sound dirty: rector, masticate, syllogism, heaving, Balzac, dangling participle, swashbuckler, jocular, enter, kumquat, rimshot, Bangkok, peacock, coxswain, thrombosis, stroganoff, Uranus. The list went on and on.
But sperm whale was the worst. In fact, it was so bad that when Mr. Herbert found out about an opening in the English department, he jumped on it and left his beloved science teaching behind.
The class was on local folklore, and the first story in the curriculum was about celebrated local turkey chef Richard "Dickie" Johnson. His claim to fame was managing to baste more than 100 turkeys at a time, earning him the accolade that served as the title of the first story Mr. Herbert would have to teach: Dickie Johnson: The Legendary Master Baster of Greater Coxville.
Mr. Herbert applied to teach math the following year.
It was impossible for him to keep the boys' attention. All they did was giggle and say 'sperm' under their breath for the whole lesson. Total waste of time.
Why it was even in the curriculum was beyond him. There had to be dozens of whales in the world. Why did he have to teach seventh grade boys about the sperm whale? And come to that, why the hell was it even called the sperm whale? How did that name ever make it past committee? he would ask the other science teachers over coffee in the teachers' lounge.
Not that the boys' giggling bouts were limited to hearing about the sperm whale. Any word could set them off, it just had to sound dirty: rector, masticate, syllogism, heaving, Balzac, dangling participle, swashbuckler, jocular, enter, kumquat, rimshot, Bangkok, peacock, coxswain, thrombosis, stroganoff, Uranus. The list went on and on.
But sperm whale was the worst. In fact, it was so bad that when Mr. Herbert found out about an opening in the English department, he jumped on it and left his beloved science teaching behind.
The class was on local folklore, and the first story in the curriculum was about celebrated local turkey chef Richard "Dickie" Johnson. His claim to fame was managing to baste more than 100 turkeys at a time, earning him the accolade that served as the title of the first story Mr. Herbert would have to teach: Dickie Johnson: The Legendary Master Baster of Greater Coxville.
Mr. Herbert applied to teach math the following year.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
September 22 - Same Page, Different Book
Here we are.
Alone at last.
Turn the lights down low.
No, not off. Low.
Yeah.
Nope, too bright again. We're going for ambiance here. Mood, romance, you know?
A little darker.
A teensy bit more.
There.
OK.
Come here.
No.
Wait.
Start this song over again. Yeah, that's it.
No, wait.
Actually, just start the whole album again, only--sorry--but could you program it to skip song 2? Don't get me wrong, it's a good song and all, but it's so not the vibe we're going for here.
Actually, here: This is the song order I want: 1, 3, 4, 6 - 9, 1 again, and then 10 - 13. That's the ideal track order for this night.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Oh God.
I want you so bad.
Turn the volume down just a hair.
Yeah.
Yeah, that's it.
Now.
Undress.
Slowly.
Not in slow motion, slowly.
Yes, it matters. It's so much sexier if you do it slowly.
Also, you don't have to look at me the whole time, you know.
I didn't mean look at the floor. Look at me, but don't stare.
And also, a smile wouldn't go unappreciated.
OK, that's more of a grin and it too is creeping me out. If you could bring it down a notch that would be great.
OK, one more notch.
Yes.
Yes.
Right there.
Oh, yeah.
OK, now, off with the pants--don't forget: slowly.
Oh yeah.
Oh ye--OK, I'm positive that you are not wearing tighty whities.
Tell me you are not wearing tighty whities on date night.
No, don't get mad. I'm just saying, it's date night. I don't know, try a little? Maybe?
No, don't change. Just try to remember for next time, OK?
OK.
As you were.
Yeah.
Oh, yeah.
Now, get your sexy ass in this bed.
Oh yeah, here we go.
Oh my God, yeah.
Mmm.
Wait.
Sorry, but really quick: You remember the safe word, right?
Need a clue?
One of the 50 states? Starts with D and kind of sounds like underwear?
D-
E-
L-
-aware.
Delaware.
The safe word.
Delaware.
Don't roll your eyes at me. Yes, I like having a safe word--even during conventional sex, which, again, is exactly and exclusively what we're having.
Oh! That reminds me. Have you signed the consent forms? Great. Do you have them with you? Yes, all three of them. I want to make sure everything is all set before we start.
What do you mean you left one of them at the office? Here we are, we finally have everything in place, and now you're telling me you left one of the forms at the office?
Just forget it.
Turn on the lights.
Look.
This was supposed to be your fantasy night.
Well, here we are, only I feel like I'm the only one who's in the spirit: being super particular about the lights, making sure we get the music exactly right, micromanaging your wardrobe, coaching you on how you undress, triple checking the safe word, making up these ridiculous consent forms?
You said you wanted anal sex. Honestly, I don't know how much more anal a girl can get.
Alone at last.
Turn the lights down low.
No, not off. Low.
Yeah.
Nope, too bright again. We're going for ambiance here. Mood, romance, you know?
A little darker.
A teensy bit more.
There.
OK.
Come here.
No.
Wait.
Start this song over again. Yeah, that's it.
No, wait.
Actually, just start the whole album again, only--sorry--but could you program it to skip song 2? Don't get me wrong, it's a good song and all, but it's so not the vibe we're going for here.
Actually, here: This is the song order I want: 1, 3, 4, 6 - 9, 1 again, and then 10 - 13. That's the ideal track order for this night.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Oh God.
I want you so bad.
Turn the volume down just a hair.
Yeah.
Yeah, that's it.
Now.
Undress.
Slowly.
Not in slow motion, slowly.
Yes, it matters. It's so much sexier if you do it slowly.
Also, you don't have to look at me the whole time, you know.
I didn't mean look at the floor. Look at me, but don't stare.
And also, a smile wouldn't go unappreciated.
OK, that's more of a grin and it too is creeping me out. If you could bring it down a notch that would be great.
OK, one more notch.
Yes.
Yes.
Right there.
Oh, yeah.
OK, now, off with the pants--don't forget: slowly.
Oh yeah.
Oh ye--OK, I'm positive that you are not wearing tighty whities.
Tell me you are not wearing tighty whities on date night.
No, don't get mad. I'm just saying, it's date night. I don't know, try a little? Maybe?
No, don't change. Just try to remember for next time, OK?
OK.
As you were.
Yeah.
Oh, yeah.
Now, get your sexy ass in this bed.
Oh yeah, here we go.
Oh my God, yeah.
Mmm.
Wait.
Sorry, but really quick: You remember the safe word, right?
Need a clue?
One of the 50 states? Starts with D and kind of sounds like underwear?
D-
E-
L-
-aware.
Delaware.
The safe word.
Delaware.
Don't roll your eyes at me. Yes, I like having a safe word--even during conventional sex, which, again, is exactly and exclusively what we're having.
Oh! That reminds me. Have you signed the consent forms? Great. Do you have them with you? Yes, all three of them. I want to make sure everything is all set before we start.
What do you mean you left one of them at the office? Here we are, we finally have everything in place, and now you're telling me you left one of the forms at the office?
Just forget it.
Turn on the lights.
Look.
This was supposed to be your fantasy night.
Well, here we are, only I feel like I'm the only one who's in the spirit: being super particular about the lights, making sure we get the music exactly right, micromanaging your wardrobe, coaching you on how you undress, triple checking the safe word, making up these ridiculous consent forms?
You said you wanted anal sex. Honestly, I don't know how much more anal a girl can get.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
September 21 - You Lameass!
Dude, you're such a lameass.
Hey, guess what lameass: I just saw the five day forecast for you. Everyday's the same: 100% chance of lame.
I'll bet you really like Burger King, right? Just can't get enough of those lame-broiled burgers, can you, you fucking lame-o.
If you looked up lame in the dictionary, that would be pretty typical behavior for you because it's such a lame thing to do.
If they were giving away prizes for being lame you wouldn't get one because that's how lame you are.
The other day I was doing a little "back door work" on Carly Simon, and she gave me this note to give you. It says, 'You're so lame. I bet you think this note is about you. And it is because you're such a fucking lameass, lameass.'
I'll be that if you ever visited Thailand, people wouldn't say, 'same, same.' They'd be all 'lame, lame.'
Hey, did you hear the Bangles just recorded a new single? Yeah, and it's dedicated to you. It's called Eternal Lame.
You've got 99 problems and being lame is all of them.
You're such a lameass, you're still reading this.
Piss off, lame-o. I'm done with you.
Hey, guess what lameass: I just saw the five day forecast for you. Everyday's the same: 100% chance of lame.
I'll bet you really like Burger King, right? Just can't get enough of those lame-broiled burgers, can you, you fucking lame-o.
If you looked up lame in the dictionary, that would be pretty typical behavior for you because it's such a lame thing to do.
If they were giving away prizes for being lame you wouldn't get one because that's how lame you are.
The other day I was doing a little "back door work" on Carly Simon, and she gave me this note to give you. It says, 'You're so lame. I bet you think this note is about you. And it is because you're such a fucking lameass, lameass.'
I'll be that if you ever visited Thailand, people wouldn't say, 'same, same.' They'd be all 'lame, lame.'
Hey, did you hear the Bangles just recorded a new single? Yeah, and it's dedicated to you. It's called Eternal Lame.
You've got 99 problems and being lame is all of them.
You're such a lameass, you're still reading this.
Piss off, lame-o. I'm done with you.
Monday, September 20, 2010
September 20 - The Bubble Wrap Guy
Dude, check it out. This guy's made of bubble wrap.
Whoah!
Look, you can pop him.
(pop, pop, pop)
Here, let me see.
(pop, pop, pop)
Ha ha. Cool.
(pop, pop, pop)
What's that inside him?
Where?
There. In the middle.
I don't see--Oh, there. I don't know.
That is the essence of the earth's life giving force.
Whoah! He can talk?!
What the--
Yes, I can talk. Just because I'm made of plastic bubble wrap doesn't mean I can't talk. Ha ha.
(pop, pop, pop)
Dude, cut it out.
Oh, right.
(pop)
Does that hurt?
It doesn't hurt me, but--
Sweet!
(pop, pop, pop)
But it does--
(pop, pop, pop)
Ha ha.
(pop, pop, pop)
Dude, twist his arm. It sounds like popcorn!
(pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop)
Awesome!
Wait . . . Wait!
(pop, pop)
Sorry.
I wasn't finished.
Sorry.
OK. Now like I was saying, it doesn't hurt me when you pop my bubbles, but--
(pop)
My bad.
But the more bubbles of mine that you pop, the harder it becomes for me to protect the essence of the earth's life giving force. That's what's inside me. That's what my bubbles are protecting.
Hmm . . .
(pop)
Ha ha. Yes, that's it. Go right ahead. Pop all the bubbles you want, but they won't come back. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not ever. And--
(pop, pop)
--And once they're gone there will be nothing left to protect the essence of the earth's life giving force.
I don't get it.
(pop, pop, pop)
My bubbles--the ones you're popping right now as we speak, ha ha--are the only thing that can protect the essence--
--of the earth's life giving force. Yeah, I get that part. But like . . . I don't get it. Like, should we stop?
The decision is yours.
(pop, pop)
But if we pop them all right now, it's no big deal?
Well, I wouldn't say that. After all, if you pop them all today, there will be nothing left for tomorrow.
Oh, NOW I get it. We should space it out so we can enjoy it longer. Pop a few today, a few tomorrow, the next day. That kind of thing. Stretch it out.
Well, that is one possibility. But the end is still the same. The essence of the earth's--
(pop, pop, pop)
--life giving--
(pop, pop)
--force will be--
(pop, pop, pop)
--unprotected.
(pop, pop, pop)
Oh, for God's sake. Do I have to spell it out for you? I'm a metaphor for your overindulgent lifestyles. By blithely engaging in such destructive and short-sighted pleasures, you destroy me and my ability to sustain life on this planet!
(pop, pop)
Wait. What? You're what?
I'm a metaphor.
You're just a metaphor?
Well, I wouldn't say I'm JUST a metaphor
(singing) I'm just a metaphor, and everywhere I go . .
Shut up.
Sorry.
OK. So we can do whatever, right? Like, if we want to take you home and take care of you, we can do that.
Yes.
But if we want to pop all your bubbles right now we can do that too.
Yes.
Sweet! Here, grab his arms and I'll grab his legs.
OK.
And now twist him this way and I'll twist him that way.
Like this?
But--
Yeah. Ready?
Yeah.
Go!
(pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop)
Oh, crap. We ripped him.
Oh, shit.
There's the "essence of the earth's life giving force." Duh duh DUH!
Ha ha. Eww, don't touch it.
Dude, it smells like strawberry jam.
Don't, dude. Gross!
Dude, taste it. It's really good.
Shut up.
Seriously, dude. Try it.
OK, God. . . . Oh my God! What is that shit?
The essence of the earth's life giving force.
Shut up.
Either that or the sickest strawberry jam ev-ah!.
Whatever it is, it's freaking good.
WAS good. Now it's gone.
Crap, you're right.
Maybe he has some friends.
Yeah.
Here, you check around here. I'll go over there.
OK.
Mr. Bubble Wrap Guy! Here Mr. Bubble Wrap Guy! Come here, boy!
Ha ha.
Whoah!
Look, you can pop him.
(pop, pop, pop)
Here, let me see.
(pop, pop, pop)
Ha ha. Cool.
(pop, pop, pop)
What's that inside him?
Where?
There. In the middle.
I don't see--Oh, there. I don't know.
That is the essence of the earth's life giving force.
Whoah! He can talk?!
What the--
Yes, I can talk. Just because I'm made of plastic bubble wrap doesn't mean I can't talk. Ha ha.
(pop, pop, pop)
Dude, cut it out.
Oh, right.
(pop)
Does that hurt?
It doesn't hurt me, but--
Sweet!
(pop, pop, pop)
But it does--
(pop, pop, pop)
Ha ha.
(pop, pop, pop)
Dude, twist his arm. It sounds like popcorn!
(pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop)
Awesome!
Wait . . . Wait!
(pop, pop)
Sorry.
I wasn't finished.
Sorry.
OK. Now like I was saying, it doesn't hurt me when you pop my bubbles, but--
(pop)
My bad.
But the more bubbles of mine that you pop, the harder it becomes for me to protect the essence of the earth's life giving force. That's what's inside me. That's what my bubbles are protecting.
Hmm . . .
(pop)
Ha ha. Yes, that's it. Go right ahead. Pop all the bubbles you want, but they won't come back. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not ever. And--
(pop, pop)
--And once they're gone there will be nothing left to protect the essence of the earth's life giving force.
I don't get it.
(pop, pop, pop)
My bubbles--the ones you're popping right now as we speak, ha ha--are the only thing that can protect the essence--
--of the earth's life giving force. Yeah, I get that part. But like . . . I don't get it. Like, should we stop?
The decision is yours.
(pop, pop)
But if we pop them all right now, it's no big deal?
Well, I wouldn't say that. After all, if you pop them all today, there will be nothing left for tomorrow.
Oh, NOW I get it. We should space it out so we can enjoy it longer. Pop a few today, a few tomorrow, the next day. That kind of thing. Stretch it out.
Well, that is one possibility. But the end is still the same. The essence of the earth's--
(pop, pop, pop)
--life giving--
(pop, pop)
--force will be--
(pop, pop, pop)
--unprotected.
(pop, pop, pop)
Oh, for God's sake. Do I have to spell it out for you? I'm a metaphor for your overindulgent lifestyles. By blithely engaging in such destructive and short-sighted pleasures, you destroy me and my ability to sustain life on this planet!
(pop, pop)
Wait. What? You're what?
I'm a metaphor.
You're just a metaphor?
Well, I wouldn't say I'm JUST a metaphor
(singing) I'm just a metaphor, and everywhere I go . .
Shut up.
Sorry.
OK. So we can do whatever, right? Like, if we want to take you home and take care of you, we can do that.
Yes.
But if we want to pop all your bubbles right now we can do that too.
Yes.
Sweet! Here, grab his arms and I'll grab his legs.
OK.
And now twist him this way and I'll twist him that way.
Like this?
But--
Yeah. Ready?
Yeah.
Go!
(pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop)
Oh, crap. We ripped him.
Oh, shit.
There's the "essence of the earth's life giving force." Duh duh DUH!
Ha ha. Eww, don't touch it.
Dude, it smells like strawberry jam.
Don't, dude. Gross!
Dude, taste it. It's really good.
Shut up.
Seriously, dude. Try it.
OK, God. . . . Oh my God! What is that shit?
The essence of the earth's life giving force.
Shut up.
Either that or the sickest strawberry jam ev-ah!.
Whatever it is, it's freaking good.
WAS good. Now it's gone.
Crap, you're right.
Maybe he has some friends.
Yeah.
Here, you check around here. I'll go over there.
OK.
Mr. Bubble Wrap Guy! Here Mr. Bubble Wrap Guy! Come here, boy!
Ha ha.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
September 19 - Esmeralda the Giantess
Esmeralda Vandelis was a 15-foot-tall giantess who lived with her (normal-sized) husband Pedro in a dilapidated cottage overlooking the Vandelis Vineyards outside the Spanish village of Santa Terreno.
She was a big and bulky woman. Beefy and lumbering. She had hairy arms, hairy legs, and a bit of a beard. At least that's what all the children in Santa Terreno swore. They never got close enough to her to be sure. The nearest they ever got to her was on the days when they would dare each other to go up the hill to Vandelis Vineyards, step onto the property, and touch the front door.
No one ever made it all the way to the door.
Any time she saw children anywhere near the cottage, she would pick up a rock the size of a beanbag chair and heave it at them. She got pretty close a couple of times--according to the children who all called her the Queen Gorilla.
Esmeralda hadn't left Vandelis Vineyards for as long as anyone could remember. People said that whenever she used to come to town, the cows in neighboring farms would stop giving milk and the chickens would stop laying eggs. Flowers would wilt, crops would wither, children would cry. It got to the point where if anyone caught a glimpse of her coming to town, everyone would run inside, shutter their windows and slam their doors, and wait for her to go away.
And she may have been big, but she wasn't stupid. She knew she wasn't wanted. And since she didn't much care for people anyway, she was content to stay at the vineyards and make wine, and that was that.
Every day Esmeralda and Pedro would go out into the vineyards to pick grapes that Esmeralda would then stomp into oblivion. Her formidable weight and the extra oomph she put into the task made for a far more thorough stomping and thus a much more flavorful and robust wine. It was by far the most popular wine in Santa Terreno.
Esmeralda made it, and Pedro sold it.
Every Friday morning Pedro loaded two casks of wine onto his loyal mule Guapito and took them to Santa Terreno to sell.
Every Friday night after selling all the wine he would stop by El Corazon Peligroso for one quick drink. And then one drink would become another and then many more for both Pedro and his loyal mule Guapito and then suddenly Pedro would realize how late it had become and hurry back home.
She was always up waiting for him and the scene was never pretty.
He would apologize for being so late, and offer her the bag of coins he made from selling the wine, and it was never as heavy as it should have been because at least half of it had been blown at El Corazon Peligroso earlier that night. There would be yelling, apologies, and promises to never do it again.
Then he would go inside, sleep it off, and go through the same routine again the next day.
And so it went for months, years.
Until one late summer Friday night when Pedro came running up to their cottage, hyperventilating.
There had been an accident.
On their way home from El Corazon Peligroso (drunk as usual), Pedro and Guapito had stumbled in front of a wagon. To avoid hitting them, the driver of the wagon had swerved suddenly and the wagon toppled over. Pedro was hysterical. He wasn't sure how bad the scene was, but it looked pretty serious.
"Calm!"
Esmeralda slapped Pedro and he stopped crying. Then she put him on her shoulders and quickly followed his directions to where the accident had taken place. There she saw the wreckage of the wagon, two horses nursing their wounds, and Guapito passed out drunk under an olive tree.
She picked up the wagon and turned it over like it was a toy. Underneath where the wagon had been, the driver and his wife lay unconscious. Esmeralda reached down to pick them up but then heard crying from nearby.
A baby.
It had been thrown from the wagon and landed in a bed of clovers. There was a small nick on his forehead, but other than that he appeared to be OK. He clucked once, turned his head to the side, and fell asleep.
Esmeralda went back over to the wagon, and put the driver over one shoulder and his wife over the other. Then she went back and picked up the baby, cupped him gently in her enormous meaty hand, and started jogging toward Santa Terreno. Pedro stumbled behind her in the dark. Guapito continued to sleep.
She went to the doctor's house and nearly kicked down the door.
"Accident!" she barked when he answered the door.
After the doctor recovered from the shock of seeing the 15-foot-tall Esmeralda (he'd heard the stories about her, of course, but assumed (erroneously, as it turned out) that they were exaggerations), he set about tending to the family of three.
The man and his wife were the worst off, so the doctor focused on them while Esmeralda watched over the baby who delighted in pulling the hairs of her beard.
More help was summoned.
The police came and questioned Pedro about what had happened. Pedro started off using the same tone he would use when lying to Esmeralda. She glared at him.
"Truth!"
The baby giggled at her husky voice and Pedro contritely told the police that it was he who had caused the accident.
The doctor and his helpers continued to work on the man and woman, and their baby fell asleep in Esmeralda's gigantic hand.
When the sun came up the next morning, the man and woman were still in critical condition, Pedro was in jail, and nobody seemed to know what to do with the baby while his parents remained under the doctor's care. However, after seeing how safe, comfortable, and serene he looked under Esmeralda's care--and how protective Esmeralda was of him--everyone agreed that it would be best if she looked after the child until her parents' condition improved or until his other relatives could be located.
It took a long time.
The boy's parents remained unconscious for more than three weeks, and all the while Esmeralda looked after him at Vandelis Vineyards. She fed him formula made from an old family recipe, entertained him by juggling baby sheep in front of him, let him help her squash the grapes for the wine, and gave him the most amazing piggyback rides imaginable.
By the time his parents awoke, such a bond had been forged between the boy (Marco) and Esmeralda that he cried inconsolably when they took him away from her.
Like most people, Marco's parents were initially terrified of Esmeralda when they first encountered her, but they were also grateful for everything she had done for them. Moreover, they could see how attached to Esmeralda Marco had become. So much so that although they had been moving to the next village down the road when the accident occurred, they decided to stay in Santa Terreno instead so that Marco could be near his giant friend. They cautiously asked Esmeralda if it would be OK if Marco came to play with her occasionally.
"OK!" she grunted and almost managed a smile.
Following the example set by Marco and his parents, everyone else in Santa Terreno gradually warmed up to Esmeralda, and she to them. Over the years, she began accepting more and more visitors to Vandelis Vineyards, and ventured more and more frequently into Santa Terreno, first on wine deliveries and later on social calls. In time, the sight of the 15-foot-tall Esmeralda became a normal, everyday occurrence in Santa Terreno.
Although Pedro was eventually released from jail and quit drinking, Esmeralda decided to continue being the sole delivery person for Vandelis Vineyards while he mostly stayed around the vineyards and worked on trying to be a better husband.
Guapito also quit drinking.
In time, Esmeralda was in town nearly every day to deliver the non-alcoholic grape juice that she'd developed and that had become such a hit with all the kids in Marco's school.
All of them now called her Big Juicy Mama instead of Queen Gorilla. All of them except Marco who called her Aunt Esmeralda.
She was a big and bulky woman. Beefy and lumbering. She had hairy arms, hairy legs, and a bit of a beard. At least that's what all the children in Santa Terreno swore. They never got close enough to her to be sure. The nearest they ever got to her was on the days when they would dare each other to go up the hill to Vandelis Vineyards, step onto the property, and touch the front door.
No one ever made it all the way to the door.
Any time she saw children anywhere near the cottage, she would pick up a rock the size of a beanbag chair and heave it at them. She got pretty close a couple of times--according to the children who all called her the Queen Gorilla.
Esmeralda hadn't left Vandelis Vineyards for as long as anyone could remember. People said that whenever she used to come to town, the cows in neighboring farms would stop giving milk and the chickens would stop laying eggs. Flowers would wilt, crops would wither, children would cry. It got to the point where if anyone caught a glimpse of her coming to town, everyone would run inside, shutter their windows and slam their doors, and wait for her to go away.
And she may have been big, but she wasn't stupid. She knew she wasn't wanted. And since she didn't much care for people anyway, she was content to stay at the vineyards and make wine, and that was that.
Every day Esmeralda and Pedro would go out into the vineyards to pick grapes that Esmeralda would then stomp into oblivion. Her formidable weight and the extra oomph she put into the task made for a far more thorough stomping and thus a much more flavorful and robust wine. It was by far the most popular wine in Santa Terreno.
Esmeralda made it, and Pedro sold it.
Every Friday morning Pedro loaded two casks of wine onto his loyal mule Guapito and took them to Santa Terreno to sell.
Every Friday night after selling all the wine he would stop by El Corazon Peligroso for one quick drink. And then one drink would become another and then many more for both Pedro and his loyal mule Guapito and then suddenly Pedro would realize how late it had become and hurry back home.
She was always up waiting for him and the scene was never pretty.
He would apologize for being so late, and offer her the bag of coins he made from selling the wine, and it was never as heavy as it should have been because at least half of it had been blown at El Corazon Peligroso earlier that night. There would be yelling, apologies, and promises to never do it again.
Then he would go inside, sleep it off, and go through the same routine again the next day.
And so it went for months, years.
Until one late summer Friday night when Pedro came running up to their cottage, hyperventilating.
There had been an accident.
On their way home from El Corazon Peligroso (drunk as usual), Pedro and Guapito had stumbled in front of a wagon. To avoid hitting them, the driver of the wagon had swerved suddenly and the wagon toppled over. Pedro was hysterical. He wasn't sure how bad the scene was, but it looked pretty serious.
"Calm!"
Esmeralda slapped Pedro and he stopped crying. Then she put him on her shoulders and quickly followed his directions to where the accident had taken place. There she saw the wreckage of the wagon, two horses nursing their wounds, and Guapito passed out drunk under an olive tree.
She picked up the wagon and turned it over like it was a toy. Underneath where the wagon had been, the driver and his wife lay unconscious. Esmeralda reached down to pick them up but then heard crying from nearby.
A baby.
It had been thrown from the wagon and landed in a bed of clovers. There was a small nick on his forehead, but other than that he appeared to be OK. He clucked once, turned his head to the side, and fell asleep.
Esmeralda went back over to the wagon, and put the driver over one shoulder and his wife over the other. Then she went back and picked up the baby, cupped him gently in her enormous meaty hand, and started jogging toward Santa Terreno. Pedro stumbled behind her in the dark. Guapito continued to sleep.
She went to the doctor's house and nearly kicked down the door.
"Accident!" she barked when he answered the door.
After the doctor recovered from the shock of seeing the 15-foot-tall Esmeralda (he'd heard the stories about her, of course, but assumed (erroneously, as it turned out) that they were exaggerations), he set about tending to the family of three.
The man and his wife were the worst off, so the doctor focused on them while Esmeralda watched over the baby who delighted in pulling the hairs of her beard.
More help was summoned.
The police came and questioned Pedro about what had happened. Pedro started off using the same tone he would use when lying to Esmeralda. She glared at him.
"Truth!"
The baby giggled at her husky voice and Pedro contritely told the police that it was he who had caused the accident.
The doctor and his helpers continued to work on the man and woman, and their baby fell asleep in Esmeralda's gigantic hand.
When the sun came up the next morning, the man and woman were still in critical condition, Pedro was in jail, and nobody seemed to know what to do with the baby while his parents remained under the doctor's care. However, after seeing how safe, comfortable, and serene he looked under Esmeralda's care--and how protective Esmeralda was of him--everyone agreed that it would be best if she looked after the child until her parents' condition improved or until his other relatives could be located.
It took a long time.
The boy's parents remained unconscious for more than three weeks, and all the while Esmeralda looked after him at Vandelis Vineyards. She fed him formula made from an old family recipe, entertained him by juggling baby sheep in front of him, let him help her squash the grapes for the wine, and gave him the most amazing piggyback rides imaginable.
By the time his parents awoke, such a bond had been forged between the boy (Marco) and Esmeralda that he cried inconsolably when they took him away from her.
Like most people, Marco's parents were initially terrified of Esmeralda when they first encountered her, but they were also grateful for everything she had done for them. Moreover, they could see how attached to Esmeralda Marco had become. So much so that although they had been moving to the next village down the road when the accident occurred, they decided to stay in Santa Terreno instead so that Marco could be near his giant friend. They cautiously asked Esmeralda if it would be OK if Marco came to play with her occasionally.
"OK!" she grunted and almost managed a smile.
Following the example set by Marco and his parents, everyone else in Santa Terreno gradually warmed up to Esmeralda, and she to them. Over the years, she began accepting more and more visitors to Vandelis Vineyards, and ventured more and more frequently into Santa Terreno, first on wine deliveries and later on social calls. In time, the sight of the 15-foot-tall Esmeralda became a normal, everyday occurrence in Santa Terreno.
Although Pedro was eventually released from jail and quit drinking, Esmeralda decided to continue being the sole delivery person for Vandelis Vineyards while he mostly stayed around the vineyards and worked on trying to be a better husband.
Guapito also quit drinking.
In time, Esmeralda was in town nearly every day to deliver the non-alcoholic grape juice that she'd developed and that had become such a hit with all the kids in Marco's school.
All of them now called her Big Juicy Mama instead of Queen Gorilla. All of them except Marco who called her Aunt Esmeralda.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
September 18 - Roach
All it takes is one. Just the sight of one cockroach and you can be sure your whole house is infested.
You pick up a box that's been sitting in the corner, and a cockroach scurries out from underneath it and runs right between your legs, but you're barefoot so you don't step on him. Instead you jump, you actually jump, because it shocks the hell out of you because you were absolutely not expecting to see a cockroach, because you don't have them, except you do, you have one, and it's running along the wall looking for a crack to escape into, and your eyes are jerking around the room looking for something--a book, a shoe, anything to kill the damn thing with but by the time you find something it's gone.
But if there's one there's more than one. And if there's more than one then God knows how many there really are, but you've got a good imagination, so the rest of the time you spend in this house should be a lot of fun. Just think of all the places they could be! The silverware drawer, under the fridge, in your shoes, under your kid's pillow, the sock drawer, your closet, the drain of your tub, just inside the bathroom faucet so when you turn it on the water forces it out into the sink where his slippery legs try to scramble up and out of the porcelain basin but it keeps slipping and sliding back down so you'll have to kill it right there, but with the awkward angle it's hard to give it a good solid whack with a shoe or something so you'll have to ball up some paper towels and smush it with your hand. The cupboards, the pantry. Hell, all over the kitchen. They can't get into open cereal boxes, can they? The bathroom. Stowing away in your bath towels, climbing over your family's toothbrushes while you sleep, hiding behind the toilet and waiting for you to let your guard down so they can scurry out and run across your bare feet.
Clean your house. A lot. Set some traps if it'll make you feel better. Call an exterminator. Eat standing up and burn any leftovers. Don't ever leave out anything edible. Don't let your guard down. And even still, don't doubt for a second that no matter what you do, no matter what measures you take, no matter how thorough your efforts are, your place is always going to be absolutely crawling with cockroaches. You may not see them, but they're there.
All it takes is one.
You pick up a box that's been sitting in the corner, and a cockroach scurries out from underneath it and runs right between your legs, but you're barefoot so you don't step on him. Instead you jump, you actually jump, because it shocks the hell out of you because you were absolutely not expecting to see a cockroach, because you don't have them, except you do, you have one, and it's running along the wall looking for a crack to escape into, and your eyes are jerking around the room looking for something--a book, a shoe, anything to kill the damn thing with but by the time you find something it's gone.
But if there's one there's more than one. And if there's more than one then God knows how many there really are, but you've got a good imagination, so the rest of the time you spend in this house should be a lot of fun. Just think of all the places they could be! The silverware drawer, under the fridge, in your shoes, under your kid's pillow, the sock drawer, your closet, the drain of your tub, just inside the bathroom faucet so when you turn it on the water forces it out into the sink where his slippery legs try to scramble up and out of the porcelain basin but it keeps slipping and sliding back down so you'll have to kill it right there, but with the awkward angle it's hard to give it a good solid whack with a shoe or something so you'll have to ball up some paper towels and smush it with your hand. The cupboards, the pantry. Hell, all over the kitchen. They can't get into open cereal boxes, can they? The bathroom. Stowing away in your bath towels, climbing over your family's toothbrushes while you sleep, hiding behind the toilet and waiting for you to let your guard down so they can scurry out and run across your bare feet.
Clean your house. A lot. Set some traps if it'll make you feel better. Call an exterminator. Eat standing up and burn any leftovers. Don't ever leave out anything edible. Don't let your guard down. And even still, don't doubt for a second that no matter what you do, no matter what measures you take, no matter how thorough your efforts are, your place is always going to be absolutely crawling with cockroaches. You may not see them, but they're there.
All it takes is one.
Friday, September 17, 2010
September 17 - The Retreat
Mikkelson waved them off, but they refilled his drink anyway. It had been that way for the last few rounds and all four of them--Mikkelson and his three superiors in the biochemistry department--were drunk to begin with. It was customary to haze the new professors of the biochemistry department and Mikkelson was no exception.
The men had booked the mountain lodge their university often used for team-building weekends and department retreats. And since they only had two nights to cram in a week's worth of drinking (and hazing), they hit the sauce hard from the beginning: a few doubles of 20-year-old Scotch apiece before dinner, six bottles of red and two of white with dinner, a bottle of brandy afterwards, followed by whisky.
Mikkelson pleaded with them to take it easy on him, that he had a low tolerance for alcohol, but once the party was in full swing, his entreaties only caused them to make him drink more. It had started out pleasantly, but by the end it was like a vicious fraternity hazing. Forced drinking, razzing, heckling, and more forced drinking. At two in the morning, they finally let him stumble to his room.
The next morning, after he didn't show up for breakfast, the other professors went to check on him. He was dead.
Whereupon they panicked.
Stories of the senior professors in their department hazing their subordinates were well-known. Any autopsy on Mikkelson would turn up an obscene blood alcohol content and from there it would be an easy jump to pinning his death on them. At the very least, they would be charged with involuntary manslaughter, possibly worse. There would be a trial, dismissal from the university, prison time.
Therefore, the men decided, telling the truth was out of the question.
That left a cover up as the only other option.
The men stashed the body in the bathtub and then filled it with ice and snow so it wouldn't decompose during the day.
That night they carried him out to the woods to feed him to the bears.
But they needed something to draw the bears to him with, so they stuffed his pockets with huckleberries and put a big bag of huckleberries next to him, as everybody in that area knew that bears were drawn to huckleberries like bees to honey.
They propped his body up against a tree. Then they smeared his face and hands with huckleberries, found a safe spot to sit and wait for a bear to come along, and fell asleep.
They woke up the next morning and the body was gone.
No signs of mastication. No blood, no bones, no nothing.
Not only that, but during the night none of them had heard anything bear-like. No grunts, snorts, or anything.
Hmm.
There was no body.
But there was also no evidence that the body had been eaten.
Hmm.
If the bear had eaten Mikkelson, wouldn't one of them had heard or seen something? Wouldn't there have been some proof other than the absence of the body?
But if the bear hadn't eaten him, then surely something had happened to him because he was dead when they put him down and when they woke up he was gone. And he couldn't have just walked away.
Right?
In the end they decided that something had eaten him, and so back they went to the cabin feeling 92% sure that Mikkelson was gone and wouldn't come back to haunt them, at least not in the murder rap sense.
And in that sense, they were right. There was no forensic evidence, no smoking guns, no other witnesses. They called the police on Sunday to report that Mikkelson was missing. He had gone out for a walk in the middle of the night and never come back. Didn't say where he was going, just left.
Shrugs all around when the police asked follow-up questions, and it was an easy story to keep straight because it was so simple.
The professors went back to their university and life returned to normal for them. They kept waiting for the axe to fall, but it never did. It seemed that they were going to get away with it.
It seemed like they were going to get off scot-free. However, there was one problem: Mikkelson hadn't actually died.
While pursuing his PhD, Mikkelson had done extensive field work in Haiti, doing research into the biochemical properties of local medicines used in voodoo rituals, most notably Quintrillim, the so-called zombie drug, which greatly slowed the heartbeat and breathing of those who took it causing them to appear to be dead. Although memories of what was happening to them while under the influence of Quintrillim would sometimes surface days, weeks, or even months later, (leading Mikkelson to speculate that people were aware of their surroundings on some level while on Quintrillim), while they were under the influence of Quintrillim, to most observers they would be dead.
They would regain consciousness several hours later to discover that they were on their feet (and in fact had been for hours) wandering around aimlessly like zombies. After a few more hours had passed, they would return to normal.
The clinical potential of Quintrillim was boundless. However, the use of Quintrillim that Mikkelson was most interested in was as an excellent hangover cure.
He had taken Quintrillim at the end of his epic drinking bout with the professors, but he had taken way too much of it. As a result, his every body function slowed to the point where it looked like he was dead, even to highly experienced scientists.
And he stayed that way until the middle of the next night. After the other three professors had fallen asleep, he had risen and started walking randomly, doing it so quietly that he didn't wake any of the others.
By the time the Quintrillim had worn off, he was a few miles away from their cabin and covered in huckleberries. And the memories of what had happened to him earlier in the weekend came bubbling up from his subconscious as soon as he started speculating on why he would be in the middle of the woods and covered with huckleberries, a known favorite of bears.
All the pieces fell together quickly for Mikkelson. His colleagues had meant for him to be mauled to death and eaten by bears.
Mikkelson was none too pleased.
He escaped into the woods and planned his revenge.
Murder was tempting, but he wasn't a violent man.
Scaring the hell out of them might be fun, but ultimately it wouldn't mean anything.
No.
Humiliation was the answer.
Knowing the other three professors all had savagely unorthodox sexual appetites, he contacted a high end dominatrix to set up a fetish orgy for his erstwhile superiors. The men were sent invitations from an "old friend" and Mikkelson peppered the invitations with enough clues and hints to turn trying to figure out who it was into a parlor game for them.
The trap was set, the men showed up, and the party proceeded.
At the end of the night, the dominatrix slipped the men Quintrillim and they went under. Then, Mikkelson and the dominatrix shaved their heads into mohawks, dressed them up in fetish wear and make-up, and dropped them off on the campus grounds, which is where they were discovered wandering around like zombies the next morning.
They were put on leave without pay pending an ethics and conduct investigation.
Mikkelson resurfaced a week later, and in his former colleagues' absence, was immediately promoted to head of the biochemistry department.
To this day, he continues the tradition of taking new professors to the cabin for a welcoming retreat, but the hazing rituals are long since finished. Now anytime anyone says they've had enough to drink, Mikkelson accepts that and offers them tea instead.
The men had booked the mountain lodge their university often used for team-building weekends and department retreats. And since they only had two nights to cram in a week's worth of drinking (and hazing), they hit the sauce hard from the beginning: a few doubles of 20-year-old Scotch apiece before dinner, six bottles of red and two of white with dinner, a bottle of brandy afterwards, followed by whisky.
Mikkelson pleaded with them to take it easy on him, that he had a low tolerance for alcohol, but once the party was in full swing, his entreaties only caused them to make him drink more. It had started out pleasantly, but by the end it was like a vicious fraternity hazing. Forced drinking, razzing, heckling, and more forced drinking. At two in the morning, they finally let him stumble to his room.
The next morning, after he didn't show up for breakfast, the other professors went to check on him. He was dead.
Whereupon they panicked.
Stories of the senior professors in their department hazing their subordinates were well-known. Any autopsy on Mikkelson would turn up an obscene blood alcohol content and from there it would be an easy jump to pinning his death on them. At the very least, they would be charged with involuntary manslaughter, possibly worse. There would be a trial, dismissal from the university, prison time.
Therefore, the men decided, telling the truth was out of the question.
That left a cover up as the only other option.
The men stashed the body in the bathtub and then filled it with ice and snow so it wouldn't decompose during the day.
That night they carried him out to the woods to feed him to the bears.
But they needed something to draw the bears to him with, so they stuffed his pockets with huckleberries and put a big bag of huckleberries next to him, as everybody in that area knew that bears were drawn to huckleberries like bees to honey.
They propped his body up against a tree. Then they smeared his face and hands with huckleberries, found a safe spot to sit and wait for a bear to come along, and fell asleep.
They woke up the next morning and the body was gone.
No signs of mastication. No blood, no bones, no nothing.
Not only that, but during the night none of them had heard anything bear-like. No grunts, snorts, or anything.
Hmm.
There was no body.
But there was also no evidence that the body had been eaten.
Hmm.
If the bear had eaten Mikkelson, wouldn't one of them had heard or seen something? Wouldn't there have been some proof other than the absence of the body?
But if the bear hadn't eaten him, then surely something had happened to him because he was dead when they put him down and when they woke up he was gone. And he couldn't have just walked away.
Right?
In the end they decided that something had eaten him, and so back they went to the cabin feeling 92% sure that Mikkelson was gone and wouldn't come back to haunt them, at least not in the murder rap sense.
And in that sense, they were right. There was no forensic evidence, no smoking guns, no other witnesses. They called the police on Sunday to report that Mikkelson was missing. He had gone out for a walk in the middle of the night and never come back. Didn't say where he was going, just left.
Shrugs all around when the police asked follow-up questions, and it was an easy story to keep straight because it was so simple.
The professors went back to their university and life returned to normal for them. They kept waiting for the axe to fall, but it never did. It seemed that they were going to get away with it.
It seemed like they were going to get off scot-free. However, there was one problem: Mikkelson hadn't actually died.
While pursuing his PhD, Mikkelson had done extensive field work in Haiti, doing research into the biochemical properties of local medicines used in voodoo rituals, most notably Quintrillim, the so-called zombie drug, which greatly slowed the heartbeat and breathing of those who took it causing them to appear to be dead. Although memories of what was happening to them while under the influence of Quintrillim would sometimes surface days, weeks, or even months later, (leading Mikkelson to speculate that people were aware of their surroundings on some level while on Quintrillim), while they were under the influence of Quintrillim, to most observers they would be dead.
They would regain consciousness several hours later to discover that they were on their feet (and in fact had been for hours) wandering around aimlessly like zombies. After a few more hours had passed, they would return to normal.
The clinical potential of Quintrillim was boundless. However, the use of Quintrillim that Mikkelson was most interested in was as an excellent hangover cure.
He had taken Quintrillim at the end of his epic drinking bout with the professors, but he had taken way too much of it. As a result, his every body function slowed to the point where it looked like he was dead, even to highly experienced scientists.
And he stayed that way until the middle of the next night. After the other three professors had fallen asleep, he had risen and started walking randomly, doing it so quietly that he didn't wake any of the others.
By the time the Quintrillim had worn off, he was a few miles away from their cabin and covered in huckleberries. And the memories of what had happened to him earlier in the weekend came bubbling up from his subconscious as soon as he started speculating on why he would be in the middle of the woods and covered with huckleberries, a known favorite of bears.
All the pieces fell together quickly for Mikkelson. His colleagues had meant for him to be mauled to death and eaten by bears.
Mikkelson was none too pleased.
He escaped into the woods and planned his revenge.
Murder was tempting, but he wasn't a violent man.
Scaring the hell out of them might be fun, but ultimately it wouldn't mean anything.
No.
Humiliation was the answer.
Knowing the other three professors all had savagely unorthodox sexual appetites, he contacted a high end dominatrix to set up a fetish orgy for his erstwhile superiors. The men were sent invitations from an "old friend" and Mikkelson peppered the invitations with enough clues and hints to turn trying to figure out who it was into a parlor game for them.
The trap was set, the men showed up, and the party proceeded.
At the end of the night, the dominatrix slipped the men Quintrillim and they went under. Then, Mikkelson and the dominatrix shaved their heads into mohawks, dressed them up in fetish wear and make-up, and dropped them off on the campus grounds, which is where they were discovered wandering around like zombies the next morning.
They were put on leave without pay pending an ethics and conduct investigation.
Mikkelson resurfaced a week later, and in his former colleagues' absence, was immediately promoted to head of the biochemistry department.
To this day, he continues the tradition of taking new professors to the cabin for a welcoming retreat, but the hazing rituals are long since finished. Now anytime anyone says they've had enough to drink, Mikkelson accepts that and offers them tea instead.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
September 16 - Breakfast Burrito
I feel like I could possibly puke, like it's not out of the question.
Not sure where this is coming from. Maybe it was lunch when I ate that fish I found in the men's room at the park. Looked OK, though; certainly good enough for somebody to have eaten a few bites of it. I'm assuming that somebody was the homeless guy was passed out next to it.
I wonder if that's what caused him to puke, assuming that was his puke he was face down in. But maybe it wasn't--his puke, that is. If I had a nickel for every time I've passed out in somebody else's puke, I'd have a quarter--or a few dollars if you want to extend the time frame beyond since the end of summer.
But I digress.
Maybe it was the chicken I had earlier that made me puke. He seemed healthy enough, though. He put up a good fight, I'll give him that much. In hindsight, maybe I should've cooked it, though. But I didn't want to offend my hosts. Not that I necessarily would have. Actually, who knows? In all honesty, I don't know what the protocol is at a Guatemalan cockfight. If uncooked pollo is de rigeur, then I say when in Rome su casa es mi casa.
Speaking of unclear social protocol (and these days, when am I not?), maybe it wasn't 100% necessary to blow all those guys after all. Maybe that's why I'm not feeling so hot. But once I caved for the guitar player, I kind of felt like it would cause a rift if I didn't blow the rest of the mariachi band. I just can't believe I had to work so hard to talk them into it. I mean, who's going to refuse a blow job from Robert Pattinson?
Nobody.
Which is why I need to fire my agent for letting Twilight go to that pasty-faced jackoff and getting me booked as the fluffer for Los Gringos del Amor part VII. If I ever get my ass off this bus station floor and get back to el norte, I promise you I will have his ass in my breakfast burrito.
Know that.
Not sure where this is coming from. Maybe it was lunch when I ate that fish I found in the men's room at the park. Looked OK, though; certainly good enough for somebody to have eaten a few bites of it. I'm assuming that somebody was the homeless guy was passed out next to it.
I wonder if that's what caused him to puke, assuming that was his puke he was face down in. But maybe it wasn't--his puke, that is. If I had a nickel for every time I've passed out in somebody else's puke, I'd have a quarter--or a few dollars if you want to extend the time frame beyond since the end of summer.
But I digress.
Maybe it was the chicken I had earlier that made me puke. He seemed healthy enough, though. He put up a good fight, I'll give him that much. In hindsight, maybe I should've cooked it, though. But I didn't want to offend my hosts. Not that I necessarily would have. Actually, who knows? In all honesty, I don't know what the protocol is at a Guatemalan cockfight. If uncooked pollo is de rigeur, then I say when in Rome su casa es mi casa.
Speaking of unclear social protocol (and these days, when am I not?), maybe it wasn't 100% necessary to blow all those guys after all. Maybe that's why I'm not feeling so hot. But once I caved for the guitar player, I kind of felt like it would cause a rift if I didn't blow the rest of the mariachi band. I just can't believe I had to work so hard to talk them into it. I mean, who's going to refuse a blow job from Robert Pattinson?
Nobody.
Which is why I need to fire my agent for letting Twilight go to that pasty-faced jackoff and getting me booked as the fluffer for Los Gringos del Amor part VII. If I ever get my ass off this bus station floor and get back to el norte, I promise you I will have his ass in my breakfast burrito.
Know that.
September 15 - One Last Heist (Cliche Busters - Volume 1)
It was supposed to be a simple job. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. Get in, get the jewels, get out.
John Lockhardt had been looking for a way out of the heist game, and this was it: one final payday and he could walk away forever. He had his suspicions about the mysterious figure who had approached him about the job, but the money was too good to walk away from.
He got his old group together and hatched the plan.
Dexter would score the forged passports and falsified travel documents.
Gary would seduce the bookishly beautiful engineer who'd designed the bank vault, and lift the computer files explaining their operation while she slept.
Donald would tunnel under the bank and set the explosive charges.
Sam would disable the bank's silent alarm.
Linda, posing as a French tourist, would distract the guards.
Jimmy and Taylor would work crowd control.
And John would crack the interior vault.
Once they got started, once Linda lured the guards away from their posts, and once Jimmy and Taylor pulled out their weapons and told everyone to get on the floor, John would have just three minutes to find the interior vault, crack the code, and get the ice before the bank's alarm system overrode the manual shutdown and went back online, alerting the entire Monaco Police Department, Interpol, and every other law enforcement agency in Europe that someone had swiped the Rothschild Diamonds.
At which point Donald would trip the charges and blow a hole through the bank's floor that the team would drop through once they'd donned their wetsuits. Then, entering the sewer, they would jet ski their way through the tunnels to where they emptied out at the harbor, rendezvous with their local contacts, remove their wetsuits, change into their new disguises, and casually board a tourist cruise liner bound for Greece. There they would deliver the diamonds, collect and divide their money, and live happily ever after.
Yeah.
Right.
Sure.
That was the plan.
Just one last job.
In and out and done with bank heists forever.
But in that game, nothing ever went according to plan.
Except that one last job.
In fact, John was actually kind of blown away by how smoothly it all unfolded.
There were no double-crosses, no mistakes, no miscalculations, no deadly shootouts, no missed rendezvous, and no backstabbing. Everybody was where they were supposed to be and they did their jobs flawlessly. Nobody got separated from the group, nobody got hurt, and nothing at all went wrong.
The entire heist went exactly according to plan.
And when it was over, John Lockhardt and his team walked away from the bank heist business, made some very wise investments, and enjoyed a very pleasant and sensible retirement.
John Lockhardt had been looking for a way out of the heist game, and this was it: one final payday and he could walk away forever. He had his suspicions about the mysterious figure who had approached him about the job, but the money was too good to walk away from.
He got his old group together and hatched the plan.
Dexter would score the forged passports and falsified travel documents.
Gary would seduce the bookishly beautiful engineer who'd designed the bank vault, and lift the computer files explaining their operation while she slept.
Donald would tunnel under the bank and set the explosive charges.
Sam would disable the bank's silent alarm.
Linda, posing as a French tourist, would distract the guards.
Jimmy and Taylor would work crowd control.
And John would crack the interior vault.
Once they got started, once Linda lured the guards away from their posts, and once Jimmy and Taylor pulled out their weapons and told everyone to get on the floor, John would have just three minutes to find the interior vault, crack the code, and get the ice before the bank's alarm system overrode the manual shutdown and went back online, alerting the entire Monaco Police Department, Interpol, and every other law enforcement agency in Europe that someone had swiped the Rothschild Diamonds.
At which point Donald would trip the charges and blow a hole through the bank's floor that the team would drop through once they'd donned their wetsuits. Then, entering the sewer, they would jet ski their way through the tunnels to where they emptied out at the harbor, rendezvous with their local contacts, remove their wetsuits, change into their new disguises, and casually board a tourist cruise liner bound for Greece. There they would deliver the diamonds, collect and divide their money, and live happily ever after.
Yeah.
Right.
Sure.
That was the plan.
Just one last job.
In and out and done with bank heists forever.
But in that game, nothing ever went according to plan.
Except that one last job.
In fact, John was actually kind of blown away by how smoothly it all unfolded.
There were no double-crosses, no mistakes, no miscalculations, no deadly shootouts, no missed rendezvous, and no backstabbing. Everybody was where they were supposed to be and they did their jobs flawlessly. Nobody got separated from the group, nobody got hurt, and nothing at all went wrong.
The entire heist went exactly according to plan.
And when it was over, John Lockhardt and his team walked away from the bank heist business, made some very wise investments, and enjoyed a very pleasant and sensible retirement.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
September 14 - Pillow Man
Have you ever seen your husband playing with one of those full length body pillows? I have.
And by playing with I think you know what I mean: doinking, or I should say pretending to doink.
Usually what happens is we'll be reading in bed and I'll get up to brush my teeth, and then he'll pull down his pants, shove my old pregnancy pillow between his legs and start going at it.
Just humping away.
He doesn't have an erection, mind you. At least not usually. And I can't for the life of me decide if that's a good thing or not. I guess either way it's probably pretty bad.
As is his facial expression. Sometimes he'll get this total "Oh, yeah!" guitar solo face. But then other times he'll get this completely blank expression like he's transcribing a deposition or something. Just staring at me, his face totally neutral, while he's having his way with my pregnancy pillow.
I used to ask him what he was doing but he never answered me. He would just turn the pillow over and do it from behind so his back was to me. And then any time I was like, "freak," he would turn around and flash the devil's horns and flick his tongue at me like he was Gene Simmons. Other times he would just stare at me, and that was definitely weirder. There he'd be, going to town on my body pillow and just looking at me, no expression at all--usually with his reading glasses on. His reading glasses and nothing else.
Whatever.
I'll come back from brushing my teeth and by then he'll be spread out on the bed pretending to get fellated by the pillow. Or he'll have the pillow in the 69 position or whatever.
Anyway, he's usually good at giving it to me when I get back from the bathroom. By 'it' I mean the pillow, not, well, you know. He hasn't given that to me in I can't remember how long, and if you want the truth that's fine with me. And as long as he gets a few minutes of quality time with that pillow, it seems to be fine with him, too.
Marriage, huh? You tell me.
And by playing with I think you know what I mean: doinking, or I should say pretending to doink.
Usually what happens is we'll be reading in bed and I'll get up to brush my teeth, and then he'll pull down his pants, shove my old pregnancy pillow between his legs and start going at it.
Just humping away.
He doesn't have an erection, mind you. At least not usually. And I can't for the life of me decide if that's a good thing or not. I guess either way it's probably pretty bad.
As is his facial expression. Sometimes he'll get this total "Oh, yeah!" guitar solo face. But then other times he'll get this completely blank expression like he's transcribing a deposition or something. Just staring at me, his face totally neutral, while he's having his way with my pregnancy pillow.
I used to ask him what he was doing but he never answered me. He would just turn the pillow over and do it from behind so his back was to me. And then any time I was like, "freak," he would turn around and flash the devil's horns and flick his tongue at me like he was Gene Simmons. Other times he would just stare at me, and that was definitely weirder. There he'd be, going to town on my body pillow and just looking at me, no expression at all--usually with his reading glasses on. His reading glasses and nothing else.
Whatever.
I'll come back from brushing my teeth and by then he'll be spread out on the bed pretending to get fellated by the pillow. Or he'll have the pillow in the 69 position or whatever.
Anyway, he's usually good at giving it to me when I get back from the bathroom. By 'it' I mean the pillow, not, well, you know. He hasn't given that to me in I can't remember how long, and if you want the truth that's fine with me. And as long as he gets a few minutes of quality time with that pillow, it seems to be fine with him, too.
Marriage, huh? You tell me.
Monday, September 13, 2010
September 13 - Occurrences on the Border
There was one stoplight in town. It blinked red at night and dangled in the wind.
Other than that, on a moonless night all you could see was an endless pure black expanse scattered with stars twinkling like diamonds.
During the day time it was red clay desert with scrub brush and dried out river beds. A few watering holes for cattle.
The two-lane state road that ran through town stretched out arrow straight all the way to the horizon, lined on both sides by chest high rusty barbed wire fencing.
There was one gas station in town. Staticky tejano crackled out of old speakers dangling from the rafters. You had to wake the night guy if you wanted gas after everything closed.
There was no Internet. No cable. No newspapers.
More Spanish than English.
You could get high school football, the farm report, and talk on am radio, and tejano from the Mexican stations.
There was an eastbound freight train that ran by the outskirts of town at 2:10 every morning. The westbound ran every morning at 4:13.
Other than that, the nights were quiet. There were lightening storms, but no rain and no thunder, only lightning.
It started with the cattle.
The morning after a moonless night, rancher Jack Hawkins found a dead cow in the middle of the pasture. No flies. No blood. Just dead.
He couldn't find any cuts on the cow, no signs of bludgeoning or gunshots or anything. Just a dead cow that looked like someone had let the air out of her.
The other cows chewed their cud obliviously.
Jack chewed on a weed and looked around. Then he went to his truck and got a hunting knife and cut the cow open at the midsection.
There wasn't a drop of blood in her.
More animal deaths turned up the morning after every moonless night thereafter. Sometimes they were cattle, sometimes horses. But the bodies were always completely bloodless and there was never any indication of how the blood was lost. It was just gone.
It was a few months after that that the border patrol found the first humans: A coyote and two of his charges. Same deal: Not a drop of blood in their bodies, no visible wounds.
After a few more dead coyotes turned up after the next few moonless nights, the other coyotes got wise and took their chances crossing in the moonlight.
The next month a calf was born with its front legs fused together.
And then another one was born with its stomach outside its body.
More animal bodies.
It got to be that on every moonless night, the ranchers would try to stay up and watch over their cattle but they never saw anything. The closest any of them got was when Ruben Garcia saw four silhouettes outside his house looking at his daughter's bedroom window. Smaller than men, bigger than children. He got his shotgun and chased them off. The following morning one of his horses was laying in the yard dead. No blood.
A few weeks later, Marta Fernandez went into convulsions at her Quinceanera and was rushed to the hospital where she miscarried a two-month old fetus.
She was a virgin.
Given everything that had been going on in town, opinion was split among the Catholics. Half of them thought it was a miscarried Second Coming.
Half of them thought it was a miscarried Antichrist.
Next month: two more Quinceanera, two more virgin miscarriages.
Someone suggested that if there were any more miscarriages after that, they should hold on to the remains and test them.
"For what?" someone asked.
Nobody knew.
Nor did they wait for another miscarriage. Most of the wives and children of ranchers left town and went to live with relatives in other parts of the state.
And as soon as they were able to, the few ranchers that were still there moved their herds and left too.
Nobody's been back since.
Other than that, on a moonless night all you could see was an endless pure black expanse scattered with stars twinkling like diamonds.
During the day time it was red clay desert with scrub brush and dried out river beds. A few watering holes for cattle.
The two-lane state road that ran through town stretched out arrow straight all the way to the horizon, lined on both sides by chest high rusty barbed wire fencing.
There was one gas station in town. Staticky tejano crackled out of old speakers dangling from the rafters. You had to wake the night guy if you wanted gas after everything closed.
There was no Internet. No cable. No newspapers.
More Spanish than English.
You could get high school football, the farm report, and talk on am radio, and tejano from the Mexican stations.
There was an eastbound freight train that ran by the outskirts of town at 2:10 every morning. The westbound ran every morning at 4:13.
Other than that, the nights were quiet. There were lightening storms, but no rain and no thunder, only lightning.
It started with the cattle.
The morning after a moonless night, rancher Jack Hawkins found a dead cow in the middle of the pasture. No flies. No blood. Just dead.
He couldn't find any cuts on the cow, no signs of bludgeoning or gunshots or anything. Just a dead cow that looked like someone had let the air out of her.
The other cows chewed their cud obliviously.
Jack chewed on a weed and looked around. Then he went to his truck and got a hunting knife and cut the cow open at the midsection.
There wasn't a drop of blood in her.
More animal deaths turned up the morning after every moonless night thereafter. Sometimes they were cattle, sometimes horses. But the bodies were always completely bloodless and there was never any indication of how the blood was lost. It was just gone.
It was a few months after that that the border patrol found the first humans: A coyote and two of his charges. Same deal: Not a drop of blood in their bodies, no visible wounds.
After a few more dead coyotes turned up after the next few moonless nights, the other coyotes got wise and took their chances crossing in the moonlight.
The next month a calf was born with its front legs fused together.
And then another one was born with its stomach outside its body.
More animal bodies.
It got to be that on every moonless night, the ranchers would try to stay up and watch over their cattle but they never saw anything. The closest any of them got was when Ruben Garcia saw four silhouettes outside his house looking at his daughter's bedroom window. Smaller than men, bigger than children. He got his shotgun and chased them off. The following morning one of his horses was laying in the yard dead. No blood.
A few weeks later, Marta Fernandez went into convulsions at her Quinceanera and was rushed to the hospital where she miscarried a two-month old fetus.
She was a virgin.
Given everything that had been going on in town, opinion was split among the Catholics. Half of them thought it was a miscarried Second Coming.
Half of them thought it was a miscarried Antichrist.
Next month: two more Quinceanera, two more virgin miscarriages.
Someone suggested that if there were any more miscarriages after that, they should hold on to the remains and test them.
"For what?" someone asked.
Nobody knew.
Nor did they wait for another miscarriage. Most of the wives and children of ranchers left town and went to live with relatives in other parts of the state.
And as soon as they were able to, the few ranchers that were still there moved their herds and left too.
Nobody's been back since.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
September 12 - What's Wrong?
What's wrong?
Nothing.
Really? Because you seem upset.
No.
It's OK. You can tell me.
Really. Nothing's wrong.
Come on. Don't be that way.
Seriously, I'm fine.
OK . . .
Really.
You promise?
Yes. I promise.
. . .
It's just that it seems like something is bothering you.
Well, it's not.
Hmm . . .
I might be a little bit tired, but besides that everything is fine.
If you say so.
I do.
What?
I do . . . Say so. I say so.
?
You said if I say so and I said I do.
Do what?
Nothing. Never mind.
No, come on. Tell me.
OK. I said everything was fine. You said if you say so. And I said I do. Like I do say so. That's all.
OK, now I'm sure something's wrong.
Jesus, nothing is wrong.
You don't have to get all pissy about it.
I'm not being pissy.
Don't yell at me.
I'm not yelling!
Because I'm right here.
I'm not yelling at you and I'm not being pissy. OK?
OK, you're right. You're not being pissy or raising your voice at all. My bad.
I'm really not.
OK. And you're not being defensive either.
Oh my God! There's literally nothing I can say at this point.
No, you're right. I'm wrong. As usual. Forgive me for getting it all wrong yet again. Nothing's wrong at all. You're not being pissy. You're not raising your voice. And you're not being defensive. It's just me and my stupid overdramatic imagination getting all carried away once again. I'm so sorry.
. . .
Asshole.
Nothing.
Really? Because you seem upset.
No.
It's OK. You can tell me.
Really. Nothing's wrong.
Come on. Don't be that way.
Seriously, I'm fine.
OK . . .
Really.
You promise?
Yes. I promise.
. . .
It's just that it seems like something is bothering you.
Well, it's not.
Hmm . . .
I might be a little bit tired, but besides that everything is fine.
If you say so.
I do.
What?
I do . . . Say so. I say so.
?
You said if I say so and I said I do.
Do what?
Nothing. Never mind.
No, come on. Tell me.
OK. I said everything was fine. You said if you say so. And I said I do. Like I do say so. That's all.
OK, now I'm sure something's wrong.
Jesus, nothing is wrong.
You don't have to get all pissy about it.
I'm not being pissy.
Don't yell at me.
I'm not yelling!
Because I'm right here.
I'm not yelling at you and I'm not being pissy. OK?
OK, you're right. You're not being pissy or raising your voice at all. My bad.
I'm really not.
OK. And you're not being defensive either.
Oh my God! There's literally nothing I can say at this point.
No, you're right. I'm wrong. As usual. Forgive me for getting it all wrong yet again. Nothing's wrong at all. You're not being pissy. You're not raising your voice. And you're not being defensive. It's just me and my stupid overdramatic imagination getting all carried away once again. I'm so sorry.
. . .
Asshole.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
September 11 - Former Enemies
When I was a kid growing up in the 1980s, the U.S.S.R. was our sworn enemy.
But then a few years after college, I served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in a former Soviet Republic called Turkmenistan, where my host family during training introduced me to friends and neighbors as their American son.
During my grandparents' generation, my country fought a war with Japan that started with Pearl Harbor and ended with Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
But today I'm married to a Japanese woman, and we're expecting our first child in November.
My point is, things change.
Nine years ago today, my country was attacked by Muslim terrorists.
Because of these attacks, my country is currently at war in two countries, and Islam is at the center of several controversies back home: Park51 and the Dove World Outreach Center's (cancelled) Quran burning, to name the two that are currently the biggest.
I would imagine it can't always be easy being a Muslim in the United States these days.
But this too shall pass.
I know it doesn't seem like it now, but as time goes by more and more people will accept this truth which is almost too obvious to mention: that being a Muslim doesn't mean you are dangerous.
Some day being a Muslim in the United States won't be a big deal.
I'm not saying prejudice toward Muslims will completely die out. Unfortunately, it will always be around in some form or another. But there is no doubt in my mind that some day attitudes across the country will have shifted to the point where acceptance of Muslims will be so widespread and commonplace that the minority who are still prejudiced against them will be too ashamed to disparage them openly.
Unfortunately, we're not there yet. But we will be some day.
As I write this, Americans are commemorating September 11, 2001 through prayer, moments of silence, reflection, other ways. And my heart goes out to those who lost loved ones on that day.
As for me, I am spending the weekend taking birthing classes with my wife in Tokyo and dreaming of raising our daughter in an America where Muslims are just another group of people we used to be afraid of.
But then a few years after college, I served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in a former Soviet Republic called Turkmenistan, where my host family during training introduced me to friends and neighbors as their American son.
During my grandparents' generation, my country fought a war with Japan that started with Pearl Harbor and ended with Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
But today I'm married to a Japanese woman, and we're expecting our first child in November.
My point is, things change.
Nine years ago today, my country was attacked by Muslim terrorists.
Because of these attacks, my country is currently at war in two countries, and Islam is at the center of several controversies back home: Park51 and the Dove World Outreach Center's (cancelled) Quran burning, to name the two that are currently the biggest.
I would imagine it can't always be easy being a Muslim in the United States these days.
But this too shall pass.
I know it doesn't seem like it now, but as time goes by more and more people will accept this truth which is almost too obvious to mention: that being a Muslim doesn't mean you are dangerous.
Some day being a Muslim in the United States won't be a big deal.
I'm not saying prejudice toward Muslims will completely die out. Unfortunately, it will always be around in some form or another. But there is no doubt in my mind that some day attitudes across the country will have shifted to the point where acceptance of Muslims will be so widespread and commonplace that the minority who are still prejudiced against them will be too ashamed to disparage them openly.
Unfortunately, we're not there yet. But we will be some day.
As I write this, Americans are commemorating September 11, 2001 through prayer, moments of silence, reflection, other ways. And my heart goes out to those who lost loved ones on that day.
As for me, I am spending the weekend taking birthing classes with my wife in Tokyo and dreaming of raising our daughter in an America where Muslims are just another group of people we used to be afraid of.
Friday, September 10, 2010
September 10 - Parallelism
Parallel universes are created at an exponential rate every millisecond. It happens every time you make a decision.
For instance, say you have a choice between cereal or a bagel for breakfast, and you choose to have the bagel. You make the bagel and eat it. This is your reality.
However, at the exact same time you choose the bagel, a fully functioning parallel universe is created in which you make the other choice instead. And this parallel universe in which you choose and eat the cereal instead of the bagel is every bit as real as the one in which you choose the bagel. Both the you eating a bagel universe and the you eating cereal universe reside on different planes of existence, completely independent of one another, but they are both real.
Parallel universes, parallel existences, one for each possible choice.
With me so far? Good.
But of course in most cases, the choice you make isn't a simple binary either/or choice. There almost always virtually limitless options. To continue with the breakfast example, you could have an onion bagel, a blueberry bagel, a cinnamon raisin bagel, or any other of dozens of kinds of bagels. You could toast your bagel or not toast it. You could eat it with cream cheese, butter, peanut butter, lox, whatever. You could put it on a paper plate, ceramic plate, a napkin, etc. There are easily thousands of different iterations of the bagel for breakfast scenario. And the choice you end up making (toasted blueberry bagel with cream cheese on a white ceramic plate) exists in its own universe. And every other possible choice you don't opt for splinters off as its own parallel universe that immediately lead to new scenarios each with its own infinite set of resultant universes that in turn spiderweb infinitely.
And they're all the result of a seemingly simple choice between a bagel and cereal.
OK?
And so very soon you have a never ending, ever-multiplying, spiderweb of spiderwebs. An infinitesimal explosion of universes begetting explosions of universes every microsecond.
And that's just for you and the results of your actions. The same explosion of explosions exists for every other living thing in the world.
And then when we interact with each other it gets really hectic: Every possible thing you could say to someone at any given moment exists in its own universe. And every possible reply that person gives you also exists in its own universe. As does everything you say to their reply.
And on and on and on.
The rate at which parallel universes are created is impossible to comprehend. The exponential level of multiplication involved is beyond fathoming. In order to write the number of parallel universes that have been created just since you started reading this story, you would need to change the first character of the story to a 1 and every character thereafter to a zero. And in the time it takes you to read this sentence that number to the power of that number of parallel universes will have been created.
In short, there are a lot of parallel universes in existence.
Now.
There are some people--very few--who have the power to 'jump' at will to any other parallel universe that they might like better than the one they're currently in. For example, if the bagel you eat for breakfast isn't all that good, you can jump to a universe in which you had a better breakfast and continue your life in that reality instead.
Or if you choose the wrong answer on a test, you can jump to an alternate universe where you choose the right answer.
And on and on and on.
That was Roland's gift. And he used it often.
For instance, Roland was a football fan. And if his favorite team, the Philadelphia Eagles, lost on the final play of the game because they ran instead of passed, he would just jump to an alternate reality in which they passed instead of ran. And if they scored on that play in that reality he would stay there. And if they didn't, he would jump to another reality where some minor change in variables brought about victory.
All of those realities were out there. He just had to jump around until he found the right one, which he did all the time--and not just with football, although he certainly did it with that. In the universe in which he resided, his Eagles were the winningest dynasty in NFL history: 12 straight Super Bowl victories.
But his blessed life wasn't limited to undefeated seasons for his favorite football team. He was triumphant in every way imaginable. If there were an annual award for Biggest Winner in the Universe, his bookshelves would be full of them. He got overwhelmingly positive outcomes in every situation he ever faced in life. He got the most beautiful women, drove the nicest cars, and won the lottery whenever he felt like it. He never had a bad meal, never experienced a disappointing outcome in any sporting contest (as a participant or a spectator), never saw a bad movie (except those that were so bad they were good), never got sick, and never had anything not go the way he wanted it to.
And the bottom never dropped out.
He never got bored of winning, never grew sick of exquisite meals or amazing experiences, never found greatness tedious.
How could he have?
It's a big world with virtually infinite possibilities and unlimited treasures to experience. In that kind of reality, there is no bad. There's only different manifestations of amazing. For instance, at the moment he felt like he might possibly become bored of hiking in the Himalayas with Bill Murray, he would just jump to a parallel universe where he was sailing in the Aegean Sea with a Brazilian lingerie model.
If he ever grew remotely tired of being a champion race car driver, he would jump to an alternate reality where he was the biochemist who perfected the AIDS vaccine.
As soon as he lost the slightest bit of interest in being a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist and bed mate of Halle Berry, he would jump to a different plane of existence where he was a cattle rancher in Wyoming who dabbled in bounty hunting.
And on and on and on.
Some people might think Roland should have had some sort of epiphany at some point where he realized he'd lost his moral groundings and decided that he should stay in one reality and experience the richness of an existence filled with all the ups and downs and highs and lows and triumphs and tragedies of a normal life, but they're wrong.
It would kick ass to be Roland.
And that's that.
For instance, say you have a choice between cereal or a bagel for breakfast, and you choose to have the bagel. You make the bagel and eat it. This is your reality.
However, at the exact same time you choose the bagel, a fully functioning parallel universe is created in which you make the other choice instead. And this parallel universe in which you choose and eat the cereal instead of the bagel is every bit as real as the one in which you choose the bagel. Both the you eating a bagel universe and the you eating cereal universe reside on different planes of existence, completely independent of one another, but they are both real.
Parallel universes, parallel existences, one for each possible choice.
With me so far? Good.
But of course in most cases, the choice you make isn't a simple binary either/or choice. There almost always virtually limitless options. To continue with the breakfast example, you could have an onion bagel, a blueberry bagel, a cinnamon raisin bagel, or any other of dozens of kinds of bagels. You could toast your bagel or not toast it. You could eat it with cream cheese, butter, peanut butter, lox, whatever. You could put it on a paper plate, ceramic plate, a napkin, etc. There are easily thousands of different iterations of the bagel for breakfast scenario. And the choice you end up making (toasted blueberry bagel with cream cheese on a white ceramic plate) exists in its own universe. And every other possible choice you don't opt for splinters off as its own parallel universe that immediately lead to new scenarios each with its own infinite set of resultant universes that in turn spiderweb infinitely.
And they're all the result of a seemingly simple choice between a bagel and cereal.
OK?
And so very soon you have a never ending, ever-multiplying, spiderweb of spiderwebs. An infinitesimal explosion of universes begetting explosions of universes every microsecond.
And that's just for you and the results of your actions. The same explosion of explosions exists for every other living thing in the world.
And then when we interact with each other it gets really hectic: Every possible thing you could say to someone at any given moment exists in its own universe. And every possible reply that person gives you also exists in its own universe. As does everything you say to their reply.
And on and on and on.
The rate at which parallel universes are created is impossible to comprehend. The exponential level of multiplication involved is beyond fathoming. In order to write the number of parallel universes that have been created just since you started reading this story, you would need to change the first character of the story to a 1 and every character thereafter to a zero. And in the time it takes you to read this sentence that number to the power of that number of parallel universes will have been created.
In short, there are a lot of parallel universes in existence.
Now.
There are some people--very few--who have the power to 'jump' at will to any other parallel universe that they might like better than the one they're currently in. For example, if the bagel you eat for breakfast isn't all that good, you can jump to a universe in which you had a better breakfast and continue your life in that reality instead.
Or if you choose the wrong answer on a test, you can jump to an alternate universe where you choose the right answer.
And on and on and on.
That was Roland's gift. And he used it often.
For instance, Roland was a football fan. And if his favorite team, the Philadelphia Eagles, lost on the final play of the game because they ran instead of passed, he would just jump to an alternate reality in which they passed instead of ran. And if they scored on that play in that reality he would stay there. And if they didn't, he would jump to another reality where some minor change in variables brought about victory.
All of those realities were out there. He just had to jump around until he found the right one, which he did all the time--and not just with football, although he certainly did it with that. In the universe in which he resided, his Eagles were the winningest dynasty in NFL history: 12 straight Super Bowl victories.
But his blessed life wasn't limited to undefeated seasons for his favorite football team. He was triumphant in every way imaginable. If there were an annual award for Biggest Winner in the Universe, his bookshelves would be full of them. He got overwhelmingly positive outcomes in every situation he ever faced in life. He got the most beautiful women, drove the nicest cars, and won the lottery whenever he felt like it. He never had a bad meal, never experienced a disappointing outcome in any sporting contest (as a participant or a spectator), never saw a bad movie (except those that were so bad they were good), never got sick, and never had anything not go the way he wanted it to.
And the bottom never dropped out.
He never got bored of winning, never grew sick of exquisite meals or amazing experiences, never found greatness tedious.
How could he have?
It's a big world with virtually infinite possibilities and unlimited treasures to experience. In that kind of reality, there is no bad. There's only different manifestations of amazing. For instance, at the moment he felt like he might possibly become bored of hiking in the Himalayas with Bill Murray, he would just jump to a parallel universe where he was sailing in the Aegean Sea with a Brazilian lingerie model.
If he ever grew remotely tired of being a champion race car driver, he would jump to an alternate reality where he was the biochemist who perfected the AIDS vaccine.
As soon as he lost the slightest bit of interest in being a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist and bed mate of Halle Berry, he would jump to a different plane of existence where he was a cattle rancher in Wyoming who dabbled in bounty hunting.
And on and on and on.
Some people might think Roland should have had some sort of epiphany at some point where he realized he'd lost his moral groundings and decided that he should stay in one reality and experience the richness of an existence filled with all the ups and downs and highs and lows and triumphs and tragedies of a normal life, but they're wrong.
It would kick ass to be Roland.
And that's that.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
September 9 - Origin Story
"Whoah, girl. That ain't a banana."
Snorting laughter. Sweaty bangs clinging to her forehead. Tongue red with spiked Kool Aid.
"And you ain't no monkey!"
Laughing so hard now she's not making any sound, so she bends over and slaps her thigh again and again to make it come out. Stumbles on the way back up. He catches her and then seconds later they're making out on the packed, beer soaked dance floor.
Color Me Badd.
Boyz II Men.
Tony Toni Tone.
Hot, dark, humid basement.
The first weekend of college. Still more summer than fall.
Bare shoulder, purple bra strap.
Four more cups of jungle juice. Tongues, lips, hands. Blind teenaged lust.
You wanna get out of here?
Stumble back to his dorm. Roommate's gone. Somewhere. Home? Doesn't matter.
He puts the sock on the knob (so to speak), delighted to be using the universal dorm room signal already.
Closes the door.
Two more beers are opened, sipped from, never touched again. Creedence on the CD player.
Creedence!
Clumsy, awkward, fumbling sex, like Mr. Bean making love to Amy Winehouse.
While listening to Proud Mary.
Without a seatbelt.
And then nine months later here I am. And now 17 years after that I'm going to the same school.
Maybe I'll make a pilgrimmage to my dad's old dorm room some day.
Anyway, that's my story.
What about you? How did your parents meet?
Snorting laughter. Sweaty bangs clinging to her forehead. Tongue red with spiked Kool Aid.
"And you ain't no monkey!"
Laughing so hard now she's not making any sound, so she bends over and slaps her thigh again and again to make it come out. Stumbles on the way back up. He catches her and then seconds later they're making out on the packed, beer soaked dance floor.
Color Me Badd.
Boyz II Men.
Tony Toni Tone.
Hot, dark, humid basement.
The first weekend of college. Still more summer than fall.
Bare shoulder, purple bra strap.
Four more cups of jungle juice. Tongues, lips, hands. Blind teenaged lust.
You wanna get out of here?
Stumble back to his dorm. Roommate's gone. Somewhere. Home? Doesn't matter.
He puts the sock on the knob (so to speak), delighted to be using the universal dorm room signal already.
Closes the door.
Two more beers are opened, sipped from, never touched again. Creedence on the CD player.
Creedence!
Clumsy, awkward, fumbling sex, like Mr. Bean making love to Amy Winehouse.
While listening to Proud Mary.
Without a seatbelt.
And then nine months later here I am. And now 17 years after that I'm going to the same school.
Maybe I'll make a pilgrimmage to my dad's old dorm room some day.
Anyway, that's my story.
What about you? How did your parents meet?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
September 8 - Eddie
Dude, face it. You've got mother issues. I think you need to talk to someone.
What?
Check it out. The last four women you've slept with have had the same first name as your mother.
Yeah, I realize that probably doesn't look very good, but seriously, it's just a coincidence.
Dude, your mom's name is Celeste.
. . . Yeah.
And you haven't slept with a woman who isn't named Celeste in more than three years.
Yeah? So?
Yeah, so, I think it's time to have a look under the hood.
Come on.
OK, do you know any woman named Celeste whose boobs you haven't been on in one way or another?
Jesus!
Any?
I don't know.
That's a no. See also: Your name.
What about it?
Edward Pusinski.
Yeah?
But everybody calls you Eddie.
Right.
And all through college everybody always shortened your last name. Pus. OK?
OK. No idea where you're going with this, but OK.
Eddie Pus.
(Shrug)
Say it with me. Eddie Pus.
Freak.
Come on, Eddie . . .
Eddie . . .
Pus.
Pus.
Eddie . . .
This is so stupid.
Come on. Say it with me. Eddie . . .
Eddie . . .
Pus.
Pus.
Eddie Pus.
Eddie Pus.
Eddie Pus. Eddiepus. Oedipus.
Dude, whatever. Weird, but whatever.
OK, what does your dad think about all this?
Dude, that's messed up.
Come on.
You know my dad passed away.
Right. And how did he die?
For God's sake, man.
Just tell me.
You already know.
Yeah, but I want to hear it from you.
This is so stupid.
You're right. Totally. But tell me anyway.
Hunting accident.
More specific, please.
Jesus, man!
Out with it.
It was an accident!
Almost there. Just a little more.
The gun just went off, man. It was an accident.
Yeah, I know. Who was holding the gun when it went off?
Asshole.
Who?
. . .
Who?
OK, me.
Right.
So?
So, you're attracted exclusively to women who have the same really unusual first name as your mom. You are directly responsible for your father's death. And the name you go by sounds exactly like Oedipus.
Yeah? And?
I dunno. Just saying. Something you might want to keep an eye on.
What?
Check it out. The last four women you've slept with have had the same first name as your mother.
Yeah, I realize that probably doesn't look very good, but seriously, it's just a coincidence.
Dude, your mom's name is Celeste.
. . . Yeah.
And you haven't slept with a woman who isn't named Celeste in more than three years.
Yeah? So?
Yeah, so, I think it's time to have a look under the hood.
Come on.
OK, do you know any woman named Celeste whose boobs you haven't been on in one way or another?
Jesus!
Any?
I don't know.
That's a no. See also: Your name.
What about it?
Edward Pusinski.
Yeah?
But everybody calls you Eddie.
Right.
And all through college everybody always shortened your last name. Pus. OK?
OK. No idea where you're going with this, but OK.
Eddie Pus.
(Shrug)
Say it with me. Eddie Pus.
Freak.
Come on, Eddie . . .
Eddie . . .
Pus.
Pus.
Eddie . . .
This is so stupid.
Come on. Say it with me. Eddie . . .
Eddie . . .
Pus.
Pus.
Eddie Pus.
Eddie Pus.
Eddie Pus. Eddiepus. Oedipus.
Dude, whatever. Weird, but whatever.
OK, what does your dad think about all this?
Dude, that's messed up.
Come on.
You know my dad passed away.
Right. And how did he die?
For God's sake, man.
Just tell me.
You already know.
Yeah, but I want to hear it from you.
This is so stupid.
You're right. Totally. But tell me anyway.
Hunting accident.
More specific, please.
Jesus, man!
Out with it.
It was an accident!
Almost there. Just a little more.
The gun just went off, man. It was an accident.
Yeah, I know. Who was holding the gun when it went off?
Asshole.
Who?
. . .
Who?
OK, me.
Right.
So?
So, you're attracted exclusively to women who have the same really unusual first name as your mom. You are directly responsible for your father's death. And the name you go by sounds exactly like Oedipus.
Yeah? And?
I dunno. Just saying. Something you might want to keep an eye on.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
September 7 - Final Shot
It was a decision that plagued him for most of his adult life: not playing in the state basketball championship game in his senior year because of bronchitis.
His team lost the game by one point.
The final shot of the game was a set play that was usually run through him. An inbounds pass, shot out to the key, and then back to him at the low post. Two points. That was his shot. And that was the shot his teammate missed as the game clock wound down to zero.
Hardly a day went by that he didn't question himself. Was his bronchitis really that bad? Couldn't he have played sick? Couldn't he have rallied? Did he succumb to doctor's orders too easily?
There was no way to know, but that didn't stop him from questioning himself constantly throughout the following spring, into college, and for the rest of his years. If he had sucked it up and played in that game, would they have won the state championship?
He was so obsessed with the question that upon dying and proceeding to the after world, that was the first question he asked. Most people wanted to know about relatives or loved ones. He wanted to know if he would have delivered his team the glory.
Upon hearing his question, the Supreme Being laughed and told him no. If he'd been there and played, they would have lost by ten.
Really?
Oh yeah. In fact, he'd come perilously close to preventing them from making the finals in the first place. If anything, most of his team was relieved he wasn't able to play in that final game.
Sorry.
Just being honest.
Anything else you want to know?
Not so much.
And with that lifelong nagging question finally answered, he sulked away. His afterlife was off to a disappointing start.
His team lost the game by one point.
The final shot of the game was a set play that was usually run through him. An inbounds pass, shot out to the key, and then back to him at the low post. Two points. That was his shot. And that was the shot his teammate missed as the game clock wound down to zero.
Hardly a day went by that he didn't question himself. Was his bronchitis really that bad? Couldn't he have played sick? Couldn't he have rallied? Did he succumb to doctor's orders too easily?
There was no way to know, but that didn't stop him from questioning himself constantly throughout the following spring, into college, and for the rest of his years. If he had sucked it up and played in that game, would they have won the state championship?
He was so obsessed with the question that upon dying and proceeding to the after world, that was the first question he asked. Most people wanted to know about relatives or loved ones. He wanted to know if he would have delivered his team the glory.
Upon hearing his question, the Supreme Being laughed and told him no. If he'd been there and played, they would have lost by ten.
Really?
Oh yeah. In fact, he'd come perilously close to preventing them from making the finals in the first place. If anything, most of his team was relieved he wasn't able to play in that final game.
Sorry.
Just being honest.
Anything else you want to know?
Not so much.
And with that lifelong nagging question finally answered, he sulked away. His afterlife was off to a disappointing start.
Monday, September 6, 2010
September 6 - The Baby Proofer
Ann closed the cabinet, and the baby lock snapped into place. She stirred the bubbling spaghetti sauce and was careful to keep the pan handle turned inward.
Her phone rang and she answered it, keeping an eye on 16-month-old Maddie playing on the floor.
It was Michael, her husband.
How's Maddie? How's your day? How's everything?
Ann stirred the sauce and glanced at Maddie as she answered his questions.
Hey could you check something for me on the calendar really quick? Do we have that thing with the Hancocks on Friday or Saturday?
She cradled the phone in her ear and checked the calendar.
The sauce bubbled on the stove.
This weekend?
Next.
So, next month. She flipped to the next month and the calendar fell off the fridge.
Just then the dog started barking in the next room, causing Ann to drop the phone.
She glanced over again at Maddie, who was still playing, and then reached down and picked up the phone.
Still there?
Yeah.
The dog kept barking.
Barney! Quiet!
She checked the calendar. Flipped the page to the next month. Next weekend. Friday. Next Friday with the Hancocks.
And then she turned around just in time to see Maddie standing on her tiptoes reaching for the saucepan. Somehow she managed to get her hand on the handle and pull it down. It skidded off the stove top, hit the oven handle and turned over in midair, sending the sauce showering all over--
"And pause right there."
Ann's monitor froze on the image of Maddie a split second before the molten hot spaghetti sauce hit.
"OK, Ann," said the voice in her earpiece. "Tell me your mistake."
"Can I take this thing off first?"
"Sure."
Ann pulled her virtual reality gloves off and then flipped the switches on the helmet and took it off, too.
"Better?"
"Much."
"OK. So, tell me what you did wrong."
And then Ann told Sergeant Rex what she thought she'd done wrong and he listened. Then they talked through her mistakes and what she could have done differently and also talked about all the things she had done right. Throughout the discussion, the focus was simple: helping to keep the baby as safe as possible. It was typical of the thousands of discussions that Sergeant Rex Brown had had as a baby safety consultant.
A lengthy and distinguished career as a staff sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps had shaped Rex Brown's into the perfect baby proofer. He had a falcon-like eye for detail, tireless vigilance, ironclad discipline, and an uncanny way of seeing a house through a self-destructive baby's eyes. He was the best in the business.
The recently retired Sergeant Rex had been drawn to baby safety after his own son almost choked to death on a toothpick that had fallen on the floor during a Fourth of July barbecue. Shortly after saving the child, Sergeant Rex waged a full out assault on safety hazards in and around their home. He did such a thorough job of baby proofing their house that his wife (half) joked to him that the only way they could have made things safer for their son would have been to put him in a plastic bubble and keep the bubble in a room lined with pillows. Although Sergeant Rex didn't see the humor in his wife's comments, he was satisfied with the work he had done.
So much so that soon he was volunteering to serve as a baby safety consultant/baby proofer for other expectant families in their neighborhood, and quickly developing a reputation as the most thorough baby proofer and most knowledgeable baby safety expert in the tri-state area.
By the end of the year, he had founded his own company: Sergeant Rex's Baby Proofing and Baby Safety Boot Camp.
Stone-faced but kind, Sergeant Rex tried to make couples feel comfortable with the baby proofing process while also making sure they understood the gravity of the situation. His sessions usually skewed more toward the stern and focused than the warm and fuzzy. In fact, in the early days of his career, many an expectant mother (and at least two fathers) were reduced to tears after he walked quietly from room to room in the client's home and shaking his head occasionally before saying any one of the following:
Your baby would stand a better chance of survival in the slums of Calcutta than in this room.
However much you got saved up for college should make a good down payment on your kid's funeral.
If this is what you call safe, I'd say save yourself the trouble and get an abortion. Baby Superman couldn't survive this deathtrap, much less your child.
Your baby is going to do everything in his power to kill himself. Don't you think you should at least make it a little challenging for him?
Over time, his wife was able to get him to soften his approach. The terror tactics get people's attention, but they also shut them down. You have to give more positive reinforcement, she said. And gradually he did.
But his tough guy image was impossible to shake. He had a linebacker's build, the same crew cut from his days as a Marine, and an intimidating Batman-like utility belt with innumerable gadgets, gauges, and tools to help him do his job.
Although his no-nonsense demeanor didn't exactly help people relax, the work he excelled at did. After Sergeant Rex had baby proofed a house, the place was secure.
Sergeant Rex was both high-tech and low-tech. He had wands that beeped, sensors that hummed, and handheld electronic devices that were straight out of Star Trek. But he also crawled on the floors, climbed on the walls, and touched, shook, jostled, checked, pushed, pulled, moved, removed, and lifted every thing in every room.
And then he gave his report along with his recommendations.
And then he baby proofed the site and talked the parents through what he had done.
And then he tested everything twice.
And when he was finished, the place was safe, and the parents knew it.
As his business grew, he hired other former Marines to help run his baby safety boot camps, which were weekend sessions where expectant couples spent two days and two nights receiving a master's course in baby safety, emergency training, simulation drills, and hands on practice at the state-of-the-art baby safety facility he built on the outskirts of his horse farm.
His motto in everything was: Be thorough. You may not remember all the ways you baby proofed your house. But you'll never forget the one way you didn't.
It was a motto that continues to serve him and his clients well. More than 20 years in the baby safety business, and his record is spotless.
Her phone rang and she answered it, keeping an eye on 16-month-old Maddie playing on the floor.
It was Michael, her husband.
How's Maddie? How's your day? How's everything?
Ann stirred the sauce and glanced at Maddie as she answered his questions.
Hey could you check something for me on the calendar really quick? Do we have that thing with the Hancocks on Friday or Saturday?
She cradled the phone in her ear and checked the calendar.
The sauce bubbled on the stove.
This weekend?
Next.
So, next month. She flipped to the next month and the calendar fell off the fridge.
Just then the dog started barking in the next room, causing Ann to drop the phone.
She glanced over again at Maddie, who was still playing, and then reached down and picked up the phone.
Still there?
Yeah.
The dog kept barking.
Barney! Quiet!
She checked the calendar. Flipped the page to the next month. Next weekend. Friday. Next Friday with the Hancocks.
And then she turned around just in time to see Maddie standing on her tiptoes reaching for the saucepan. Somehow she managed to get her hand on the handle and pull it down. It skidded off the stove top, hit the oven handle and turned over in midair, sending the sauce showering all over--
"And pause right there."
Ann's monitor froze on the image of Maddie a split second before the molten hot spaghetti sauce hit.
"OK, Ann," said the voice in her earpiece. "Tell me your mistake."
"Can I take this thing off first?"
"Sure."
Ann pulled her virtual reality gloves off and then flipped the switches on the helmet and took it off, too.
"Better?"
"Much."
"OK. So, tell me what you did wrong."
And then Ann told Sergeant Rex what she thought she'd done wrong and he listened. Then they talked through her mistakes and what she could have done differently and also talked about all the things she had done right. Throughout the discussion, the focus was simple: helping to keep the baby as safe as possible. It was typical of the thousands of discussions that Sergeant Rex Brown had had as a baby safety consultant.
A lengthy and distinguished career as a staff sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps had shaped Rex Brown's into the perfect baby proofer. He had a falcon-like eye for detail, tireless vigilance, ironclad discipline, and an uncanny way of seeing a house through a self-destructive baby's eyes. He was the best in the business.
The recently retired Sergeant Rex had been drawn to baby safety after his own son almost choked to death on a toothpick that had fallen on the floor during a Fourth of July barbecue. Shortly after saving the child, Sergeant Rex waged a full out assault on safety hazards in and around their home. He did such a thorough job of baby proofing their house that his wife (half) joked to him that the only way they could have made things safer for their son would have been to put him in a plastic bubble and keep the bubble in a room lined with pillows. Although Sergeant Rex didn't see the humor in his wife's comments, he was satisfied with the work he had done.
So much so that soon he was volunteering to serve as a baby safety consultant/baby proofer for other expectant families in their neighborhood, and quickly developing a reputation as the most thorough baby proofer and most knowledgeable baby safety expert in the tri-state area.
By the end of the year, he had founded his own company: Sergeant Rex's Baby Proofing and Baby Safety Boot Camp.
Stone-faced but kind, Sergeant Rex tried to make couples feel comfortable with the baby proofing process while also making sure they understood the gravity of the situation. His sessions usually skewed more toward the stern and focused than the warm and fuzzy. In fact, in the early days of his career, many an expectant mother (and at least two fathers) were reduced to tears after he walked quietly from room to room in the client's home and shaking his head occasionally before saying any one of the following:
Your baby would stand a better chance of survival in the slums of Calcutta than in this room.
However much you got saved up for college should make a good down payment on your kid's funeral.
If this is what you call safe, I'd say save yourself the trouble and get an abortion. Baby Superman couldn't survive this deathtrap, much less your child.
Your baby is going to do everything in his power to kill himself. Don't you think you should at least make it a little challenging for him?
Over time, his wife was able to get him to soften his approach. The terror tactics get people's attention, but they also shut them down. You have to give more positive reinforcement, she said. And gradually he did.
But his tough guy image was impossible to shake. He had a linebacker's build, the same crew cut from his days as a Marine, and an intimidating Batman-like utility belt with innumerable gadgets, gauges, and tools to help him do his job.
Although his no-nonsense demeanor didn't exactly help people relax, the work he excelled at did. After Sergeant Rex had baby proofed a house, the place was secure.
Sergeant Rex was both high-tech and low-tech. He had wands that beeped, sensors that hummed, and handheld electronic devices that were straight out of Star Trek. But he also crawled on the floors, climbed on the walls, and touched, shook, jostled, checked, pushed, pulled, moved, removed, and lifted every thing in every room.
And then he gave his report along with his recommendations.
And then he baby proofed the site and talked the parents through what he had done.
And then he tested everything twice.
And when he was finished, the place was safe, and the parents knew it.
As his business grew, he hired other former Marines to help run his baby safety boot camps, which were weekend sessions where expectant couples spent two days and two nights receiving a master's course in baby safety, emergency training, simulation drills, and hands on practice at the state-of-the-art baby safety facility he built on the outskirts of his horse farm.
His motto in everything was: Be thorough. You may not remember all the ways you baby proofed your house. But you'll never forget the one way you didn't.
It was a motto that continues to serve him and his clients well. More than 20 years in the baby safety business, and his record is spotless.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
September 5 - Message from a Dying Father to His Unborn Son (part 2)
Hi son. It's me, your dad again. How's everything going out there in the world of the future? You guys got flying cars yet? Do they still use cell phones or has everyone moved on to chip implants? How about global warming? How did that one turn out? Are you and mom watching this on your houseboat? Ha ha. I hope not.
Anyway, this here is the second of what I hope will be--I don't know--a lot of videotaped messages from me to you. I'm sure your mom has already told you all about me and what happened to me and why I'm not around, but I wanted to make these tapes for you while I still feel strong enough and have them be my way of giving you fatherly advice before I go off to the great unknown, I guess you'd call it.
If you recall, the first one I made for you was all about advice on dating and finding the right woman and all that. This one here is going to be all about advice for dealing with, well, everybody else, in a way. I'll apologize in advance if this rambles, but I think you'll get what I'm going for and I hope you take it to heart.
Basically, son, it's a big world and there are a lot of people and a lot of ideas out there. And basically, I want you to listen to people and hear what they've got to say, even if you don't agree with them. It's OK to disagree with somebody, by the way, but be respectful. Even if you're sure you're right. Because the person you disagree with is probably sure he's right, too. And then what?
Try to listen to him, because basically, you're never going to know everything there is to know about a particular issue. Have enough faith in your opinion to hear the other guy out, and then maybe he'll do the same for you and then at least you'll have given each other's opinions a fair shake.
I wish more people would do that now, but all too often it seems like they don't have the time. It's a lot easier just to make up your mind and have that be that, but if you ask me that kind of oversimplification and rush to judgement can get you in trouble.
And by the way, if you are ignorant about any given issue, do yourself and everyone else a favor and keep your opinion to yourself. Seems these days some of the most ignorant people out there are the ones who have the strongest opinions and are the most outspoken about them. And some of the things that come out of their mouths are just plain ugly.
Speaking of ignorance and also racism and bigotry, here's a quick test: If you say something about some group that you wouldn't say if there was a person from that group around, there's a pretty good chance that what you're saying is bigoted. Just something to think about.
On that note, resist the temptation to make generalizations about any group of people. I promise you everyone out there is a lot more complex and multifaceted than you might think at first.
And on another related note, any angry and hysterical and irrational person you see on the news is on the news because he's angry and hysterical and irrational. Don't assume that everyone who is part of his 'group' feels the same way he does.
It all comes down to my 90/10 rule, which is: 90% of people in the world are good people who just want to live their lives. And the other 10% of people in the world are assholes. Sorry to use that kind of language, but by now I'm sure you've heard worse. Anyway, 90/10. Most people are just regular people trying to live and let live. But unfortunately, the 10% who are assholes are really assholes. They'll try to screw it up for everybody else any way they can, be it through violence, hatred, cheating, whatever. But no matter how assholish they get, remember: Yes, they might be loud and yes, they might do a lot of damage, but they're still the minority. Don't let them bring you down to their level.
Sorry if this all sounds preachy, but during the time I recorded this message it seemed like things were getting pretty ugly in our country. Lots of otherwise reasonable people were getting fired up and pissed off about a lot of things and trying to blame everything on whichever group it was that they weren't a part of. I don't want you to be like that. I don't want you to be angry, I want you to be happy. And when you encounter somebody new, I want you to see them as a person, not as part of a group. Now, that takes a lot more time and patience, but maybe if you do it, other people will do it too.
I like to think there's a big reasonable middle ground out there and that the reason we don't hear from them is that they're all still trying to figure it all out and want to hold off on getting pissed off until they've heard all sides of the story. Maybe we need more of those people to speak up and tell the loudmouths on both sides to quiet down and act like adults. Who knows?
I hope these kinds of problems are gone by the time you watch this, but unfortunately, I have a feeling they won't be. People believe what they believe and they can be mighty stubborn about it.
Just like I was afraid of, I'm rambling. Sorry about. Nothing worse than a rambling, preachy father yammering on and on from beyond the grave.
Anyway, just keep a cool head I guess is what I'm saying. Be smart. Talk to people and listen to people.
Like I said, I hope that by the time you get this message you'll be rolling your eyes about how upset I am about the current state of affairs. Hopefully you'll be watching this in a much more nuanced and enlightened time.
Either way, I wish I could be there to talk to you about these things and everything else. That's the understatement of the century, little man.
Wow, I guess this one was kind of a downer. I promise I'll try to make the next one more fun and lively.
Until then, I love you, son. Go give your mom a hug.
Anyway, this here is the second of what I hope will be--I don't know--a lot of videotaped messages from me to you. I'm sure your mom has already told you all about me and what happened to me and why I'm not around, but I wanted to make these tapes for you while I still feel strong enough and have them be my way of giving you fatherly advice before I go off to the great unknown, I guess you'd call it.
If you recall, the first one I made for you was all about advice on dating and finding the right woman and all that. This one here is going to be all about advice for dealing with, well, everybody else, in a way. I'll apologize in advance if this rambles, but I think you'll get what I'm going for and I hope you take it to heart.
Basically, son, it's a big world and there are a lot of people and a lot of ideas out there. And basically, I want you to listen to people and hear what they've got to say, even if you don't agree with them. It's OK to disagree with somebody, by the way, but be respectful. Even if you're sure you're right. Because the person you disagree with is probably sure he's right, too. And then what?
Try to listen to him, because basically, you're never going to know everything there is to know about a particular issue. Have enough faith in your opinion to hear the other guy out, and then maybe he'll do the same for you and then at least you'll have given each other's opinions a fair shake.
I wish more people would do that now, but all too often it seems like they don't have the time. It's a lot easier just to make up your mind and have that be that, but if you ask me that kind of oversimplification and rush to judgement can get you in trouble.
And by the way, if you are ignorant about any given issue, do yourself and everyone else a favor and keep your opinion to yourself. Seems these days some of the most ignorant people out there are the ones who have the strongest opinions and are the most outspoken about them. And some of the things that come out of their mouths are just plain ugly.
Speaking of ignorance and also racism and bigotry, here's a quick test: If you say something about some group that you wouldn't say if there was a person from that group around, there's a pretty good chance that what you're saying is bigoted. Just something to think about.
On that note, resist the temptation to make generalizations about any group of people. I promise you everyone out there is a lot more complex and multifaceted than you might think at first.
And on another related note, any angry and hysterical and irrational person you see on the news is on the news because he's angry and hysterical and irrational. Don't assume that everyone who is part of his 'group' feels the same way he does.
It all comes down to my 90/10 rule, which is: 90% of people in the world are good people who just want to live their lives. And the other 10% of people in the world are assholes. Sorry to use that kind of language, but by now I'm sure you've heard worse. Anyway, 90/10. Most people are just regular people trying to live and let live. But unfortunately, the 10% who are assholes are really assholes. They'll try to screw it up for everybody else any way they can, be it through violence, hatred, cheating, whatever. But no matter how assholish they get, remember: Yes, they might be loud and yes, they might do a lot of damage, but they're still the minority. Don't let them bring you down to their level.
Sorry if this all sounds preachy, but during the time I recorded this message it seemed like things were getting pretty ugly in our country. Lots of otherwise reasonable people were getting fired up and pissed off about a lot of things and trying to blame everything on whichever group it was that they weren't a part of. I don't want you to be like that. I don't want you to be angry, I want you to be happy. And when you encounter somebody new, I want you to see them as a person, not as part of a group. Now, that takes a lot more time and patience, but maybe if you do it, other people will do it too.
I like to think there's a big reasonable middle ground out there and that the reason we don't hear from them is that they're all still trying to figure it all out and want to hold off on getting pissed off until they've heard all sides of the story. Maybe we need more of those people to speak up and tell the loudmouths on both sides to quiet down and act like adults. Who knows?
I hope these kinds of problems are gone by the time you watch this, but unfortunately, I have a feeling they won't be. People believe what they believe and they can be mighty stubborn about it.
Just like I was afraid of, I'm rambling. Sorry about. Nothing worse than a rambling, preachy father yammering on and on from beyond the grave.
Anyway, just keep a cool head I guess is what I'm saying. Be smart. Talk to people and listen to people.
Like I said, I hope that by the time you get this message you'll be rolling your eyes about how upset I am about the current state of affairs. Hopefully you'll be watching this in a much more nuanced and enlightened time.
Either way, I wish I could be there to talk to you about these things and everything else. That's the understatement of the century, little man.
Wow, I guess this one was kind of a downer. I promise I'll try to make the next one more fun and lively.
Until then, I love you, son. Go give your mom a hug.
September 4 - The Pitch
The young man bounded into the conference room smiling. A secretary asked him if he needed a laptop for his PowerPoint.
"No laptop, no PowerPoint," he said confidently. "No need."
Then he clapped his hands once and spun around to face the table full of venture capitalists.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'll get straight to the point. The consensus within the health care industry is that adults need six to eight hours of sleep--per night!--to function optimally." He paused for effect. "Now. How many of you can honestly say you got six to eight hours of sleep last night?"
All ten of the people seated at the table raised their hands immediately.
Crap.
"Very good," he continued. "But how many of you would say that you got six to eight hours of sleep every night for the last week?"
Again, without hesitation, all ten raised their hands.
Really? Seriously? Jesus.
"Very good. Wow, I'm jealous. Ha ha. OK, but how many of you have gotten your full six to eight hours of sleep every night this mon--year?"
They looked at each other. A few of them shrugged.
"Ha ha! See, that's what I'm talking about! Everybody knows they're supposed to get a good night's sleep every night, but how many of us can honestly say that we do?"
Don't raise your hands. Don't raise your hands. Don't do it.
"Right!" he said as soon as it looked like some of them were about to raise their hands.
"And this room is not the exception, it's the rule. There have been studies." He nodded. "And what happens when you don't get enough sleep?"
He started walking around the table as he spoke. "Your productivity suffers. Your judgement, vision, and reaction time become impaired. You become sluggish, irritable. You don't perform as well as you should."
He stopped at the far end of the conference table.
"You don't get the most you can out of life."
Yeah. That's right. Have I got your attention yet?
"Now, occasional sleepless nights are inevitable. But what about prolonged stretches of time where you can't sleep a full night's sleep for weeks? For months? What then?"
The men and women at the table waited for him to tell them what then. One woman checked her watch.
"You suffer," the young man said, full of gravity. "And so does society."
Boom.
Chew on that for a while.
"But what about the times in your life when you sleep too much? What about the times when you're able to sleep nine, ten, even eleven hours a night? I'm talking college kids on summer vacation. I'm talking 20somethings on weekends. I'm talking the unemployed. I'm talking about anyone who has plenty of time to sleep. And that goes for all of us at some point. For better or for worse, there are times in all of our lives when we don't just get enough sleep. We get too much sleep. More sleep than we need."
Look at them. I've got them. I've totally got them.
"But why should those extra hours of sleep go to waste? Shouldn't you be able to save that sleep for a time when you need it?"
"Yes, my friends," he said nodding. "You should."
Then he whispered, "And you will."
He smiled.
Here comes the money shot.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said as he rested his hands dramatically on the end of the table. "I give you . . . Sleep Bank."
He didn't have a poster, no signs. Just his words. The venture capitalists waited for him to continue.
"Sleep Bank," he said again.
"Sorry," one of the men said, "but what is Sleep Bank?"
"Aha! Glad you asked, my friend!"
He marched around to the other side of the table again.
"Say you're getting a good eight hours of sleep a night. It's fantastic, super healthy, wonderful. You feel great. But! You could probably get by on seven, right? So what you can do is put one hour a night into Sleep Bank, sleep a restful and restorative seven hours a night, and then use that extra hour--or collection of extra hours--sometime later when you really need it."
The venture capitalists looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes.
Yeah, I think they're getting the picture. Reel them in, old boy. Reel them in. Nice and steady.
"Now, if we expand this to the macro level, the unemployed, the overly inactive, and the preternaturally lazy can store massive amounts of excess sleep in Sleep Bank and earn interest on it. They can even trade their sleep on the open market."
"I don't get how it works, though," said the man.
The young man smiled. "Sleep is the last great untapped commodity. Why shouldn't we be able to save it, preserve it, and use it when we need it? My wife and I got the idea when we were pregnant with our first kid and everyone was telling us how little sleep we were going to be getting once the baby arrived. Meanwhile, we were sleeping eight, nine hours a night during the pregnancy. And it seemed like such a waste to be losing all those extra hours. Why shouldn't we be able to store them up someplace--like a Sleep Bank--and use them later? Am I right?" He put his hands on his hips and nodded, smiling.
"No," the other man said. "I get the concept. It's a good one. But I don't understand how you go about saving up and trading sleep. I guess that's what I'm asking."
"Well that, my friend, is up to the research and development department."
The venture capitalists looked around the room, checked their iPhones and Blackberries, yawned.
"Hey," the young man said. "Nobody ever said Sleep Bank was going to be easy, but I've already done most of the heavy lifting here. I've come up with the idea, I've come up with the name, I've even come up with the taglines. All we have to do now is dot the t's and cross the i's, so to speak. On the science, that is. Ha ha." He distorted his voice. "She blinded me--with science! Ha ha."
Nothing.
"Thomas Dolby? Anyone? Hey, is this thing on? He he."
The investors looked at each other again. A few of them turned to the next page in their yellow legal pads.
Do something. You're losing them.
"Ha ha. So yeah, once we figure out the science--and I think you'll all agree with me that that part will totally go pretty fast--we'll all be richer than crap!"
The man who'd asked the most questions looked around the table and then nodded and said, "Thank you for your time."
"Rest assured!"
"Beg your pardon?"
"Rest assured! That's our tagline."
"Mm. Very catchy."
"A good night's sleep? You can bank on it!"
"Very good. Thank you."
"Say goodnight to sleepless nights-ness. Sleeplessness. Say goodnight to sleeplessness."
"OK."
"You'll be sleeping all the way to the bank!"
"Thanks. We'll be in touch."
The secretary escorted him out of the room. He popped his head back in. "Hey, tell you what. You can sleep on it! And tell me your answer in the morning. Ha ha. Talk to you soon!"
As the venture capitalists decided to break for lunch, they could still hear the young man singing while he waited for the elevator, "Let me sleep on it. Baby, baby, let me sleep on it. Let me sleep on it, I'll give you my answer in the morning. I gotta know right now!"
"No laptop, no PowerPoint," he said confidently. "No need."
Then he clapped his hands once and spun around to face the table full of venture capitalists.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'll get straight to the point. The consensus within the health care industry is that adults need six to eight hours of sleep--per night!--to function optimally." He paused for effect. "Now. How many of you can honestly say you got six to eight hours of sleep last night?"
All ten of the people seated at the table raised their hands immediately.
Crap.
"Very good," he continued. "But how many of you would say that you got six to eight hours of sleep every night for the last week?"
Again, without hesitation, all ten raised their hands.
Really? Seriously? Jesus.
"Very good. Wow, I'm jealous. Ha ha. OK, but how many of you have gotten your full six to eight hours of sleep every night this mon--year?"
They looked at each other. A few of them shrugged.
"Ha ha! See, that's what I'm talking about! Everybody knows they're supposed to get a good night's sleep every night, but how many of us can honestly say that we do?"
Don't raise your hands. Don't raise your hands. Don't do it.
"Right!" he said as soon as it looked like some of them were about to raise their hands.
"And this room is not the exception, it's the rule. There have been studies." He nodded. "And what happens when you don't get enough sleep?"
He started walking around the table as he spoke. "Your productivity suffers. Your judgement, vision, and reaction time become impaired. You become sluggish, irritable. You don't perform as well as you should."
He stopped at the far end of the conference table.
"You don't get the most you can out of life."
Yeah. That's right. Have I got your attention yet?
"Now, occasional sleepless nights are inevitable. But what about prolonged stretches of time where you can't sleep a full night's sleep for weeks? For months? What then?"
The men and women at the table waited for him to tell them what then. One woman checked her watch.
"You suffer," the young man said, full of gravity. "And so does society."
Boom.
Chew on that for a while.
"But what about the times in your life when you sleep too much? What about the times when you're able to sleep nine, ten, even eleven hours a night? I'm talking college kids on summer vacation. I'm talking 20somethings on weekends. I'm talking the unemployed. I'm talking about anyone who has plenty of time to sleep. And that goes for all of us at some point. For better or for worse, there are times in all of our lives when we don't just get enough sleep. We get too much sleep. More sleep than we need."
Look at them. I've got them. I've totally got them.
"But why should those extra hours of sleep go to waste? Shouldn't you be able to save that sleep for a time when you need it?"
"Yes, my friends," he said nodding. "You should."
Then he whispered, "And you will."
He smiled.
Here comes the money shot.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said as he rested his hands dramatically on the end of the table. "I give you . . . Sleep Bank."
He didn't have a poster, no signs. Just his words. The venture capitalists waited for him to continue.
"Sleep Bank," he said again.
"Sorry," one of the men said, "but what is Sleep Bank?"
"Aha! Glad you asked, my friend!"
He marched around to the other side of the table again.
"Say you're getting a good eight hours of sleep a night. It's fantastic, super healthy, wonderful. You feel great. But! You could probably get by on seven, right? So what you can do is put one hour a night into Sleep Bank, sleep a restful and restorative seven hours a night, and then use that extra hour--or collection of extra hours--sometime later when you really need it."
The venture capitalists looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes.
Yeah, I think they're getting the picture. Reel them in, old boy. Reel them in. Nice and steady.
"Now, if we expand this to the macro level, the unemployed, the overly inactive, and the preternaturally lazy can store massive amounts of excess sleep in Sleep Bank and earn interest on it. They can even trade their sleep on the open market."
"I don't get how it works, though," said the man.
The young man smiled. "Sleep is the last great untapped commodity. Why shouldn't we be able to save it, preserve it, and use it when we need it? My wife and I got the idea when we were pregnant with our first kid and everyone was telling us how little sleep we were going to be getting once the baby arrived. Meanwhile, we were sleeping eight, nine hours a night during the pregnancy. And it seemed like such a waste to be losing all those extra hours. Why shouldn't we be able to store them up someplace--like a Sleep Bank--and use them later? Am I right?" He put his hands on his hips and nodded, smiling.
"No," the other man said. "I get the concept. It's a good one. But I don't understand how you go about saving up and trading sleep. I guess that's what I'm asking."
"Well that, my friend, is up to the research and development department."
The venture capitalists looked around the room, checked their iPhones and Blackberries, yawned.
"Hey," the young man said. "Nobody ever said Sleep Bank was going to be easy, but I've already done most of the heavy lifting here. I've come up with the idea, I've come up with the name, I've even come up with the taglines. All we have to do now is dot the t's and cross the i's, so to speak. On the science, that is. Ha ha." He distorted his voice. "She blinded me--with science! Ha ha."
Nothing.
"Thomas Dolby? Anyone? Hey, is this thing on? He he."
The investors looked at each other again. A few of them turned to the next page in their yellow legal pads.
Do something. You're losing them.
"Ha ha. So yeah, once we figure out the science--and I think you'll all agree with me that that part will totally go pretty fast--we'll all be richer than crap!"
The man who'd asked the most questions looked around the table and then nodded and said, "Thank you for your time."
"Rest assured!"
"Beg your pardon?"
"Rest assured! That's our tagline."
"Mm. Very catchy."
"A good night's sleep? You can bank on it!"
"Very good. Thank you."
"Say goodnight to sleepless nights-ness. Sleeplessness. Say goodnight to sleeplessness."
"OK."
"You'll be sleeping all the way to the bank!"
"Thanks. We'll be in touch."
The secretary escorted him out of the room. He popped his head back in. "Hey, tell you what. You can sleep on it! And tell me your answer in the morning. Ha ha. Talk to you soon!"
As the venture capitalists decided to break for lunch, they could still hear the young man singing while he waited for the elevator, "Let me sleep on it. Baby, baby, let me sleep on it. Let me sleep on it, I'll give you my answer in the morning. I gotta know right now!"
Friday, September 3, 2010
September 3 - Honey, I'm Home
"Honey, I'm home."
Ben walked into the kitchen through the backdoor, an empty cooler slung over one shoulder and a backpack over the other.
"Don't come near me. I reek," he said, giving his wife a peck on the cheek and then carrying the cooler and the backpack down to the basement.
"How are the little ones?" he asked as he got upstairs and went out the backdoor to the Rodeo. "I'm listening," he yelled from outside. "I just want to get this stuff out of here before I take a shower."
He came back a minute later with a sleeping bag, a tent, and a pair of hiking boots, which he took to the basement.
"Hey, whose cars are those?" he called from the basement.
He came back upstairs.
"You OK?" he asked his wife. "You're kind of quiet."
It was the first time he'd really stopped to look at her since he got back. She had a blank and dazed expression he had never seen in their 11 years of marriage.
He looked at her straight on. "Honey? What's wrong? Are you OK?"
She didn't give him any response other than continuing to stare at him. He reached up to massage her shoulders and she flinched away, but then reached up to touch his face, tentatively, like it might be booby trapped.
"My God," she said. "It's really you."
He chuckled unconvincingly, hoping to disarm the situation. "Um, yeah."
He waited for her to say something more, but she didn't. "What's going on? You're being really--" He stopped himself. "Are you OK?"
"You're . . . alive."
He looked at her in disbelief for a few seconds, expecting her to explain herself, but she didn't say anything more. "What are you talking about?" he asked her. "Of course I'm alive." He looked around the room. "Where are the kids?"
A tear formed in her eye and rolled down her cheek.
"Oh my God, you're alive," she said, and then more tears began trickling and then streaming down her face.
"Jesus, Karen." He tried to hug her, but she recoiled.
"Don't touch me," she sobbed. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" She backed away from him, collapsed in the corner, and cried.
A tall man walked in and went over to her. "Karen, are you OK?" He stooped down and put his hand on her shoulder. "Karen, talk to me."
When she didn't respond, he looked at Ben. "What did you do to her?"
"What--? Who the fuck are you?"
"Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm Ben. I'm her husband."
The man looked at Ben like he'd just told him that he was the Antichrist. Then he returned to trying to comfort Karen.
"Hey!" yelled Ben. "I asked you a question, asshole. Who the fuck are you?"
He stood up and said, "I'm Dan," with the confidence and defiance one might answer the same question with, 'I'm the governor,' or 'I'm the captain' or 'I'm the CEO.'
"OK Dan, let me rephrase my question," said Ben, stepping toward him. "Who the fuck are you?"
At this Karen stood up. The tears were gone and a smile spread across her face. She took a deep breath. "Dan is in my improv acting group."
Ben looked back and forth between Dan and Karen. Dan smiled and shrugged.
"We're rehearsing a new play here today," she continued.
Another man and two more women came into the kitchen from the living room. They each had a script in their hands.
"And I think we've got the scene down."
Ben looked at his wife for a few more seconds, shook his head, and then went to the fridge to get a beer.
"Honey, I'm so sorry," she said as she hugged him and the rest of her improv group clamored around him and patted his back and clapped.
Ben took a long pull from his beer and then looked at each of them quietly for a second, landing on Karen.
"You assholes," he said, and then after a few seconds he laughed and the tension was broken. Those kinds of moments happen when overly creative former drama majors marry guys that they think go on too many weekend camping trips.
Ben walked into the kitchen through the backdoor, an empty cooler slung over one shoulder and a backpack over the other.
"Don't come near me. I reek," he said, giving his wife a peck on the cheek and then carrying the cooler and the backpack down to the basement.
"How are the little ones?" he asked as he got upstairs and went out the backdoor to the Rodeo. "I'm listening," he yelled from outside. "I just want to get this stuff out of here before I take a shower."
He came back a minute later with a sleeping bag, a tent, and a pair of hiking boots, which he took to the basement.
"Hey, whose cars are those?" he called from the basement.
He came back upstairs.
"You OK?" he asked his wife. "You're kind of quiet."
It was the first time he'd really stopped to look at her since he got back. She had a blank and dazed expression he had never seen in their 11 years of marriage.
He looked at her straight on. "Honey? What's wrong? Are you OK?"
She didn't give him any response other than continuing to stare at him. He reached up to massage her shoulders and she flinched away, but then reached up to touch his face, tentatively, like it might be booby trapped.
"My God," she said. "It's really you."
He chuckled unconvincingly, hoping to disarm the situation. "Um, yeah."
He waited for her to say something more, but she didn't. "What's going on? You're being really--" He stopped himself. "Are you OK?"
"You're . . . alive."
He looked at her in disbelief for a few seconds, expecting her to explain herself, but she didn't say anything more. "What are you talking about?" he asked her. "Of course I'm alive." He looked around the room. "Where are the kids?"
A tear formed in her eye and rolled down her cheek.
"Oh my God, you're alive," she said, and then more tears began trickling and then streaming down her face.
"Jesus, Karen." He tried to hug her, but she recoiled.
"Don't touch me," she sobbed. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" She backed away from him, collapsed in the corner, and cried.
A tall man walked in and went over to her. "Karen, are you OK?" He stooped down and put his hand on her shoulder. "Karen, talk to me."
When she didn't respond, he looked at Ben. "What did you do to her?"
"What--? Who the fuck are you?"
"Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm Ben. I'm her husband."
The man looked at Ben like he'd just told him that he was the Antichrist. Then he returned to trying to comfort Karen.
"Hey!" yelled Ben. "I asked you a question, asshole. Who the fuck are you?"
He stood up and said, "I'm Dan," with the confidence and defiance one might answer the same question with, 'I'm the governor,' or 'I'm the captain' or 'I'm the CEO.'
"OK Dan, let me rephrase my question," said Ben, stepping toward him. "Who the fuck are you?"
At this Karen stood up. The tears were gone and a smile spread across her face. She took a deep breath. "Dan is in my improv acting group."
Ben looked back and forth between Dan and Karen. Dan smiled and shrugged.
"We're rehearsing a new play here today," she continued.
Another man and two more women came into the kitchen from the living room. They each had a script in their hands.
"And I think we've got the scene down."
Ben looked at his wife for a few more seconds, shook his head, and then went to the fridge to get a beer.
"Honey, I'm so sorry," she said as she hugged him and the rest of her improv group clamored around him and patted his back and clapped.
Ben took a long pull from his beer and then looked at each of them quietly for a second, landing on Karen.
"You assholes," he said, and then after a few seconds he laughed and the tension was broken. Those kinds of moments happen when overly creative former drama majors marry guys that they think go on too many weekend camping trips.
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