March 21, 2006 12:48 PM

They're Coming to Take Me Away...

My daughter Shae and I went to see Final Destination 3 the other day. I didn't enjoy Final Destination One and Two all that much, so I didn't expect to enjoy FD3. But I came to a realization: This movie doesn't try to build dramatic tension by posing the question, "How will these kids get out of this terrible jam?" Rather it tries to be entertaining by posing the question, "What sick and twisted way will each of these kids bite the big one?" Once you come to terms with that, you can relax and enjoy the gorefest.

So a few days later, we are at Shae's school for a parent/teacher conference. Shae is in a cheerful mood.

"My dad and I went to see Final Destination 3," she says to her teacher.

Ms. Covington raises an eyebrow as if to say "Nice wholesome entertainment."

Come on, I say to myself. She's almost seventeen.

"My dad laughed every time someone died," she said.

"I did not," I protested.

"Yes you did," she said.

So I thought about it. Some of the deaths were pretty funny, but I don't think I laughed when the nail gun used a girl's head for a pincushion, or when the preppy chicks turned into french-fries in the tanning beds. But I did laugh at some of the others.

"Okay, maybe I laughed at some of them," I said.

"He was the only one laughing," she continued.

Now, I'm starting to feel bad.

So we go into her counselor's office.

"We saw Final Destination 3. Dad laughed every time someone died."

Nice, the counselor said, not with words, but with her expression.

A few days later, she tells me, "Hey Dad, everyone thinks you're twisted for laughing every time someone died in FD3."

Everyone? "Who all did you tell?"

"My friends, my friends' parents. My psychiatrist."

"Your shrink? You told your shrink?"

She smiled smugly.

So I am thinking, A) No wonder this kid has a psychiatrist. Her dad laughs every time someone dies. B) Her psychiatrist is probably signing the papers now to have me committed.

So, I've been waiting ever since for the other shoe to fall.

One more time, as loud as you can, how does it go?

They're coming to take me away, ha, ha, ho, ho, hee, hee...

February 05, 2006 11:45 AM

Darned Six-Cylinder Words

Shae, my 16-year-old daughter, had an unfortunate encounter with the side of the garage while backing out our 1990 Honda Accord. Ripped the bumper clean off. I had other mechanical issues with the car, so I took it down to the local repair shop.

"And while you're looking at it," I said, "Could you see if you guys can get the front bumper back on? It's sittin' in the back seat."

"The bumper?" asked Jack, one of the nicest service writers you'll ever meet. "You mean the bumper cover? It's a big plastic piece."

"Yeah," I said. "That thing."

The bumper is that big black ugly thing that the bumper cover attaches to.

As Jack busied himself at the computer, Cecilia and Brandon, the other service writers on duty, made small talk.

Jack typed in all the things we had discussed. He typed, asked a question, then typed some more.

Finally he asked, "How do you spell 'fascia'?"

Fascia?

That stopped Cecilia and Brandon stone cold. "What?" They asked in unison. Cecilia looked at Jack like he had worms crawling out of his ears.

"I think it starts with an 'F'," I offered.

"What are you talking about?" Brandon asked.

"The bumper cover," Jack replied. "It's called a fascia."

Now, Brandon looked at Jack like he had worms crawling out of his ears.

"Just say 'bumper cover'," Brandon said with no enthusiasm. The coffee hadn't yet kicked in. "Those guys back there won't know what you're talking about if you say 'fascia'."

Jack nodded. "Bumper cover."

Darned six-cylinder words.

***

This incident reminded me of another brush with an anomalous vocabulary that happened a few years back.

Daughter Ray, who's now 20, was a freshman in high school. Her freshman year, she was a cheerleader. A big football game was coming up, and the girls were in the gym making signs. Signs like "Go 'Stangs!" and "Yea, Team!"

Ray and her cheerleader friends busied themselves with painting signs and hanging them in the gym so the signs could be transported to the football field once they were dry.

In walks the coach. He eyes each of the signs, smiling and nodding. His eye catches one sign in particular, and he reads it out loud.

"Pul-ver-ize the Panthers."

He pauses for a moment and then says, "Girls, you can't use big words like that. This is football. Those guys out there on the field aren't going to know what you're talking about."

Pul-ver-ize.

He turns and leaves.

Sheesh! Darned six-cylinder words.

October 12, 2005 07:45 PM

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

Just a little background: I am the IT Director for a "major market research company" in the Dallas area.  I’ve been working for the same company going on 28 years.  

A few years ago I was standing around, talking to a few of our software developers, reminiscing about Star Wars.

"Yeah," said Brandon.  "Star Wars was great.  Anything that came before it was blown completely out of the water.  Nothing even came close."

"Yeah," said Greg.  "Say, what Star Wars toys did you have?"

"Everything," replied Brandon.  "I had all the action figures, a couple of light sabers.  But the coolest were the Imperial Walkers."

The others chimed in with oohs and ahs.  Yeah.  Imperial Walkers.

I was beset by a sudden wave of melancholy.  Don’t get me wrong.  This was all well and good.  I love Star Wars.  I love talking about Star Wars.  You will find no greater Star Wars fan than me anywhere in the galaxy.  But the conversation had taken an unexpected turn.

Star Wars toys.  Hmmm.

"Wait a minute," I said.  "You guys had Star Wars toys when you were kids?"

"Yeah," said Greg enthusiastically.  "Imperial Cruisers, Imperial Walkers.  Light sabers.  Action figures.  You name it."  He raised an eyebrow.  "You mean you didn't?"

I studied the coffee stain on the floor.  It somehow resembled Princess Leia's hairdo.  

I realize that I suddenly felt a little out of place in this conversation, and I wondered if my hair was looking a little grayer than usual.  

Finally, I blurted out what was on my mind.

"I didn’t have Star Wars toys because I was working here when Star Wars came out."

Eyes grew wide, and there were snickers all around.  "Sucks to be you," someone said.

Yeah.  It sucks to be me.

"Don't you guys have something to do?" I finally said and stormed off.

***

Memories of all this came flooding in the other day as my family and I watched When Star Wars Ruled the World, a behind-the-scenes documentary about the making of Star Wars.  It aired on VH1.  

The documentary was talking about how many times people had seen Star Wars in the theater when it first came out.  

Some people had seen it scores of times.  In an interview with Kevin Smith, he talked about how he was relieved when Revenge of the Jedi finally came out because he knew he was never going to get laid if he was traipsing off to the movies all the time going to see Star Wars.  

"How many times did you see Star Wars, Dad?" asked Ray, my 20-year-old daughter.

"You mean in the theater?  Not counting on video?"

"Yeah.  In the theater."

"I think I saw it seven times."

Ray laughed.  I love it when Ray laughs.  She has this evil sounding cackle.

"Seven?  You saw it seven times?"

"In the theater," I said.  Of course I knew where she was going with this, but I thought it would be fun to play along.  "I know that kind of pales to 28 times that some of these guys saw it."

My wife looks up from her magazine.  "I don’t think she's laughing at you because you only saw it seven times.  She’s thinking that even seven was excessive."  

Rachel is smirking.  Her finger and thumb go to her forehead in the shape of an "L".

"Oh, wait a minute," I continued.  "That only counts the times I saw it the first time around.  I saw it at least two more times in the theater with you guys when they re-released it a few years back.  That makes nine."

Rachel covered her mouth and pointed at me.

Heavy sigh.  

I turned up the volume on the TV to drown out the snickering so I could hear more of the tale that told of an age a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, when Star Wars did rule the world, and I secretly sat in the theater rapt in wonder, hoping someone would show up and give me my father's light saber and whisk me off to save the galaxy.  

August 19, 2005 06:15 PM

Boss the Plane

The other day I was at Blockbuster. We have one of those in-store movie passes which means that we can have unlimited movie rentals, but can only have two movies rented at a time. This arrangement works fine for us.

It was a busy night at Blockbuster and the line was longer than usual. Then I notice why the line is long. There are two cash registers working, but one of them is tied up with an irate customer.

Now this customer is as Caucasian as me. Okay, there's some chance that you don't know how Caucasian I am. Let's say this man is as Caucasian as Brad Pitt. Not as good looking, though. But I digress.

Says the customer: "But I do, have a movie pass." He fumbles for his wallet. "But I can't seem to find my card. My wife probably has it."

"I'm sorry, sir," says the lad at the cash register. "I can't find a movie pass for you. It's not in the system."

I kind of zone out for a while. Several meaningless thoughts ramble through my mind.

I wonder if I remembered to lock my desk.

I wonder how she gets her hair to do that.

I wonder why she would ever want her hair to do that.

I wonder what I would do if those were my kids.

I wonder how many teeth I have. One, two, three...

I wonder what the dogs are doing.

I wonder how pissed my wife is going to be with my movie selections.

A man a plan a canal Panama ... Wow! It really is a palindrome.

"I can help the next person in line," says the other clerk.

The line inches forward.

I look over at Brad Pitt. "But I do have a movie pass. I've had it for months," he says.

The clerk scratches his head.

I look ahead of me in line. There are still three people in front of me.

Man, this line is moving slow.

They're not going to get many customers through running only one cash register.

I'll bet this never happens at Netflix.

I wonder what's for dinner?

What did I have for lunch? Oh yeah. A Honey-Balsamic Vinaigrette Chicken TV Dinner. Yum.

What's it got in it's pocketsessss?

I wonder if anyone ever notices the gross fungus on my toenail.

"I can help the next person in line," says the other clerk.

We inch forward.

Finally, I get my turn at the cash register.

"Hello, Mr. Moondog," says the clerk.

"That's Moon-dawg," I say.

"Whatever," he replies. "Did you find everything?"

"Sure did. Thanks for asking."

I look down at the other cash register.

"But I can't find you in the system as having a movie pass."

"Can you get the manager?"

Say. That's a good idea.

The manager approaches the cash register. The clerk explains the situation. The manager looks at the computer and taps a couple of keys.

"Nope," he says. "The system doesn't show that you have a movie pass."

Brad Pitt blurts out a heavy sigh and rolls his eyes.

I wonder what he'd be saying if he didn't have his five-year-old son with him?

The manager taps a few more keys, purses his lips, raises eyebrows and shakes his head. All of the sudden (and this is the reason that I'm sure that Blockbuster managers make the big bucks) this light seems to go on over the manager's head.

He touches the computer screen as if to straighten it a little. He looks at the screen. He looks at Brad Pitt. He sizes up Mr. Pitt. Blond hair. Fair skin. He looks at the screen again. Back to Brad.

"Sir," he says. "Are you Roberto Montalban?"

Roberto Montalban? Ricardo's brother maybe?

"No."

He probably doesn't drive a Cordova either.

The manager smiles a self-satisfied smile. The clerk shrugs. The manager punches a few keys.

"You're right, sir. You do have a movie pass."

No joke.

The manager gives Brad Pitt his DVDs.

I take my movies and realize that this little drama was probably way better than either of the movies I have in my hand.

I sigh, and shake my head.

Now that's entertainment.

July 28, 2005 12:45 PM

Baby You Can Drive My Car

She's driving now. I'm referring to Shae, my youngest. She's 16, and after one delay or another, she now has a driving permit.

"Let's go to Blockbuster, Dad," she said.

"Okay, let's," I replied.

Then she said the three words that at one time or another most parents learn to fear.

"Can I drive?"

Heavy sigh.

"That's a busy intersection," I said. "The lanes are narrow, there are lots of cars. And that parking lot is awful."

"Come on, Dad," she said. "I've been doing really good. Besides, I have to learn the busy intersections sometime."

She had a point. But why today, I thought.

She held out her hand for the car keys. I paused for a moment. I reached for the keys and twirled them once around my finger, the way a gunslinger twirls his gun in the old westerns. Then I held them out for her, but my fingers didn't seem to want to let go.

"Da-aad!" she said, smiling, cocking her head to one side, continuing to hold out her hand.

In the end I couldn't say no to that bright smile and sparkly blue eyes, so I dropped the keys into the palm of her hand.

We made our way through the neighborhood. She was doing well, driving at a safe speed and coming to a complete stop at the stop signs. Pulling out onto the main street was a little rough, but she managed just fine.

Then we made a right turn into the Blockbuster parking lot. There was a parking spot on the left, so she started maneuvering toward it. Her turn was a little wide, and it was clear to me that she wasn't going to make it without creaming this bright red truck on my side of the car.

"Stop," I said.

She slowed, but didn't stop.

"STOP," I said again, just a little bit louder.

The car is still moving at this point.

"STOP!!!!" I shout. "STOP!"

Finally, she stops the car, just inches from the taillight of this big red truck.

Let me say a word about the truck. It was big and beautiful, and kind of a candy apple red. I am sure that the owner was extremely picky about this vehicle and would not have taken kindly at all to having his rear left tail light smashed by a teenager who was learning to drive.

"Hey," I said. "Stop, means STOP!" I was breathing pretty hard by now.

"What?" she said more as a statement than a question. "I'm not going to hit it."

"If you keep going, you will," I said. "Back up a little and steer to the left."

She did, and finally got parked. Then I looked straight ahead, and there was this couple sitting in a car that was now nose-to-nose with ours.

And wouldn't you know, the couple is laughing. The woman has her hand on her chest. The man's head is tilted back. They are enjoying this way too much.

"Okay," I said. "Especially in parking lot situations, stop means STOP. Do you get it now?"

"Jeez, Dad. Don't have a coronary," she said.

I look up again and the couple is still laughing as they back out of their parking space.

I just shake my head and roll my eyes, taking comfort in the fact that the curse is real.

There is a curse you know. It goes something like, "Just wait 'til you have kids."

I can't see the back of their car, but I'm sure it has a bumper sticker on it that says something like, "My Golden Retriever is smarter than your honor student". Someday, that bumper sticker will be replaced by one that says, "My middle-school dropout beat up your honor student."

So I take a deep breath or two and we get out of the car.

"What are you going to rent," I asked.

"2 Fast 2 Furious," she said.

"Very funny," I replied.

June 29, 2005 08:39 AM

Gezundheit

This is pretty cool. It's a movie of a comet "sneezing" as taken from Nasa's Deep Impact Probe a few days ago.

Here's the full story.

The Deep Impact Craft is to deploy an impactor on July 4th that will slam into the comet and then film what happens.

With any luck this WON'T nudge Comet Tempel 1 into Earth's path.

May 27, 2005 08:10 PM

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

I guess by now I've seen too many scary movies in my lifetime. My mind, I have discovered, when given half a chance, will jump to the most macabre conclusion it can jump to given any set of circumstances.

Example:

I live in the suburbs of a pretty darned large city. Even so, we have our share of wildlife (at least as much as you're going to see in a metropolitan area of more than 5 million people). A few years ago you might have seen an occasional coyote and you might have even heard them howl at night. Small pets would come up missing.

Coyotes don't seem to be much of a problem anymore.

However, squirrels are quite common as are bunny rabbits. I see an occasional possum and raccoon, and if you get a few miles out of town, you'll see quite a few armadillos.

But today I saw something close up that I don't think I've ever seen that close up (at least not in the city).

My youngest daughter and I were returning home after a nice lunch together. And there perched on my neighbor's fence was a large buzzard. It took me a moment to register what it was. I slowed down to take a look. It was butt-ugly.

"Holy cow!" I exclaimed.

"What is it?" Shae asked.

"I think it's a buzzard."

"Honk at it," she said.

"No," I replied. "I think not."

I inched the car closer and apparently the motion of the car spooked it because then it swooped off the fence into my neighbor's back yard. I was starting feel like a kid who had just scored a touchdown for the opposing team. I had just scared a freaking buzzard into my neighbor's yard.

Gee, thanks, Moon-dawg, I'm sure they would have said if they had witnessed the event. Just what I wanted in my backyard. My very own buzzard.

Just trying to do the neighborly thing.

I pulled into our driveway, went into the house and picked up the phone. I called the police directly rather than dialing 911.

"Hello," I said to the police dispatcher. "I need to report something. I don't think it's an emergency, but I saw a buzzard hanging around my neighbor's backyard."

"I'll transfer you to animal control," she said. And off I went to animal control.

But I didn't really want to talk to animal control. I wanted to talk to the police. Because as I said earlier, I have an evil, twisted mind. And I was starting to wonder what it was in my neighbor's backyard that a freaking buzzard might be interested in.

Suddenly I had this vision of John Wayne Gacy sitting in his undershirt sipping warm beer hollering at his wife, "Honey, why don't you go ahead and lay down another bag of lime. It's getting pretty ripe in here."

But I digress.

"Animal Control," a friendly female voice said.

I told her my story.

"What color was it?"

"Black," I said.

"That was a turkey buzzard, sir," she said. "We get them all the time."

"I don't think I've ever seen one in town," I said.

"Yes sir," she said. "They're all around here. They do more good than harm."

"What good do they do? I mean, what do they eat?"

"Road kill mainly. They do a pretty good job of taking care of that for us."

Hmmm, I thought to myself. I always thought the city took care of that. I wonder if any buzzards are on the payroll, or if they clean up carrion on their own time.

"Okay," I said. "Thanks." And I hung up the phone.

Later that day I was out with my other daughter. We were just coming back from seeing Star Wars, Return of the Sith.

"Just drop me off at Sarah's," she said.

"Okee dokee."

So instead of driving around front to gain easy access to the alley, I stayed on the main road, which runs right behind the house on the other side of the alley. Okay, I know I'm losing you. Here's an illustration:

And by now you've seen the punch line: A dead raccoon. And I might add, the biggest dead raccoon I think I had ever seen in civilization. And there it lay ripening up on the side of the road.

"That explains the buzzard," I said.

Silence.

Okay. It annoyed me a little that I didn't even get a "What buzzard?" out of Ray. I'm sure in her mind, she was just thinking, Oh, that's Dad just saying one of his weird Dad things.

So I explained the whole thing to her as if she had asked.

"Oh," she replied.

"Yeah," I said.

And I dropped her off at her friend's.

On the way back home I reflected on the day's events. I thought about my neighbor and how I had pictured him as John Wayne Gacy throwing another body into the lime pit. I felt kind of bad about that, even though he will probably never know I thought that. So I sent him a silent blessing and apology.

And my thoughts returned to the buzzard. In some strange way I found myself hoping he managed to avoid cars long enough to have a really fine feast later that evening.

I told you I was twisted.

May 06, 2005 12:30 PM

Butterflies Are Free

I was working outside and I was being a curmudgeon about it. I am a little bit ashamed to say that I hate yard work. It takes me away from other things I would rather be doing. Strangely, I love the out of doors. I just hate yard work.

Okay. I'll admit that I really was being a curmudgeon. It was one of the most beautiful days on record for doing yard work. It was 66 degrees outside. The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day, and yes, I was being resentful.

Now if I stop and think about it, I can come up with a myriad of ways that the Universe can respond when one takes on a bad attitude, especially when things are going well. Sometimes the Source of All seems to remind us how good we have it by sending us something not so pleasant in contrast. I shudder to think.

But on this day, I was not presented with such a reminder. Instead I was blessed with a display of beauty so remarkable that it stopped me in my tracks. Literally. As I stood in my back yard, weedeater in hand, an incredibly beautiful specimen of a butterfly lay lifeless on the ground at my feet. Immediately I got the message.

So I thoughtfully picked up this little creature, took it inside, placed it in a Ziploc baggie and tacked it to my music room wall. And there it stays as a reminder that blessings can be found anywhere, anytime, doing anything--even doing something you don't want to be doing in the first place.

Now, I don't know of the circumstances of the butterfly's demise, and I hope that it didn't suffer. But I am most thankful that my reminder to count my blessings was gentle and kind.

April 12, 2005 12:48 PM

Does Anyone Really Know What Time it Is?

At some point on Sunday, I looked at my watch and I realized that it had stopped. I've got this Casio digital geek watch (alarm clock, stop watch, timer, etc.) I've had a few digital watches in my time, but I've never had one just stop. But there it was stopped 5:36:39 in the AM.

My first thought was that maybe the battery had given out. I've had this watch for 6 or 7 years and I've never replaced the battery once. (At least I don't remember ever having replaced it). But usually, when a battery goes dead in a digital watch, the display just fades away. The display was fine. It was just stuck. And none of the buttons worked.

So I was thinking. Just last week my wife had taken a ring to get resized for one of our daughters.

"Do you think you could take my watch in and have them look at it when you pick up the ring?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "What's wrong with your watch?"

"I dunno," I replied. "It just stopped. Probably the battery. Whatever it is, I'm pretty sure they could figure it out right away."

I know what you're thinking. What kind of self-respecting geek sends his digital watch to the jewelers to have a battery replaced?

Well, it's like this. I've tried to replace a battery in a digital watch before. And it's hard. The screws are little bitty, and there is always a little microscopic clip that has an even tinier screw holding it in. The jeweler has this humongous magnifying glass, and all the right tools to do it lickity split. And they'll do it for not much more than the cost of a battery.

Later my wife called. "I got your watch fixed," she said.

"Excellent," I replied. "Was it the battery?"

"No," she said. "He said you messed it up changing the battery."

"He said what?" I exclaimed.

She repeated herself.

"But I didn't touch it. That's why I sent it with you."

"I know," she said.

"So you told them that I hadn't messed with it...right? I mean you defended my honor!?"

"No, not really."

"So what did you say, then?"

"I said something like, 'Well, how about that?'."

I was flabbergasted.

"Why didn't you tell them that I hadn't messed with it?"

"There didn't seem any point," she said.

There didn't seem any point. Hmmm.

"So how much did it cost to have it fixed?"

"Nothing," she said. "They fixed it for free. They said when you took it apart, you didn't get it put back together right and the watch didn't line up with the buttons."

Hmph. Argh. Frzl.

"I didn't mess with the watch!"

"I know," she said. "I suppose that next time I could make them take my money so that I could argue with them."

There went my steam.

I mumbled something and hung up the phone. What more was there to say?

God, I love that woman.

March 30, 2005 08:26 AM

Who would have thunk?

I suppose a person can get a patent on darned near anything...including the beloved combover.

And don't miss the diagram.

(Thanks RE).

March 17, 2005 06:25 PM

Shop 'til you drop

My friend Milton had this to say about a recent shopping trip:

Yes, I did it. As a man in his 50's, I went to the mall, by myself, to attempt to purchase clothing (for myself). I have done this in the past, with varying degrees of success. Tonight was a successful venture too. But everyone's definition of success in shopping may not match my, very low, standards.

I went to Mervyn's. I like Mervyn's. The reason I like Mervyn's is because I understand them. They have a selection of men's clothing over in ONE section. I can pick and chose among the things they have and buy or not buy. Simple, to the point. And I had to neither run past the "Fragrance Counter", nor the ladies lingerie. The latter always leaves me feeling a bit like a voyeur.

Anyway, bought some trousers (because pants is a stupid word), and a shirt. Big event for a man alone in a Mall!

Next, I ventured into Foley's. Now this is an intimidating store. First off, it's massive. And of course, all the help dresses way better than I do. Hey, but so does my mechanic. Still, they were having a 50% off sale on lots of stuff. Not sure why, but who cares. Bought a couple brand name dress shirts for $20 each. That's a deal even I understand. But before I get to the climax of the story, understand this. I walked into the store from the mall at the first level. Men's clothing was on my right. I love simple.

Okay, I'd burned a solid hour by now and was on my way out to my truck when I remembered I have a Dillard's gift certificate my mom gave me for Xmas (btw, it's mid-March). Now my mom is not wealthy and it's only $25, but hell, I got a shirt for $20 at Foley's maybe I can spend the gift certificate at Dillard's, and get another shirt.

I ventured into Dillard's. It's massive. And of course, I enter at the lingerie entrance. What a surprise. Discreetly walking through this section, past a bed (clever advertising don't you think), I circumnavigate the first floor. Note, now I passed the lingerie twice, and will have to again on my way out. But the point is, not an article of male apparel in sight. Clearly, I expect, they have men's ware on the second floor. I go up the convenient escalator. Understand, my method is to circumnavigate the escalators. Else I could be in there for days.

I'm on the second floor. I circle around the escalators, admiring the crystal vases, untold volume of ladies clothing, shoes, and accessories. Not an article of men's clothing in sight. So I expand my circle. Safe as long as you go in one direction and always left.

Now, I've seen luggage, more ladies ware, children's ware ... I think. Hell, I just don't know. I'm now overwhelmed, because I just want to spend my gift card on a damn shirt!

I spot a nicely dressed mature lady. I ask her, "Do you sell men's clothing?" ... She laughed. Right out loud. Then pointed down one of the aisles. Humiliated, I did as directed. That's always a good thing to do when attempting shopping. Just do what you're told. I got to the men's ware. What a pitiful mess. It's spring time. Lots of pink golf shirts and the sort of thing my gay friends would like. I want a $25 gray dress shirt.

I find the dress shirts. They're blue (as in sky blue), red, pink, striped and not many of them... and nothing mundane like I need/want. I put my beloved card away. I think I'll go home and give it to my wife. She understands shopping and malls. And finally, I conclude, Dillard's is a store for female shoppers only. I'm not going back. It's just too imposing, intimidating, and in the end humiliating. I mean, ... she laughed ... right out loud.

March 11, 2005 08:46 AM

In some parts this is a delicacy?

Boy, I hope this doesn't become a trend.

February 23, 2005 12:45 PM

Shouting as a Second Language

The corner gas station by our house has a guy that makes tacos. He has a nice grill in the back of the store. And the tacos are really pretty good. Keep in mind that they're nothing like what you would get at a Taco Bell or Taco Bueno.

There's only one problem with this set up and it's not a problem for everybody: the guy that works behind the counter (I'll call him Miguel), doesn't speak a word of English. He understands enough of the language to be able to take orders. Quite a few of his customers are Hispanic, so it doesn't matter anyway.

But one day, I show up with a slightly more difficult order than usual. I wanted two number ones in the same box, and two number ones in separate boxes.

I start trying to explain this to Miguel. I'm obviously not getting through to him. My brain usually freezes in such situations.

So Miguel does something that takes me completely by surprise.

He asks Ahmed (who is running the cash register) to translate.

Now I'm about to be impressed. Ahmed is undeniably of Middle-Eastern decent. His accent is mild and his English is very good. I had no idea that he would actually be tri-lingual.

"Okay," says Ahmed. "What is it you want?"

"I want two number ones in one box, and I want two more number ones in separate boxes."

He repeats it back to me. He obviously understands my order perfectly.

He turns to Miguel.

"AMIGO," he shouts. "HE WANTS TWO NUMBER ONES IN ONE BOX AND TWO MORE NUMBER ONES IN SEPARATE BOXES."

"So, that's one, two, three number ones?" asks Miguel.

"NO!" he shouts. "AMIGO. HE WANTS TWO NUMBER ONES IN ONE BOX AND TWO MORE NUMBER ONES IN SEPARATE BOXES."

"Three?" Miguel asks.

This goes on for what seems like an eternity.

In the end, I agree to whatever Miguel thinks he understands the order to be.

Finally, I gather my order, and it back home and do my best to explain why I forgot the tamales I was supposed to get in addition to the three tacos, and why nobody got what they asked for.

Oy veh!

January 27, 2005 07:17 PM

The Hippo and the Tortoise

This is pretty cool. A 120-year-old male tortoise adopts a baby hippopotamus that is swept into the Indian Ocean by the recent Tsunami. The story. A shorter story and a pic.

December 04, 2004 08:19 AM

Yes, Virginia...

It is Thanksgiving day, 2004. I stumble down to the dining room at Residence Inn in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Breakfast time. I find myself elbow to elbow with lots of other Thanksgiving weekend travelers who seek just enough breakfast to tide them over until Turkey Time.

As I carefully regard my choice of bagels, muffins, eggs, sausage and cereal, my gaze fixes on a striking figure. There is a rather tall man, not exactly thin, but not terribly overweight either. He has long flowing white hair, a fluffy white beard, and rosy red cheeks. He is sporting a dingy white t-shirt and bright red overalls.

I am looking at Santa Claus. I swear to God.

For a moment I stop. I look around the room. The adults are busy sipping their coffee, eating their bagels and reading their newspapers. The kids on the other hand...The kids. Every kid in the place is on full alert. Their eyes are as big as saucers and their mouths are open wide. And the whispering and pointing begins.

Santa quietly eats his breakfast. He seems oblivious to the entire hubbub. My first thought is to approach this gentleman and tell him that his presence in the dining room is causing quite a stir with the young ones. But I hold back. I suspect he hears it all the time.

So I go about my business: I eat my breakfast, and head back to my room.

The buzz has extended beyond the dining room. Rumor has spread like the fingers of soft mist down the hallways and into the elevators. As I get in the elevator, I hear one small boy whisper to another. "It's him. It's really him. Look what he gave me." He reaches into his pocket and produces a candy cane and a couple of red and white peppermints. The other boy's eyes grow wide. "Wow!" he says.

I punch my floor on the elevator panel. The doors close and the elevator car lurches into motion. It is then that I realize what I really wanted to say to Santa. I ride to the top floor, toy for a moment with the notion of going back down to the lobby and finding this man. But I think better of it. Besides, I tell myself. I'm sure that I'll bump into him tomorrow.

But of course, I don't.

The next day I'm in the lobby picking up a bottle of shampoo. At the checkout desk is a picture. It's a picture of Santa, rosy cheeks and all. The picture bears his signature and the caption: The magic of Christmas lies in your heart.

Over the course of the next couple of days I look in vain for Santa, but he never again appears.

So, Santa. I doubt that you blog too much. And if you do, I doubt that your eyes find this meager offering. But if you do ever stumble onto this page, I have a message for you: I just wanted to thank you properly for that bright shiny red bicycle I got when I was 10 years old.

And say I'm sorry that I ever stopped believing.

December 03, 2004 12:17 PM

Blog...It's everywhere.

Well, it's on everyone's lips. "Blog" is Merriam-Webster Online's word of the year.

October 30, 2004 09:56 AM

It's a dangerous business, Frodo

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." -- Frodo Baggins, quoting Bilbo Baggins in J.R.R. Tolkien's Fellowship of the Ring.

 

My wife and I were on a road trip a few weeks ago. We brought along Daisy, our miniature Chihuahua. Being that she was five months old, we felt that she was just too young to board in a kennel. We were Louisiana headed back toward Texas. It was early fall, and the weather was still hot, so leaving the little pup in the car alone wasn't an option, not even for a few minutes. So we adopted a ritual for how to deal with pit stops and meals:

 

First thing, I would take little Daisy out on her leash to a little grassy spot to do her business. Sometimes I would pour her up a drink of water in her little doggy dish that I kept in the trunk. The wife would take care of any business she had and when she was done, I would do the same.

 

So it was that we stopped at Eddie's BBQ on the outskirts Alexandria, Louisiana on Interstate 10. We had all done our business and were now taking turns ordering (mighty fine, I might say) BBQ from Eddie's.

 

I stepped out of Eddie's with a bag of steaming BBQ in hand. My wife was standing by the car. A look of astonishment graced her countenance.

 

"You're not going to believe what just happened," she said.

 

"Try me," I said.

 

It seemed to take her a moment to gather her thoughts.

 

"Okay," she said. "I come out of the BBQ place and I'm about to get in the car, and I notice that there is someone crouched behind the car."

 

My eyes widen.

 

"So at first I kind of panic," she continued. "Then I realize that he is on his hands and knees. So I figure that maybe something of his has rolled under our car. So I tip toe around the car, keeping a safe distance, of course, and you'll never guess what I caught him doing."

 

"I haven't nary a clue," I said.

 

"He's on his hands and knees drinking water out of Daisy's dog dish."

 

"Come again?" I said.

 

She repeated the whole thing.

 

"What did you do?" I asked.

 

"I was pretty much speechless,'" she said. "But I managed to blurt out, 'What are you doing?'."

 

I dropped my BBQ in the front seat of the car and picked up Daisy.

 

"Okay, " I said. "Then what happened?"

 

"Well..." she continued. "He said he was thirsty. He held up a small bag of candy he said he had picked up over at the Cracker Barrel. He said the candy made him thirsty."

 

Of course it did. And when that happens to me, I always head straight for the dog dish.

 

"Then," she continued. "I did what any decent person would do."

 

"What was that?" I asked.

 

"I offered him my bottled water. After the dog dish thing, I didn't really think he would be worried about my cooties."

 

That made sense. "And?" I asked.

 

"At first he said, 'That would be really nice of you, Ma'am.' But then he seemed to change his mind and said, 'I'm kind of embarrassed now. I think I had better go. My friends are right over there across the highway.'"

 

I'm a little heartened by the fact that this guy got embarrassed.

 

"And then he left," she said. "He set out across the highway."

 

"Good," a stranger's voice said. "Maybe he'll get hit by a car."

 

Now that's a little harsh, I thought to myself.

 

I turned around. A big fella in an SUV was parked next to us. I'll call him Bubba.

 

"I saw the whole thing," Bubba said. "That's one sick sumich.

 

Bubba and his wife had stopped for the same reason we had: to grab a bite to eat and to pee and water their dog. Only their dog was as big as a horse. This dog--Cujo I'll call him--could have eaten our little Daisy as snack and then asked, "Is there yet more?"

 

Daisy took note of Cujo and immediately began growling. Now to her, I am sure her growl sounded like a mean, ferocious growl. To me, she sounded like a mean, ferocious squeak toy. I was really hoping that Cujo didn't take offense.

 

Bubba didn't miss a beat.

 

"Your dog has a Napoleon complex," he said, very matter of factly.

 

It occurs to me that there's probably a whole lot more to Bubba than meets the eye.

 

"Yeah," I said. "She thinks she's a big dog."

 

"They always do," he replied.

 

Now I'm starting to worry about Bubba.

 

"You ought to sterilize your dog dish,'' he said.

 

"Yeah, I probably should," I replied, as I tossed the dish into the trunk of the car.

 

Then, Bubba, Bubbette and Cujo went about their business. And we went about ours.

 

As we sat in the car and ate our BBQ, I thought about the strange man I never saw, and unlike Bubba, I hoped he made it safely across the highway and found something cool to drink. And I hoped that someday he might find some badly needed help.

 

"Pretty good BBQ," my wife said.

 

"Yeah," I said.

 

Daisy was hoping against hope that she would have a chance to find out.

 

A few minutes later I pulled the car up to the gas pump and stood beside our little red Mirage as the gas pump clicked, kerchunked and whirred.

 

Trucks sped past on the freeway. There was a constant flurry of activity at the gas station and at Eddie's. There was a definite rhythm of the road. And it was calling.

 

It doesn't much seem like our strange little friend was able to keep his feet, I thought to myself.

 

And as I got back into the car, I couldn't help but wonder where he might get swept off to.

August 05, 2004 09:58 AM

Fahrenheit 452...and a half

Last Saturday morning at about 3:00 in the morning, less than 24 hours after I had my line TV'd, someone decided it would be a good idea to roll my trash can down to the end of my driveway, fill it with grass clippings and fence pickets, roll my neighbor's trashcan right beside it and set them both on fire.

 

Some things are forever destined to be a mystery.

August 01, 2004 09:36 AM

Sorry sir, but we're going to have to TV the line.

By the time you reach the age of 50, people start acting like you owe them a colonoscopy.

 

Your doctor of course thinks you owe him one. But others soon jump on the bandwagon. There's your spouse, your kids, and maybe a friend, neighbor, or extended relative or two. You can pretty much count on anyone whom you have had occasion to anger or inconvenience in any way to remember seeing Katy Couric on TV extolling the virtues of having your rectum reamed by a medical team with a camera, a flashlight and a skinny garden hose. It's as if they say to themselves, "You know...Sweetie/Dad/neighbor has really been pissing me off lately because he keeps messing with his computer instead of painting and hanging the doors in the hall/didn't give me money so I could go to the movie/mows his lawn early on Saturday while I'm trying to sleep. What can I do for retaliation? Oh...I know...He's about to turn 50. Let's remind him that he owes us a colonoscopy."

 

A while back I was given a wonderful metaphor for the event. We had had a spate of problems with our sewer line. There was some kind of chronic obstruction between our house and the city's main line. The third time the city came to clear it out, the city worker made an announcement.

 

"Well ma'am," he told my wife. "We're going to have to 'TV The Line'."

 

"Excuse me?" my wife said.

 

"TV the line," he replied. "You take this TV camera on the end of this thing-a-ma-bob, and run it through your sewer line. We call it TV-ing the line. Let's us see what's really going on in there. After the third call it's what we do. It's policy."

 

TV-ing the line.

 

But when people started making noises about a colonoscopy, I settled on a strategy right away: Passive resistance. It's kept me out of lots of uncomfortable situations before. Surely it would work in this case as well. Basically, I wasn't going to have any part of anyone TV-ing my line.

 

But fate had other plans. Over the 4th of July weekend, I pretty much clenched the deal by having an intestinal infection. Antibiotics and a liquid diet (instead of burgers and hot dogs on Independence Day) fixed me up. But as part of the whole process, I was referred to a gastroenterologist who said he was in fact going to have to TV the line. (He of course, didn't use those words.)

 

So I start getting ready for this event. The doctor gave me a brochure that in and of itself is not to be believed. Now keep in mind, this doctor is going to be sending this camera on a flexible tube up my hiney. For sure, this guy wants things to be squeaky clean. So what do they do? Another liquid diet. In other words, they freaking starve you to death. And there's one thing you can't be eating for up to five days before the procedure: Corn. I kid you not. I mean think about it.

 

And there was one other thing that really gave me pause, and I'm going to risk copyright infringement by quoting from the instructions given to me by the doctor:

 

It is necessary for the doctor to use some air to aid him in the examination. This may cause you to feel distended and full. If you have the urge to pass this air by rectum, it is permissible to do so unless the doctor requests otherwise.

 

I suppose that's reasonable. I can pass gas as long as I have permission. I definitely see his point on that one.

 

So I go through the liquid diet thing. Again! And it is much worse this time. Clear liquids. No Jello. Nothing that will actually make you feel like you're not starving to death. And when you're at your weakest, they give you this very strong laxative. By the time I'm done, I barely have the strength to hold a bottle of water.

 

So the day comes for the procedure. My wife takes me to the hospital. They roll me into the procedure room. There's a TV on my left. I'm hooked up to an IV, and the nurse asks me a few questions.

 

"And what is your name?" she asks.

 

"Moon-dawg," I reply.

 

"And what are you here for today?"

 

"You folks are going to 'TV the line'," I reply.

 

I get a blank stare intermingled with concern. After all, she is asking these questions as a formality that I'm sure serves all sorts of practical as well as legal purposes.

 

"Colonoscopy," I say.

 

She relaxes.

 

The doctor comes in, says his hellos, snaps on a rubber glove and announces "I'm going to do a quick rectal exam." And whoa! His finger is probing places where a finger shouldn't ever be.

 

"Just relax," he says.

 

Under similar circumstances, I'd like to see you try to relax, pal.

 

The nurse injects something into my IV, and I pass out of all knowledge to the world.

 

The next thing I know, the TV is on, and I see the inside of my colon looking a lot like a deep dark dungeon from one of those first person shooter video games like Quake or Unreal Tournament. Good graphics, I think to myself. I expect a monster to jump out of the shadows and the doctor to blast it to bits with a plasma rifle or rocket launcher.

 

Suddenly, I have something very important to say.

 

"You know," I say. "I think I should explain that TV-ing the line remark from earlier."

 

"Please," the doctor says. "No talking."

 

I'm crestfallen. It occurs to me that the brochure said I could pass gas if it was okay with the doctor. It didn't say anything about requiring permission to talk. The nurse explains that it is very important for me to remain still, and that talking puts the mission in jeopardy.

 

I wouldn't want to spoil the mission.

 

Pretty soon we're done. They wheel me into recovery where the nurse brings me some 7-Up and encourages me to pass gas. I've graduated. I have moved from the status of being allowed to pass gas only by permission to being asked to do so on demand.

 

"The doctor inserted a lot of gas into your colon," she says. "You need to get rid of it now."

 

She checks on me every few minutes to make sure I'm meeting my obligations.

 

Soon, the doctor comes in and declares that my line is clear, and gives me a clean bill of health.

 

Thank the Good Lord.

 

He says things looked so good I don't need to keep my follow-up appointment. But I do have to take a dose of Citrucel every day.

 

Bummer. Not bad though. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

 

My wife hands me my things and I get dressed.

 

"Well," she asks. "How was it?"

 

"Not as bad as I had feared," I say. "They didn't seem to enjoy my 'TV-ing the line' metaphor, though."

 

She nods her head as if to silently say that she probably wouldn't expect them to.

 

"But I like it, Dear. I think it's real funny," she says.

 

I smile. She likes it. Then I realize that I am probably very loopy from whatever it was they put into my IV, and she's probably just being nice.

 

And then it occurs to me that my debt is paid. I breathe a sigh of relief. I no longer owe anyone anything that has to do with anyone sending a camera up my rectum.

 

"What now?" she asks.

 

"Let's get something to eat. I'm starved."

June 20, 2004 10:32 AM

Your Family Called...Their Idiot is Missing

I love comets. I have loved comets since I was a kid, when in the sixth grade, my teacher told us to be sure and look to the south after dark to see a comet in the night sky. I faithfully obeyed my teacher's advice. I stepped into the yard. It was spring. School would be out soon. The promise of summer rode on a warm breeze.

The night skies in the town where I grew up were very clear, and unhampered by light pollution. I looked to the south and there it was. Absolutely breathtaking. It looked as if someone had taken a dab of yellow light and painted it with a single arched brush stroke on the night sky. I pulled up a lawn chair and stared at it for what seemed like hours. When comet Hyakutake came through in 1996, I caught a glimpse of it for a couple of nights in a row. In the light polluted skies where I live, Hyakutake looked like a large fuzzy star. Then came Hale-Bopp. Hale-Bopp was incredible. I first saw Hale-Bopp months before it was a naked-eye comet. It was not much more than a fuzzy looking point of light in my modest 1.4" telescope. Then it finally appeared as a naked-eye comet in the spring of 1997. I drove the family up to Oklahoma around Turner Falls to get a good view of Hale-Bopp away from the glare of city lights. It was truly awe-inspiring,

Then comes comet Bradfield. The first reports I saw on Bradfield were promising indeed. At it's brightest, it was to be 4.4 magnitude, which should be plenty bright for naked-eye viewing, even in the city. Only problem was, the next several days were cloudy.

Then comes Sunday morning, May 2. I had told the family the night before that I was going to try to view the comet early the next morning, weather permitting. I asked everyone if they wanted to come see the comet if I found that (from my warped point of view) that it was a site for which it was worth dragging them out of bed. I got a fairly non-committal 'yes' from most of the family.

Well, in retrospect, I have determined that I really don't think that I am right in the head. The first clue of this came at 5:00 AM Sunday morning. My alarm goes off. 5:00 AM, Sunday morning. What kind of idiot gets up at 5:00 on Sunday morning when earning money isn't involved? Don't answer that.

I spring out of bed, put on my sandals, and take a quick peek outside. Not a cloud in the sky. It's a beautiful spring morning. I look to the east for the Great Square of Pegasus. Bradfield is supposed to be off to the lower left.

Light pollution. Argh. I'm going to have to hop in the car and drive to a better view. I scribble a quick note on the whiteboard on the fridge: "I'm hopping in the car to try to find a good spot to see the comet. Leaving at 5:00. Back by 6:00. Have phone. Love, Dad."

And I'm off.

It's a bit chilly. Way colder than it seems it should be the first week in May. I slip on a light jacket and hop in the car.

I immediately head east. There are some high spots in the town, where I live, but light pollution is a problem. So I drive north and east into the next suburb. Light is becoming less of a problem, but now I'm on lower ground again and trees are a problem.

Pretty soon twilight begins. So I know I had better find a place to park. I find a little strip shopping center. I pull into the parking lot. Put on the parking break to kill the running lights, because I want to leave the car running so it will stay nice and warm. I step out of the car.

What a beautiful morning. The air is crisp. The sky is a deep dark blue with the faintest hint of sunlight diffusing into the morning darkness. And there is the Great Square of Pegasus. But alas, there is no comet. I stare at this for a long time. Still no hint. Binoculars would have been a good idea. But it was supposed to be visible to the naked eye.

Well, I think. Maybe it would be a good idea to shut off the car. I reach for the door handle. Oh no. No. No. No. The car is locked. The engine is running. No-o-o-o-o.

Idiot. I'm an idiot. I reach for the door handle, just to try it again and to remind myself one more time what an idiot I am. I try all the doors. Of course they're all locked. I look at my watch. 6:05. In the morning. Sunday morning. After about a 30 minute search, I find nice man who gives me two wire hangers. No luck. They really make cars hard to break into anymore.

It's inevitable. I'm going to have to call home. How humiliating. At this point I'd rather do just about anything than call home. Somehow I think of a t-shirt I once saw that said "Your village called. They said their idiot is missing." I suddenly realized the t-shirt was talking directly to me.

I phone home. I answer the phone. I invite myself to leave a message after the tone. I leave myself a freaking message. It goes something like this: "Sweetie? Are you there? Pick up...Hello." I call back and finally get someone besides myself. It's my wife.

"I did something really stupid," I say.

"What...what did you do?" she says.

"I locked my keys in the car."

"Oh. So where are you? Are you in the driveway?"

"No." I tell her where I am.

"Sweetie," she says. "Why are you way over there?"

I know exactly what's going through her mind. Just the day before, we had watched a TV documentary about a woman who was married to a "wonderful man", the father of her child and had a secret life as a serial killer who was addicted to homosexual asphyxia sex acts and typically ended up killing his partners.

It's 7:00 on Sunday morning, and her husband of twenty years is in the next suburb over with his keys locked in his car, and she didn't even know he had left the house.

I could sense, even over the telephone, that for a fleeting moment, she was married to a weirdo with some sort of perverted secret life.

"The comet," I say. "I went for a drive to try to see the comet. I left you a note on the whiteboard."

Slowly it dawns on her. "The comet," she says.

She gets to where I am about 45 minutes later. She gets out of the car laughing.

"You know, you'll never know how happy this makes me." she says. "Finally. Finally, you do something stupid that I have to bail you out of."

We get home after 8:00 AM. The sun is shining brightly through the windows. We're both ready to go back to bed. I stop by the whiteboard on the fridge and read the line that said, "Left at 5:00, back by 6:00" and added in smaller letters, "Unless I do something stupid like locking my keys in the car."

And I slip back into a nice warm bed and think about comets, and cold mornings, and beautiful sunrises, and a beautiful wife who, twenty years ago, knew how weird I was and married me anyway.

April 07, 2004 05:49 PM

The Other, Other, Other White Meat

Sandeep was a delightful young man. We hired him right out of college to do entry level programming work. Ralph, my boss, is the most amiable curmudgeon you will ever meet.

One day, Ralph corners Sandeep in the break room.

"Sandeep," he says. "You need a dog, don't you?"

Ralph collects animals like employee handbooks collect dust. I say "collect". Actually, "rescues" is a better word. At the time, Ralph's in-laws lived at the end of a road on the far edges of metropolitan civilization. People quite often used the end of their street to drop off pets they no longer wanted. And Ralph, who has a heart the size of the whole state of Texas, had approached just about everyone he had run into that morning. Poor Sandeep was his next victim.

"A dog?" Sandeep asks.

Sandeep hailed from Sri Lanka. His skin was the color of chocolate, and his accent was thick but charming. And at this moment, as dark as he was, I swear he turned a few shades of pale: the freaking CIO of the company is asking him to take a dog off his hands.

"Yeah, a dog," replies Ralph.

I can see the gears turning in Sandeep's head. You see, Ralph was not just my boss. He was everyone's boss. And being the head of our IT department, he wielded his power like a kid would wield a hundred dollar bill in a candy store.

Sandeep smiles and laughs nervously.

I can't take it anymore, so I pull Sandeep aside and say to him (in a voice that is plenty loud for Ralph to hear) "Sandeep, let me help you here. The answer is no. It's okay to say no."

Ralph laughs. He knows he's been busted, but all this is in relatively good humor.

Sandeep's smile gets bigger and he laughs even more nervously as if to say to me, But he's the boss. He's your boss. How can I tell him no?

I reassure him. "It's okay. Really."

By now a small crowd has gathered, and I happen to notice Tommy, the department's practical joker, off to the side listening to this interchange with deep interest. A mischievous smile crosses his face as he fills his Styrofoam cup with Mountain Dew. I can see clearly that he is chuckling to himself. I have only one thought: This does not bode well.

Sandeep finally manages to mumble the word "no" intermixed with all sorts of other apologies and supplications.

Everyone applauds.

"Well, okay. But if you change your mind, you let me know," replies Ralph.

Just as soon as Ralph leaves the break room, Tommy springs into action. He approaches Sandeep, and whispers into his ear something inaudible. Sandeep's eyes grow very big.

"You want me to say this to the boss?" he asks.

Tommy grins.

I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

After much cajoling, they're off to the races.

I follow quickly not knowing what's going to happen next, hoping against all hope that half my staff won't end up getting fired.

They approach Ralph's office. Sandeep stops.

"I can't do this thing," he says.

Tommy reassures him. Sandeep looks at me. I shrug sheepishly. I don't know what the hell's going on.

Sandeep walks up Ralph's office, and Tommy sneaks into the secretarial cove just outside Ralph's office and motions to me.

"Listen to this," he says.

Sandeep stands in Ralph's doorway. "Ralph?" he asks.

"Sandeep!" Ralph says in a boisterous and friendly tone. "Come on in!"

Sandeep steps only a couple of inches into Ralph's doorway. He is a very timid and polite young man.

"I have a question about the dog," says the young man from Sri Lanka, sounding somewhat reminiscent of Ben Kinglsey in Gandhi.

"Oh, good. How can I help you?" says Ralph.

"I was wondering..." Sandeep says.

"Yes?"

"How..."

"Go on. Spit it out, Sandeep," says Ralph.

"The dog...How do you think it would taste?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Excuse me?" asks Ralph in stunned disbelief. He is obviously taken aback by this turn of events.

"How do you think it would taste?" replies Sandeep.

A small crowd has gathered in the secretarial cove. We are all desperately trying to keep from laughing out loud.

"You mean, what do they eat?" asks Ralph. He's trying earnestly to navigate the differences in language...and culture.

"No. How do they taste?"

Suppressed snickers in the cove quickly evolve into bursts of uncontrolled laughter. Ralph hears the commotion and comes out to see what's going on. He sees all of us buckled over, holding our sides, with tears running down our cheeks. A look of realization crosses his face. He knows he's been had.

"Very funny guys," he says. He turns around and goes back into his office. "Very, very funny."

I realize at this point that Sandeep is a dead man. Ralph can take a joke like the best of them. But revenge is hell.

I congratulate Tommy for his ingenuity, praise Sandeep for his impeccable delivery, and assure him that there is nothing I can do to save him from the retaliation that will follow.

"He will fire me?" asks Sandeep.

"No," I say, laughing. "No. He's not going to fire you. But he will get you back."

"Alright everyone," I shout. "Back to work. There's nothing more to see here. Move it on out."

Everyone shuffles back to their desks.

I sit at my desk, take a deep breath, check a few emails, return a couple of phone calls and start searching the Internet for dog meat recipes that I can send to Ralph.

It's all in a day's work.

March 23, 2004 05:44 AM

Do You Know Your Chicken?

I'm at work. The phone rings. I answer it.

"Moon-dawg here."

There's a hysterical female voice on the other end of the line. It's Ray, my teenage daughter. My heart stops.

"Oh, my God!!! Dallas. Wafm gafm. Dad! Ed. Xackser. Wakm."

"Calm down," I say. "Take a few deep breaths."

"Dad!" she shouts. "Live! They're coming to town. Bronco Bowl. You've got to get tickets. We have to go!"

"Okay," I say. "I think I've got it. Live is coming to town. They're playing the Bronco Bowl. I have to get tickets. I'll do what I can."

For years my daughter's favorite band has been Live. It started with the song and video Lightning Crashes. She's been hooked ever since.

It's been years since I have been to a concert, so I ask around. "What's the best way to get tickets these days?"

"The Internet of course. Go to ReallyFreakingGoodButExpensiveTickets.com."

A few keystrokes and mouse clicks later I find out that tickets don't go on sale for another couple of weeks. I break the news to Ray. She's despondent, but accepts her fate. We have to wait.

D-Day - 30

3:00 pm (Ray's just home from school)

"Dad. Do you have the tickets yet?" asks the voice on the other end of the phone.

"They go on sale at 4:00."

10 Minutes later.

"Dad. Did you buy the tickets yet?"

"They go on sale at 4:00."

This continues for at least twelve more iterations.

4:00 pm

A few clicks of a mouse and keystrokes and I have them. She wants to know if I got good seats. I explain to her that the Bronco Bowl is doing this concert a little weird. There are two levels of seating. Level 1 general admission (which includes the MOSH PIT!), and is the area closest to the stage; and level 2 which is further from the stage (and of course, cheaper).

"Which kind did you get?" she asks.

"I got three Level 1 tickets. Duh."

"Dad, you're the greatest."

"I know."

"Wait a minute. Three? You said three. Three tickets? Why three? Who else is going?" she asks.

"I am, of course."

She freaks, but soon acquiesces. It's not too high a price to see the greatest band in the world. Ray and her best friend Chee are in love with Ed K., the lead singer. It occurs to me that I'm going to need two things for the concert: A set of earplugs to protect my already beleaguered hearing, and a pair of sunglasses in case the sun really does shine out Ed K.'s Ass.

D-Day

5:35 PM

Things aren't looking good. I had told Ray that I would be leaving work early. I reminded her that even though we got level one tickets, it was still general admission within that level. So the plan was to get there early so that we could get good level 1 seats. Things aren't looking good because it's 5:35, and if I was going to leave early, I should have left about 35 minutes ago. But there are a couple of fires at work that I have to put out.

Several phone calls from a frantic teenager later and I am finally on the road.

H-Hour Minus Three Hours fifteen minutes

We are on the road.

The girls are insufferable.

H-Hour Minus Two Hours Thirty Minutes

We arrive at the Bronco Bowl. The girls flirt with the parking attendant. I explain to them why it is a Bad Idea to flirt with a parking attendant at the freaking Bronco Bowl. Of course I don't want to have to explain to them that the real reason I don't want them flirting with the parking attendant, is that I don't want his death on my soul.

H-Hour Minus Two Hours Twenty Minutes

We step inside the Bronco Bowl. There is a sickeningly long line leading up to large flat-black doors. Ray is in despair. "Could you have possibly screwed this up any worse?" she wants to know. I mumble something about work and being a complete idiot and all.

H-Hour Minus One Hour Fifty-Five Minutes

The doors open. We file quickly into the hall. The impossibly long line quickly dissipates and we quickly find our way to the BEST FREAKING SEATS in the house. I found myself wishing that I had had seats this good at my first rock concert. But somehow, exoneration never feels as sweet as it should.

H-Hour Minus One Hour Twenty-Five Minutes

A Warmup Band takes the stage. The girls want to know what in the world is going on. They obviously are new to this whole concert thing. A band called Cibo Matto takes the stage. The bass player looks vaguely familiar. I find out later that he is Sean Lennon, son of John Lennon. He is very unassuming and never says a word. The highlight of their set is a song that has the fabulous line:

Do you know your chicken? You got to know your chicken.

The girls go nuts. Do you know your chicken becomes the tagline for the rest of the evening.

H-Hour Minus Thirty-Five Minutes

Cibo Matto leaves the stage.

A road crew descends on the stage like Langoliers, devouring Cibo Matto's set up and vomiting Live's set up in their wake.

H-Hour

Live takes the stage.

The girls go nuts.

About half way through, Ed's shirt comes off.

The girls go nuts.

H-Hour Plus Forty-Five Minutes

The band takes a break.

I decide I need a coke and some nachos. When I get back to my seat, a huge commotion is going in down in the mosh pit. Three really big bouncers emerge from the mosh pit with a scrawny guy. They shove him around a little bit. Heated words are exchanged. The scrawny guy hobbles hack into the center of the mosh pit and comes back on his crutches. The three bouncers congratulate themselves at a job well done.

I keep my head down and eat my nachos and try to avoid eye contact with anyone.

H-Hour Plus One Hour Twenty Minutes

The band comes back.

The girls go nuts.

The band does an excellent show. They do a moving rendition of John Lennon's Imagine. Ed treats the song with the reverence it deserves. Later I reflect on the poignancy of John's son being in the warm-up band.

H-Hour Plus One Hour Fifty-Five Minutes

The band leaves the stage and bids the audience a fond farewell.

The crowd is on their feet. The girls look quite confused. They are elated at such a fine performance, but somehow down in the mouth.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"They didn't play Lightning Crashes," Ray replies. She picks up her purse. I'm afraid she's going to trip over her lower lip.

"I see," I say.

"Why is everyone still here?" asks Chee.

"You girls just hold your horses. Just stand here and clap, yell, and scream like everyone else."

"What's the point?" asks Ray.

They obviously had never heard of an encore.

Suddenly the band reappears.

"Thank you Dallas!" shouts Ed.

The slow deliberate chords of Lightning Crashes drone out over the crowd. Spontaneously, cigarette lighters appear and seem to float ethereally in the air.

The girls go nuts.

H-Hour Plus Two Hours Twenty Minutes

The girls are uncharacteristically quiet for the trip back, their heads reeling from an experience they really didn't know how to anticipate.

I let this feeling linger for a while before breaking the silence.

"Did you girls enjoy the show?"

"Duh!"

I take that to be a yes.

And for a fleeting moment, I feel like the greatest dad in the world.

March 07, 2004 08:26 AM

Old Pete

In many respects, it was a day like any other in the Texas town where I grew up: hot and dry. Caliche dust powdered my sneakers and jeans, and filled my nose with a familiar chalky smell. I was walking along the railroad tracks about a quarter of a mile from my house when I spotted him: a horned toad. I'll call him "Old Pete".

Horned toads aren't fast like lizards, and are very easy to catch. Old Pete was not different in that respect. I caught him with ease. I held Old Pete in my hand and began patting him gently on the head. I ran my fingers along his thorny crown. I had caught many a horned toad in my day, and I knew right away that there was something a little different about Old Pete. He seemed a bit agitated. Kind of feisty. I didn't mean Old Pete any harm. Of course, he had no way of knowing that. To him, I must have seemed like a thundering heavy-footed giant.

Then Old Pete did something I had never seen a horned toad do before. He opened his mouth and his throat made a strained kind of swallowing motion. Strange, I thought. Then I gave it no more mind.

Horned toads enjoy somewhat of a legendary status in Texas. When I was a kid, I heard stories about a horned toad placed in a time capsule and laid inside the cornerstone of the courthouse in Eastland, Texas. There he stayed until they tore that courthouse down to build another. The story goes that the corner stone was removed, the time capsule opened, and to the amazement of the gathering crowd, the horned toad twitched and came to life. Ole Rip they called him after Rip Van Winkle.

I also heard stories about horned toads that spit blood from their eyes. A variation of this legend postulated that if one spit blood in your eyes, you would go blind. I had visions of a giant horned toad roaming the streets of my town in grand grade-b movie style shooting bright red streams of blood from its eyes, blinding everyone in its path.

Old Pete looked at me. I looked back.

Other boys with crueler hearts might have had other plans for a feisty little horned toad like Old Pete. My objective was to do what I always did when I caught a horned toad: make it go to sleep, which is pretty easy to do if you know how.

First I patted gently him on a spot on his forehead. His eyes began to blink, and he appeared to be getting drowsy.

Then I turned Old Pete over in the palm of my hand. His thorny horns tickled the palm of my hand. I gently rubbed his belly. A horned toad's belly is a funny thing. When you rub it one direction it feels leathery but smooth to the touch. Rubbed the other direction, it feels rough. I rubbed Old Pete's belly the rough way. His skin felt like my dad's face did before he shaved in the morning.

Pretty soon Old Pete was fast asleep in the palm of my hand. The funny thing about a horned toad fast asleep in your hand is that it never really seems to relax: its legs splay out from its body, all stiff like electrical wires, and its belly sucks in really far and almost disappears.

Lord knows what was going through Old Pete's mind.

I know what was going through mine: my shirt. Because at that moment, I noticed something: Red stains.

"Son of a gun," I said. "The little sucker spit on me."

I remembered the strange little movement it had made with its mouth and throat.

Now, I've done a little reading about horned toads since then. The sources I've read back up the legend and say that horned toads spit blood out of their eyes. I suppose that's what had happened, but I have to tell you, I'm so sure.

Anyway, I looked down at my shirt.

"My mom's gonna kill me," I said. "Damn!"

I contemplated what I might do to this little trouble maker. I knew what some boys would do. They would take him home, find a firecracker that they had been saving for such an occasion, stick it up its ass, light it and say farewell to the poor hapless reptile.

For a few moments, I pondered Old Pete's fate.

I looked at my stained shirt, took a deep breath, wondering what I was going to tell my mom. I figured the truth might be the best way out. It was.

These days horned toads are pretty scarce. They used to be plentiful. Some say it has to do with DDT. Some say that fire ants eat their eggs. I sometimes wonder if it didn't have something to do with little boys and firecrackers.

I gently sat Old Pete down on the ground.

"Run along, little fella," I said.

He ran one way.

I ran the other.

After all, it was summer.

January 03, 2004 09:05 AM

Mid-life...Schmid-live

“I’m not having a midlife crisis,” I said.

“Then what’s up with the earring?” my wife asked.

“The earring has nothing to do with midlife…anything,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow.  

“When men have a midlife crisis…,” I said.  “they buy Corvettes and screw their secretaries.”

She raised her eyebrow again.  Even higher than before.

“Don’t give me that look.  I don’t even have a secretary.”

“Listen,” she said.  “If this earring thing is all your midlife crisis is going to come to, I’m probably getting off light.  You can keep the earring.  But don’t be getting any other ideas.  And absolutely, positively, no tattoos.”

I nodded.

“Or secretaries,” she added.

“Deal,” I said.

“Deal,” she said.

We sealed it with a kiss.

***

I’ve thought quite a bit about this whole midlife crisis thing.  Some people question the validity of the concept.  Not me.  

I thought I was dying once.  I was convinced that I was having a heart attack.  First came the chest pains.  Then the shortness of breath, followed by nausea and sweats.  

Somewhere between the time that the symptoms started and when the ER’s morphine kicked in, it happened: I had an S.E.E. (a Significant Emotional Event).  

It was the strangest thing.  It was like I could see my life from a distance.  I saw the person that I was, as if I were looking at a snapshot of my life frozen in time.  I saw all the crankiness, the irritability, the stodginess, the stinginess, all lying like wilted flowers around an open grave, waiting for an old friend to be laid inside and put to rest.  And I realized the old friend was me.

I looked at this snapshot frozen in time and asked myself, “If I were to die now, is this the person that I would want them to remember?”

For me, that was a midlife crisis: waking up and realizing that the person I had become was not the person who started this long journey.  And definitely not the person I wanted to be.

I used to be a fun person to be around.  I used to do cool things.  I used to drag my wife to movies she hated, but that we’d talk about for years to come.  Movies like My Dinner with Andre and Zardoz.

I’ve tried hard to make changes in my life since then…since my S.E.E.
It’s a slow process.

And okay…the earring might have been part of it—a superficial part of it, but a part of it nonetheless.  

But mostly, it’s all about rediscovery.  About reconnecting.  And it’s a matter of remembering.  Remembering ideals, hopes, and dreams; and realizing that it’s never too late for anything.

That one has to sink in for a minute.  It’s never to late for anything.

So maybe it’s time to get busy writing that novel I always wanted to write.  And that musical.  And that blockbuster epic space opera mega movie.

I’ll let you know how they turn out.

December 13, 2003 10:59 AM

The Day the Music Died

December 8, 1980.  It wasn’t just the day John Lennon died.

I was driving to work when I heard the news.  I lived up in Lake Dallas, some 20 miles from my job as a computer operator.  It was a cold dark morning.  I had just stopped for donuts and coffee.

Bad news blared out of the radio.  I sat in my truck dumbfounded.  Numb.

John Lennon shot to death.

Could I have heard it right? 

I listened quietly as they said it again.

My head reeled.

John wasn’t necessarily my favorite Beatle.  I’m not sure I really had a favorite Beatle.  I loved George’s songs.  I loved Paul’s songs.  I loved John’s songs.  As a group they produced better music than any of them did as solo artists. 

In a pressure cooker of peer pressure, competition, and the high standard to which producer George Martin held them, they created musical wonder.  Together they were magic.  Together they blazed a trail that people still wander down today. 

In the days and weeks that followed this tragedy, it began to sink in: the Beatles would never get back together. 

It was kind of strange.  There were those of us who naïvely wanted it to happen.  We wanted to see the magic again, anew in the world.  But as much as I wanted that to happen, I couldn’t help think of the event with at least some apprehension.  What if they got back together and stunk up the place?  What if the magic wasn’t there?  What would it mean? 

At around 10:50 on that December evening, under the arch of the Dakota apartment building Mark David Chapman laid the matter to rest. 

Mark David Chapman killed John Lennon.

But that’s not all he killed.  Mark David Chapman also killed The Beatles. 

It’s December.  Just a few days ago it was the 23rd  anniversary of John Lennon’s passing.

But all is not lost.  We still have the music.  And the old magic is still there.  One need only spin a disc to hear it. 

Give me a minute.  I think I will.

December 09, 2003 05:04 AM

Let's Get this Thing Started

I’m a little late getting started on this whole blog thing.  Oh, well.  I’m not entirely sure where I’ll be going with this.  I have a vague idea. 

For a long time now, I’ve wanted to find a way to express myself, and to do so in a format that is sharable with others (even though the number of people that actually give a rat’s ass might be very few.  In fact I’m pretty sure I can count those people on one finger).  But there is something about writing something that is at least intended for someone else to read is in some way stimulating.  So mainly I’m just doing this for me.  But if you run across something here that moves you in any particular way, feel free to drop me a line.