Chapter Three
Current mood: focused
Category: Writing and Poetry

Chapter 14

My men were up the rise a little ways, waiting to hear from me.  From my position I could see the opposing force coming up, four of them, moving with arrogance, forgoing move-and-cover in favor of speed.  They were tracking us, they knew we were just ahead, and they intended to catch up.  And kill us.

They had superior weaponry and carried it loosely, at the hip.  When the time came, they would no doubt expend ammunition liberally.  We would lose a head-to-head fight; all they had to do was see us and mow us down.

I pulled back and sprinted up the rise.  Considered our advantages.  One, being pursued, but had not yet been sighted.  Could choose the location if we chose quickly.  Two, I now knew the enemy's number and weaponry... force composition.  Though outgunned, evenly matched in manpower.  Three, okay, I thought as I caught my breath, there wasn't really a three to contemplate.  I'd have to make do with advantages one and two.  I grabbed Williams and walked him toward a pile of rocks.

"Flamingo, Reynolds, grab some of this scrub to cover him up with," I said, assuming a command not technically mine.  "Listen up, Williams, here's the deal.  You're going to crouch down here and we're going to bury you in brush and rocks and leave your ass right here.  When the bad guys chase us past your position, we'll fire a couple of shots as a signal, and when you hear that, you need to bust out and let 'em have it in the back.  Got it?"

Williams saw the weak link in the plan. "Screw that.  You're going to get me killed!  We should just find high ground and fight it out!"

"Williams, no one is going to expect you to be here so close.  They will see us up the rise and assume we're sticking together.  They have heavier gear... if it comes to a straight fight we will lose and die.  This is the only way."

"If it's such a great plan, you should be the hero, man.  How 'bout I cover you with rocks and shit?"

"You're the smallest, and you have better clothes for this.  You'll blend better.  As long as you don't move, they'll never spot you, man.  And they'll be here in two minutes so let's do this quick."

Flamingo tried to be supportive. "I'll be watching, dude.  If this doesn't work, Williams, I will shoot everyone."

Flamingo was an idiot.  He also had only a pistol, a small Colt automatic, to enhance his dramatics.  If my plan didn't work, he'd probably be the first one sliced up in the ensuing lead ballet.  Reynolds didn't say much, as usual, but he gently pushed Williams down and put a bush on him.  That sort of sealed it.  In less than a minute we had him more or less covered.  He would need to stay very still to stay alive.

My actual plan had been to sacrifice Williams if necessary.  I expected him to get at least two of the four, maybe three, but if they managed any sort of tactical reaction, Williams was toast.  I selected him not because he was small, but because Flamingo and Reynolds were better long-range shots.  I would need them if this didn't work.

But now I looked at him squatting down, his gray Members Only jacket dirty and looking not at all like a rock... I couldn't just leave him there.  If the fight started here, it had to end here.  "Williams, you got two hands, right?" 

He didn't want to turn his head for fear of jarring his cover.  "What kind of lame ass question is that?" he hissed.

"You'll need two guns," I said, and put my own revolver on the ground next to his hand.  He grabbed it.  I was now unarmed.

"Good luck," I said, and Reynolds, Flamingo, and I scooted up the rise.

I waved Flamingo into some short trees on the left, but he shot me a "you're not the boss of me" look and kept going, eventually dropping prone with his little pistol, thirty-five meters up from Williams in a ditch.  Dumb ass.  Reynolds stuck with me and we got a good spot on the right, about sixty meters up.  I explained our part of the scheme and we waited, but not for long.

They came into view, moving more carefully now, two on either side.  I had hoped they'd keep their swagger, but they seemed to sense us waiting.  One was walking up the same ditch that Flamingo had hid in.  Another was headed straight for Williams.  Williams was almost certainly dead meat.  They moved pretty well, checking out the dark hollow places and scanning ahead.  They were ten meters from Williams now.  We could see their faces, and the point man was actually about to take cover behind Williams!  The plan was going to fall apart.  It was time to force the issue.

I staggered out into view, for just a second, and then jumped back.  Reynolds kept his eyes open.  "Yep, they bought it," he said grimly. "We've got their full attention now."  And he slipped under my armpit as if helping me walk, and we stumbled away from the bad guys.

Somebody shouted and we turned.  The OpFor was trotting now, and the heavy rifles were coming up to bear.  Reynolds let one staccato burst fly from his weapon, and we fell flat.

They were sure we were hurt and running.  There was no reason to be cautious now.  They began shouting and yelling and shooting... and closing their ranks.

Williams stood up, behind them at point-blank range and already shooting.  In his left hand, my own revolver, angrily spitting sparks at the two on the left.  In his right, his Star Wars blaster, its AA batteries delivering the vicious, flesh-melting sound effects.

There was complete surprise.

Flamingo stood and started pouring it on, each successive shot popping more death into the kill zone.  Already the OpFor was jerking violently, clutching their chests and heads, expiring in a gory testament to our superior strategy.  There would be no arguing this time, no claims of "missed me!" or "only wounded!"  Williams slaughtered them all, and he jumped for joy when it was over, laughing and pumping a coup de grace into everyone's head.

Which was arguably over the top.

I delivered my after-action report over dinner: how I'd formed the plan to fit the scenario, how we'd executed the perfect ambush.  I warned that it wouldn't work twice... next time they'd be more careful of ruses, maybe even pick Williams for their side... and that's why I needed better weaponry.  A blaster rifle, a tommy gun, a shotgun.  Something with firepower, or at least range.  Maybe a grenade.

My parents looked at each other over the meatloaf.  I got more Legos for my birthday.  Also, a Nerf football.

10:49 AM - 10 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

Health, Wellness, and Silda Spitzer
Current mood: cranky
Category: Life

Thanks to everyone for the empathy around my sick cat, Boo. I figure she's got three months or less. She has a large mass on one nipple that is oozing and bleeding a little... basically it's gotten so large that it's choked off the vessels that feed it. The outer layers are therefore becoming necrotic (rotting flesh). Gross, eh? Additionally, she has smaller masses on two other nipples, including one that's crossed over to her other, separate, mammary chain. Ultimately the cancer will migrate to her lungs, and/or the large mass will become infected, and then that's that. We also had another White Tabby visit last night... I'm keeping my camera close by in hopes of capturing him on film.

Meanwhile, I'm fairly sure I had an acute break of my pinky toe on my left foot about a week ago. I was climbing out of the shower and just placed my foot wrong, stumbled, and ow, ow, ow. I heard a tiny snapping sound, but I had to be at work in thirty minutes so I put on my shoe and went off to a five-hour shift on a gospel fashion show (HOLLAH!!!) When I got home and peeled off my sock, my toe looked like a big purple grape stuck to the side of my foot. Since I am secretly Wolverine, it was back to normal within two days, though a little misshapen.

It could be that favoring my pinky toe led to pain in my forefoot. It could also be my long habit of over-pronation, or my tendency to run medium-long distances (6 miles or so) after long periods of not running. In any case, I've either got a stress fracture in my 1 metatarsal or I've got metatarsalgia, which is weakness in the joint. Either way, I need to refrain from exercise, possibly for 8-10 weeks. This means a) I will miss some prime running time just as the weather gets gorgeous and b) I will be shifting to an upper-body workout focus. Rut-roh!

Just before all this foot madness, I was laid out for a couple of days by some kind of radical flu-like fever sickness... of course, being Wolverine I did not seek out a doctor. I know, I know. Instead I sweated a lot, chugged orange juice, took Ibuprofen, and drank a lot of beer. Seems to have worked.

What was pretty scary for a minute was that the sickness hit me less than a week after I got inoculated for Yellow Fever and Typhoid, which is some crap I might run into when I got to Peru for a couple of weeks in June. But it turns out Yellow Fever probably would have just killed me and been done with it.

So, just in case all this health talk bums you out, I provide you with a festive link.

Lessee... where'd I put that damn horn of mine?



Oh, here 'tis.

Toot, toot!


This little impulsive bit of depravity I wrote while trapped in the Phoenix airport. It was snatched up and reposted by another website, and I got some nice email about it, and then the readers of Craigslist Rants & Raves flagged it off the board... apparently it wasn't the usual racist, anti-Semitic, Mets vs. Yankees quality stuff they usually get.


Silda Spitzer, I will totally do you.


But now vengeance is mine, boooahahahahaha.

1:43 PM - 39 Comments - 38 Kudos - Add Comment

Benign Neglect
Current mood: crushed
Category: Pets and Animals

I am talking with Rosco, the Cat of A Thousand Issues.

Rosco is sitting on my chest, as is his custom. He settles deliberately, stretches out his paws until the tips of his claws rest just above the collar of my shirt, tiny needles pressing into my neck. His face, weathered and crusted and soulful, stares into mine as he ever so slowly perforates me. He needs to be close enough to talk, to share my air, to see. He demands my attention in this way.

"She's stheen the White Tabby," he explains. "Twice now. Once at dusthk, once at the dark time."

When one is conversing with a six-pound ball of fluff with a brain the size of a small walnut, it can be difficult to admit one is unsure of the conversation's progress.

"When the White Tabby comes, he tries to show usth the way to the fireplace, the tree, the grassthy sthpot. It'sth different for everybody, of coursth, but the ending is alwaysth the sthame."

I saw this cat myself, I tell my toothless friend. Boo was on the windowsill and started yowling the most terrifying noise I have ever heard, swatting at the glass and scrambling in a confused circle, as if a hand was pinning her to the spot. I looked out and saw him, a white cat with the faintest grey markings, the unmistakable tabby M between his eyes. Utterly calm and staring intensely into the apartment. His only movement was to lean in closer, between the bars, and press his nose to the glass. I lifted Boo and took her to the couch, and he was gone when I looked back. It was the first time I noticed blood on the windowsill.

"She doesn't want to go now," Rosco tells me patiently, as one would a child. "She thinksth she can stretch thingsth out, maybe make a bargain or sthomthing. But once you sthee him, your bowl startsth draining away, and it'sth just a matter of when."

Rosco is old. He doesn't move off the bed very much. He poops pretty much where he feels like it, though thankfully, never on the bed. "The White Tabby doesthn't come for everybody. She should take sthom comfort in that."

She leaps easily onto the couch beside me and smacks Rosco in the head, as is her custom. He scrunches his face and moves obediently to my feet. "We were just talking," I tell her, and rub her back gently. As she purrs I slowly feel around underneath, feel the mass that has begun to ooze a little.

Rosco nestles between my feet and watches the window.

12:08 PM - 19 Comments - 48 Kudos - Add Comment

Things I Have Learned Since I Grew Out My Tail
Current mood: adventurous
Category: Life

Rejecting who I am is an unhealthy habit that ultimately has led to low self-esteem, depression, and misery. My therapist has been spelling this out for me since the beginning of our sessions. I don't know why it's taken me so long to realize it, connect with it, and embrace it, but darn it, my tail is NOT vestigial. It is an important part of who I am, and now that I have been letting it grow for a few months, let me tell you something, I couldn't be happier.

That bad boy is f00kin' prehensile, baby! "Pass me a beer, bro."
"Yeah, okay, I'm busy in an intense game on the GameCube but here you go!"
Pre-hen-sile. I'm just sayin'.

On the question of looks. Okay, here's the thing. I didn't really know how it would grow out, you know? I kinda was hoping for that full-on squirrel effect, but in reality, as long as I didn't get some creepy opossum/rat action, I figured it would be okay. I guess I could have taken a clue from my own (manageable) back hair and deduced the fur angle, and it's true—the couch does match the carpet and the drapes. I haven't decided whether or not to shave it, though. I mean, do you leave some, or go full Brazilian? I think that would creep me out. Maybe a spiral. Maybe I'll just bleach the tip, or dye it purple or something. Still undecided, like I said.

Work has been awesome. There was some prejudice at first; you know how knee-jerk construction workers can be. But then my steward sat me down and just explained that I was making everyone look bad... I just needed to not be so showy, so efficient. So I work slower now, and everyone's mellowed out. Some of the guys even let me do all the work between floors. Union YES!

There have been challenges, I won't deny it. Choices to be made. I'm writing this out in the hope of sparing others the vexation and, quite frankly, the occasional embarrassment involved in dealing with a new appendage. For one thing, there's the simple procedure of getting dressed in the morning. My tail has full-360 rotation, but how do I, you know, dress it? I mean, I may be comfortable with myself, but the general public isn't exactly ready to see a full-sized man strolling down the sidewalk with extra balance, shall we say. The answer is this, friends: always Up The Back, never Down The Leg. No matter how loose fitting the slacks, others will be confused and scared, especially the ladies. That is grief you Do. Not. Need.

Speaking of choices, you may be tempted, as I was, to make some adjustments to your home furnishings. Okay, when you're at Home Depot, you'll be tempted by the EMT (Electrical Metal Tubing). Sure, it's easier to cut, bend, and fit than steel, and there are lots of cool fittings and stuff and it's cheap. But there's actually a reason it is 1/3 the weight of steel, kids. After long, it starts to bend... sure, maybe you don't weigh a buck-eighty-five like me, but trust me on this. Go with the full schedule 40 steel, hire a welder if you don't feel comfy doing it yourself. There's no compromising quality. You might be chillin' in the pad one night and find out your friends have tails too. At that moment, when they fully appreciate the structure you've built, you will silently thank me. Oh, one more thing... make sure you paint it, or it will rust. Rust stains, brother! Uncool!

Also, since growing out my tail, I have noticed that the Sixth Avenue subway letters are V, B, F, and D. That doesn't have a lot to do with me, except that it stands for "Very Big Fucking Deal!" just like my tail!!!!

My karate class has gotten so fun.

Seriously. My sensei says if I continue to do well, he's going to create a new belt class just for me... the black fur belt. Jason's sister cut a hole in my karate pants, stitched it up nice so it wouldn't fray... and she used gold thread. I think she digs me. All the guys were sparring with me and just goin' with the flow. I think they like the extra challenge of being three-point grappled. Martial artists are just so chill. I'm like "So, check it out, I have a tail."

And they were like, "Cool."

By the way, Tommy Tanaka, it is on, mofacka. I am going to dip my tail in red paint and make you look like Raggedy Ann, bitch.

How is it with the ladies now, you're probably wondering. Now that I have a tail. Well, I want to say it's great, of course... and I mean, it is great, but coupled with this new acceptance of myself is a new acceptance of the truth. My therapist helped me with that. I'm conflicted, though. I am comfortable telling y'all the truth that (thankfully) more women are more open to being blindfolded that you might think. The bigger truth, the unblindfolded part... maybe I'll be there soon. Baby steps, right? For now I'll just let them think I have a paint brush fetish. They seem into it.

Because the biggest truth is, people aren't ready. Not just the bigots, I mean everyone. Including those of us who have been denying our tails for so long, letting fester the self-hate, obsessively wielding the nail clippers at the first sign. We collectively believe, as a society, that it's better to pretend we're all the same, that we don't have differences. Well, I'm telling you peeps, we're all different. Better to celebrate that diversity and make good use of it, is what I say. I for one look forward to the day when a Tailed Person can swing through a dance club, or enliven a PowerPoint presentation, or run a company... or even be President of this Great Nation.

Heck, I'd even be happy strolling down the street with my tail proudly jutting from a pair of sassy red leather pants.

Coz you know why? Coz I loves my tail.

I loves me!

Currently reading : The Sneetches and Other Stories (Classic Seuss) By Dr. Seuss Release date: 12 August, 1961

1:01 PM - 30 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

Chapter Two
Current mood: curious
Category: Life

Chapter Eight.


I made the decision to be a brilliant scientist very early. I collected rocks. I collected stamps. I mapped the neighborhood hidey-spots and figured fields of fire in case of German invasion. I did advanced field research projects, carefully copying all the dinosaur data from exhibits at the San Francisco Academy of Sciences, for instance. I presented my findings to my mother, who called me Doctor Peabody and awarded me a research grant of chocolate crinkle cookies.

When my father entered my life, things got more difficult. This mysterious tall person did not award chocolate crinkle cookies. He did not seem impressed with my catalogued rocks; in fact, he pointed out that at least two specimens were petrified cat poo. This was a man who clearly had talents, who had higher expectations. I made a note to delegate future excavations to the hapless underlings I would soon be hiring.

I was sufficiently inspired to expand my operations to include Whole World Scientific Dynamics. Incorporated. Yes, at age eight I would be an expert in every scientific field known to man, and I would create a giant corporation to facilitate the collection, understanding, and manipulation of every possible scientific fact. I knew the effort would quite probably drive me mad. It was an acceptable risk.

In the Astronomical Branch, founded in a fascination with Star Trek, there was an immediate increase in my research gravitas. My Dad took us to see Star Wars, but scoffed it as a "junk movie", pointing out the superior realism of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

"All those sound effects are ridiculous," he intoned on the way to the car.

My mother, who was always happy to serve as my trusty native translator, noticed my nose-picking and tossed out a "Really?"

"There is no sound in space," and his eyebrows rose above the frames of his glasses, "because there is no air."

Whoa.

Clearly, there were more possible scientific facts than I thought. I would have to accelerate things. I would have to concentrate more.

I began collecting the cast-off switches and wires and lasers and anti-gravity generators which Dad brought home on Fridays from work, determined to build a robot like the one on Lost in Space. With the unusually enthusiastic help of my older sister, I wrote to NASA, asking to be considered for a manned trip to Uranus. Then Battlestar Galactica hit the airwaves and I realized all I had to do was build my own Colonial Viper fighter in the backyard...heck with NASA! (Sadly, funding was not approved.)

When our third-grade Special Interest projects came around, mine was entitled, shockingly, "SPACE". I planned to write about the nine known planets and their differences. I had collected the data on this pretty extensively. As an added bonus, I would design a starship for interplanetary exploration, and...

"Why don't you write about real things?" my father interrupted. "You watch too much television. Why don't you write about real spaceships?" He tossed me a trade magazine and stabbed a finger at the cover. "There are two satellites discussed in there that will completely change the way the world communicates. Why don't you write about that?"

See what I mean? Genius.

I carefully plagiarized every word the encyclopedia had on the two communications satellites. I drew a big rocket on the cover of my report, with "USA" on the side. I even built two models out of construction paper... or at least, I drew the lines of the solar panels. My mom did the necessary origami, and my dad reluctantly pounded nails into hunks of two-by-four for display purposes. My project was a hit, though completely over the head of everyone in Room 9, including me. In the end, I think my father was ashamed, a little. He understood Real Science. He understood Critical Thinking, and The Questioning of Assumptions. He pointed out to me that such things took hard work, not simply collecting parts. He was a true genius, and he was disappointed in the progress of my robot building. I would have to try harder.

I would have more research time, I decided, if I didn't have to waste so much time in transit. I could eliminate my daily walk to the bus stop. Other kids' parents drove them to school. This did not seem unreasonable to me. I submitted my proposal at dinner one night.

"Why should you get to ride?" my dad countered, and launched himself into full parent mode with "When I was your age..." and a description of all the various hardships including not having access to a bus. He concluded with a groundbreaking mid-pork chop revelation.

"Plus, when I was a kid, gravity was a lot stronger."

My mom giggled a little bit, but I figured that was just to cover the fact that she too was embarrassed by her lack of knowledge. But this gravity thing, once I thought about it, made perfect sense. From my planetary research, I knew the possibilities.

"Gravity was stronger?" I asked tentatively. "Is that why all those people were shorter than you?"

"All what people?"

"Mozart and John Adams and famous history people. According to my research, they were all under six feet. Mom says you're six feet tall. Were they shorter because gravity was even stronger then?"

"Yeah, probably."

I considered this. On low-gravity planets, people would theoretically grow taller and thinner. In higher gravity environments, they would be compressed. It made sense.

"So it's weaker now."

"Absolutely. You kids have it easy."

"Is that why we can go to space? Like with satellites and stuff?"

"Yup. The weaker gravity makes it easier to achieve orbital velocities. We couldn't really do that before about 1960."

"Cool."

"By the time you're my age, in fact, you'll probably be eight feet tall."

"Cool."

"And maybe able to fly."

A fork clacked against a plate at my mother's end of the table.

"But probably more like an extended bounce," my dad added.

"Like Neil Armstrong on the moon?"

"Maybe. But that's pretty far off yet. You're only nine."

"Eight."

"Remember your brother? On the roof?"

I had heard about the umbrella/flight experiment.

"Oh, right," I said.

"Gravity: still pretty strong."

"Yeah."

"But you'll see. As you get older, you'll get taller, be able to throw farther, that sort of thing."

"Cool."

We munched in silence while I debated how best to change the subject. I was intrigued by this gravity thing, but I figured I had a handle on it now, and I wondered what other keys to knowledge my dad might cough up if I asked. Past research indicated I might have another two to three minutes of conversation coming. I wanted to make it count, ask a really good question. I decided to go for a big one.

"Umm."

"Yes?"

"Why is the sky blue?"



I have learned a few things in the thirty years since that dinnertime conversation. When a child asks you such a question, it's a test of character, a test repeated in every question about Santa Claus, about love and rejection, about the death of a rescued baby bird fallen from a nest. We don't know about this test, because we are children, whether we are children of nine, nineteen, or twenty-nine. But we should know it as adults. We should know the answer is because God ran out of red paint. Or because blue is the color of happiness. Or because rainbows look best against a blue background. Or even because air molecules in the atmosphere scatter blue light more efficiently than red light. We have to know the answer, because we are adults.



"What makes you think the sky is blue? How do you know it isn't green? Define blue."

I looked at my peas.

"My peas are green..."

"Are they? Are you sure? Prove it."

I pushed them carefully around my plate, one by one. My mother said there was chocolate pudding for dessert.

"But only if you eat all your peas," my dad said, "and only if you can prove to me the sky is blue."

Thirty years later, I can appreciate that my dad wanted me to find the answers on my own. He wanted me to question everything, to expand my horizons so far that even a color was describable. I realize now he really was a bit of a genius.

I hated peas, I decided. Whatever color they were.

Currently reading : World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War By Max Brooks Release date: 16 October, 2007

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Chapter One
Category: Life

Chapter 1

I woke up in my childhood home, the Rex Estate, where apparently I fell asleep in the den. I was wearing my dark blue shirt, the one with the thin vertical black stripes, and my ripped grey jeans from the previous night. There was a workman silently arranging translucent, patterned tiles in the otherwise empty built-in bookcases across from the couch, upon which I was just beginning to sit up. It didn't occur to me to ask why he was doing that, nor did it occur to him to ask why I had fallen asleep on the couch. Maybe such things didn't matter to us.

I went upstairs.

I was a little perturbed that it was so hot. I was sweating, my shirt stuck to my lower back. I didn't remember the heat working so well in the house. I went upstairs.

At the top of the stairs was the door to the attic, or at least, what used to be the attic before the Old Man ripped the top of the house off and converted it into an "artists' studio" for my mother. I lived in that studio at one point, during college. I opened the door, because it seemed like the thing to do to move the story along, and creaked up the few remaining stairs. Looking behind me at the wall, I was a little surprised to see a cozy nook carved in it, with a nice amber glow and a big desk of the type commonly acquired by prop masters on behalf of Bob Cratchit. My mother was hunched there, and peered out at me over spectacles. She was using a fountain pen to write something on oversized parchment.

"Mmmm," she said approvingly. "Hello."

"Mom," I said, with a glance through the door to see if the workman had followed me from the den, "I have something to tell you." She put her pen down with the sort of immediate attentiveness to which I have long grown accustomed.

"Really? Well you should probably tell me."

I looked again down the stairs, this time through the hinge-side crack. It was important that I not be overheard, especially by some tile-arranging workman.

"What are you so worried about? Why are you looking over your shoulder like that? There's no one here but us."

My mother was Lord and Master over the estate. Surely she knew "about the workman in the den?" I asked.

"No idea who you're talking about, but it doesn't really matter. What did you want to tell me?"

Her face was always so kind. I struggled a bit with the truth, but I knew it had to come out. "Mom," I said sideways, "I think I'm going crazy."

"Mmmm," she said, with motherly understanding, as if I had just said something reasonable like "I want to jump off the roof."

"What makes you think that?" she asked after a bit of consideration. "I've always loved that shirt on you, by the way."

"That's kind of my point, Mom, you've never seen this shirt. I feel really great talking to you and all, but the fact is you're sitting in a wall-nook that's over the stairs, architecturally, I mean... it can't really be there. On top of that, we sold this house after Dad died, and you've never seen this shirt because I'm thirty-nine and you died when I was twenty. So I'm clearly losing my brain."

This rational analysis seemed to sway her a bit, but her motherly impulse was, as always, to protect me.

"You're probably just dreaming," she said. "I'm sure everything around you is some sort of symbol or other. After all, I'm not dead, and neither is your father. And we live here; there's no plan to sell this house. Sit a while with me, I'm just finishing up this bibliography."

"Bibliography?"

"Yes, for my book."

"You're not a writer," I blurted impatiently. And I could tell her feelings were hurt. "You had impeccable penmanship, and you wrote lots of letters," I tried, "but you were an accountant. You ran a great household and were a great mom, too... but you never wrote a bibliography or a book in your life."

She had that look that said she was surprised I would Speak To Her In This Way, that I should Reassess My Course of Action.

"I have a loose grip on reality," I complained.

"Maybe," she intoned, "reality has a loose grip on you."

"What should I do?"

"My advice is to write a book; usually works for me," she said, picking up her pen. "Maybe this could be the first chapter, but I think you'll probably forget half of what's happened by the time you write any of it down, so it won't be nearly interesting enough to sell to anyone. Why the workman, for instance? What's the significance of our meeting here, when you just created a wall-nook that never existed anyway? And surely I've said a few more helpful things than 'you're probably just dreaming'. I'll sound like some housewife from the fifties by the time you get this on paper."

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"Don't mumble," she scolded. "Just get out of bed, turn off the heater that's making you sweat so much, and remember as much as you can. The true nature of the universe is revealed to those who pay attention. Something something something."

I'm already forgetting. Crap.



>UPDATE<

My Editor agrees with my apparently self-generated mother character that this chapter, while intriguingly suggestive of a delve into metaphysics or some such nonsense, does not hold interest or pique curiosity on the level of "Two households, both alike in dignity", "Tom! No answer. Tom! No answer." or even "Marley was dead: to begin with."

Further, my Editor gently points out that if I try to improve it, perhaps by fleshing out things I have forgotten, through hypnosis, perhaps, or fabrication, that the effect will be annoying and somewhat contrived.

My Editor advises simply forging ahead with more interesting anecdotes, without regard to chronology, and then selecting the best-received slice to serve as Chapter 1, so as to sell more books. My Editor also advises dropping the meta-author device.

Accordingly, this chapter will now be Chapter Ten.

11:54 AM - 9 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

Star Wars Guide To The Candidates
Current mood: bouncy
Category: News and Politics

Hello America!

As you may know, 2008 is going to be a g-rate year. I am so excited! There is to be a presidential election this year! Hoo-ray! Exciting times, exciting times. And whoa... so confusing! So much talking, so much anal-yzing, so much research to do to be sure the person who wins your vote truly reflects your values and goals for the executive of this g-rate nation.

Man, it's going to be tough.

Well, this is for those of you who say "To heck with that!" and are more interested in voting for a candidate based on snap judgments and small pop culture sound bites. For those of you who think it might be fun to vote somewhat randomly and therefore completely obliterate the careful work of concerned and involved citizens... I mean really, look how Bush turned out... can you really expect these people to act predictably based on what they say in the election cycle? Heck no!

So without further a-doo-doo, here is your

"My friends..."	"Luke...."	"JOIN ME!!"

Darth McCain

I had to get this one out of the way right from the top, because I know some of you were thinking "Hey, Vader being a powerful black man..." but NO! You need to drop those stereotypes, mister! Obama isn't remotely like Vader, and besides, as we learned in Episode VI, Vader was a cracker! Heavily scarred by traumatic experiences, torture, manipulation, the 2000 Republican primaries... he has the reputation of a "maverick"... remember the arbitrary slaughter of Imperial officers? the offer to Luke to join him?


...but Darth McCain ultimately serves the Emperor, voting with him almost every time. McCain could be redeemed someday, but only by succumbing to Force Lightning and tossing the Emperor into a pit... something he has thus far refused to do. Let's stay in Iraq... err... Tatooine... forever!

onward!

J'han Solo

Umm... Edwards... ahhh, health care, faster withdrawal from Iraq than uhhh... didn't he play the president in Air Force One? ummm.... He'll stand up to the Hutt business interests... uhhhh... Goddamn, he's pretty. Quick, lock him in a sheet of Carbonite so I can hang him on my wall.

Admiral Akbar	Richardsomething

Admiral Akbill

Man, I tell you what... you read Admiral Akbar's resume, take a look at his long career, his credentials, and it's amazingly clear how qualified he is to run a major government. What about his prescient snap evaluation... "It's a trap!" We sure could have used that in Iraq. Well-suited to command, noble, respected by his followers and his peers... but then, Akbar is from a place most people don't care about (Mon Calamari? Are you serious?) and looks vaguely ethnic... is he, I don't know... too fishy to be prez? Anyway, he deserves your vote. Who this Richardson cat is, I have no idea.

Limbba the Hutt

Oops, my bad, not a candidate. Sorry!

Ur Question?	Shh! 9/11!

Grand Moff Giuliani

We need a president who has experience running a large, unwieldy government. Like the Empire. "Hey, they said it was unmanageable, ungovernable... a large majority wanted to leave and live somewhere else," his campaign ads say. Well, Giuliani certainly turned things around... he built the Death Star! "By the time I left office," he continues, "the Death Star was the best example of conservative government in the galaxy!" Some folks might disagree with his foreign policy, though, consisting as it does of pretty much blasting whole planets into rubble.

Whobacca

Mrrrrrawwwwkkk!!!! Gronnnnkkkk!!! Mrran... wua ga ma uma ahuma ooma. "Whobacca"... GRONK! "Gravelbacca!!!" Hnn-rowr yrroonn nng rarrr!

Mitt Skywalker

Not quite as pretty as J'han Solo. But pretty. Kind of like how Aragorn was never quite as pretty as Legolas, except different. Anyway, Mitt's biggest appeal is that he's the likeable doofus scampering around the galaxy in search of himself, always haunted by the spectre of his father. On the downside, he's so conflicted it's hard to know where his true allegiances lie... he's infatuated with his own twin sister, he listens to apparitions of old men, he preaches religious tolerance... but only for those who believe in The Force. Sort of gives the impression he's been knocked off his Tauntaun a few too many times.

onward!

Princess Leia Orbama of Alderaan, IL

A young idealist constantly criticized for her "inexperience", Senator Leia Orbama once faced down Lord Vader with "Darth Vader. Only you could be so bold... and so stupid." Pwned! Ultimately might make a good team with J'han Solo, if they can get past their differences of opinion. Orbama shows pragmatism, thoughtfulness, and excellent presentation at official ceremonies, and yet can be a ruthless tactician and even a commando when the sitch requires it. A long experience in grassroots organization (on Endor), and also, pretty.

I cn haz Bootz. O yes.

Wicket	Huckabee

Wicket Huckabee

Speaking of Endor, that sort of weird foresty place where the Ewoks frolic and enjoy each other's company, right-to-work laws, and a ban on gay marriage, who'd have ever thought Wicket, a Republican true believer in The Force, could ever have risen to lead such a traditionally Democratic tribe? I mean, it's inspirational that he lost 105 pounds (he only weighs about 45 now!) and plays the bass, but can you really imagine introducing him to the UN General Assembly? "Ladies and Gentlemen, President Wicket!" How ridiculous. I don't think so.

Virtually	Unknown

Duncan Biggs Hunter Darklighter

Certainly the candidate with the most dramatic name, unfortunately this veteran congressman and member of the Armed Services Committee hates women and loves the unborn. Also known as "Red Three"; George Lucas doesn't really give us much more to go on, except for a vague homoerotic testimonial offered by Skywalker, who says (huskily) "We're a couple of shooting stars, Biggs, and we'll never be stopped." O rly?



Seriously, look it up in the book... it's near the end.

Nute Dodd-Gunray

Not to be confused with Newt Gunray, who isn't running, Nute Dodd-Gunray is primarily backed by the financial services industry, which he also just happens to regulate as chairman of the Trade Federation.

Hmmm.

Interesting.

Did you know he also dated Carrie Fisher for a while? For realio. She dumped his ass.

Obi-ron Paul-obi

Widely respected for his stubborn belief that the whole universe should be run just like his neighborhood on the backwater planet Tatooine, Obi-ron spends a lot of time wistfully remembering the Old Republic. He practices a peculiar interpretation of The Force, in which reducing government to only local control and returning to the gold standard is the answer. Obi-ron reluctantly returned the contributions of the Tusken Raiders and Jawas, whose politics of ethnic slaughter and droid slave trade he justifies as "states rights". While his anti-Empire foreign policy excites the Rebel Alliance, it's pretty much a Jedi mind trick. He's still a crazy old guy living in the desert.

Le Fett	Le Fred

Boba Fredtt

A fearsome enforcer for sale to the highest bidder, there's a reason they kept Boba Fredtt in the background and didn't let him talk for all that time. It turns out that when you give him a microphone and encourage him to take a bigger role, he's actually kind of dim and boring, even with a kick-ass spacesuit. Remember, when he was on Jabba's sand yacht, a temporarily blinded Solo whacked him with a stick, ignited his rocket pack, and sent him hurtling into the mouth of the Sarlacc monster. Hey, if Solo can humiliate him while blinded, do you really want him as your nominee? Embarrassing, right?

Le Douche	Le Bag

Tom TanGreedo

Meh, TanGreedo was a xenophobic freak who got wiped out early.
Don't need to worry about him.

Jar Jar Kucinich

Nuff said.

Okay, really unfair. But remember how the Gungans were sort of these peacenik bumbly guys who sent Jar Jar to represent them in the Republic Government and then he sort of inadvertently started the Clone Wars or something? Kucinich actually admitted to believing in UFOs, man. I mean, everyone believes, but you don't go around admitting it.

SeeJoe Threepio

See, the funny thing about Cjoe3PO is that he'd probably make a pretty good leader. The Ewoks thought he was a god, remember? He's smart, informed, an excellent protocol droid, but he annoys the crap out of everyone because you can't shut him up. Still, he's been around since Episode I and looks pretty impressive when he gets all shined up. We could do worse. And what would be more kick-ass than Vice President Artoo? A mega-improvement, I'm just sayin'.

Hillando Clintrissian

Here's the thing. The Millenium Falcon was hers to begin with. She only lost it to Bill on a bet. Then she got caught up in that whole Cloud City thing in the Bespin system, which proved she could govern, I guess, but she's kinda hoping you won't remember that she totally sold out the Rebels to Darth Vader. That's how J'han Solo wound up encased in Carbonite and Leia ended up in a bikini on a chain. Hmmm. Actually, not so bad! And Hillando did do some nifty piloting against the New and Improved Death Star. Didn't she also record "Caribbean Queen (No More Love On The Run)"?



The thing that scares me is when you talk to her staff, they're like totally dedicated, but kinda scary. Everybody says how Hillando demands their loyalty and efficiency. All we all going to end up being taken over by our Bluetooths? Isn't this getting a little close to Borg territory, which would be a radically different story? Hillando... I just don't know.

Well, that pretty much wraps it up from here. Unfortunately, my favorite candidate isn't running.




"Do or do not... there is no try."


"Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."



"Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter."



"Adventure. Heh. Excitement. Heh. A Jedi craves not these things."



"Named must your fear be before banish it you can."

Vote.

Currently listening : The Music of Star Wars: 30th Anniversary Collection By John Williams Release date: 06 November, 2007

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untitled

That sound in your ear when you can't get the last little bit of water out? That sort of spongy crusty sound of a sense impaired for no good reason? I've had that on and off for several days now; makes me pissy.

I celebrated New Years' and then mindlessly went to the bar to watch some stupid ball drop amid some stupid jillion people... on TV. They showed Times Square thirty minutes later and it was filled with useless paper and consumerism. Watching Japanese game shows on YouTube was much more fun.

My dear friend is in a bar in Maui right now and I can see in my mind's eye the midnight hour approaching her like a wave of Caligula's hand. I hope the inconsequential stupidity is as benign for her as it has been for me.

I look in the mirror. I am naked. Shoulders supple, biceps bulge. Four-pack. The ripples of middle age approach and arrive, the saddlebags of my thirties insist on carrying on. My face carries the sadness of my life, alongside the optimism I refuse to release. I turn out the light, which is easier.

Rage spreads across my brain like a web, and then breaks apart as easily.

The subway click-clacks its way along. The sidewalk slap-slap against my soles. The rain, sweet god, the rain. I am naked.

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Final Holiday Window Wrap-ups with Missiles and Toads!
Current mood: fermented
Category: Art and Photography

Last big Christmas window photo blog, I promise.

This is actually my favorite part of Bergdorf Goodman's display this year. It could easily be duplicated on a small budget by a talented artist, it's not overtly religious or Santafied (like Macy's windows this year, uggh), and most important, it made me think.

I'm not sure this was what Bergdorf Goodman intended, but I saw these windows and it got me reflecting on just what makes a good, successful modern person. What qualities, or virtues, do I want to strive for this year? Have I achieved them over the last twelve months? By what adjectives would I like to someday be described, when at last this mortal coil proves shuffle-off-able?





The lighting isn't as bright on these windows, and the reflection is pretty invasive, so let me explain that the construction consists primarily of two forced-perspective portals framing a central image, all of it colorized in a unifying palette. Other than the mannequins, most of the detail is simply scenic paint.

Inquisitive





Studious





Artistic





Enterprising





Adventurous




Industrious

After seeing Bergdorf Goodman, a lot of the other stores' decorations in Midtown Manhattan, while nice, are a little underwhelming in creativity...








...but at least they're well thought-out and tasteful, and if you don't like them, you can always stroll around the neighborhood on a not-quite-snowing wintry eve...















...and best wishes to Central Park just as we drop into the subway to catch the Q train back to Brooklyn...










...where even in my neighborhood, where UPS won't leave packages without a signature but some kind soul left two empty bottles of Hennessey on my stoop, where the Smoke Shop handed out free coleslaw with my Hacked Chicken yestereen, where the local PathMark and Target stores compete to see whose customers can drive me right out of my nugget the quickest...







...yes, even in my neighborhood, we decorate for Christmas, Hannukah, or, well, whatev.

What, it ain't Bergdorf Goodman... you got a problem with that?




Happy Yule to all, and to all a good week.


MR

Currently listening : Starbucks Hi-Fidelity Holiday By Various Artists

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More Holiday Windows!
Current mood: chipper
Category: Art and Photography

Moving on to Part Two of Bergdorf Goodman's themed holiday windows... a series of choices to contemplate. Some of them are thought-provoking, others, like "Empire or Regency?" sort of require a "I don't know, you rich bastards, and I don't care!"

Empire or Regency?

This one I like better... though I doubt many people realize the origin of the choice.

The Lady or the Tiger?

Hmmmm. Choices, choices....



Could I have a Lady who is a Tiger? Rowr!




Here's one near and dear to my heart... and could Bergdorf Goodman be commenting on the nature of today's news? Could this be a commentary on News Corp? Am I reading too much into this?

Fact or Fiction?

It's almost like they felt guilty about stretching the theme too far away from traditional holiday fare...

Naughty or Nice?

The designers know how to work small-scale, too. While the mannequins in all the previous pictures have been life-size, check out the small dioramas they make to show off jewelry and such:

In part three I'll wrap up with the simple "virtue" windows and some other shots of December New York City.

Enjoys!

Currently listening : Partridge Family Christmas By The Partridge Family Release date: 07 March, 2000

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